Bandom Big Bang: Only Fools Rush In (5/6)

[misswonderheart]

Only Fools Rush In
Part Five

*** *** ***
Spencer.

After they make their decision, Jon finds the rental house in India, and they decide it's an excellent choice. Lovely views, affordable, and plenty of space. So when we come back and aren't speaking to each other, it won't be so bad. Spencer's trying to shut down his negative voice, but it's working... well, about as well as it ever does.

Jon goes to get his own laptop, and sheepishly Brendon asks, "Hey Spence, I left mine at home, d'you think..."

Spencer nods. "Sure, it's upstairs, I'll go get it."

He heads up the stairs, not expecting Brendon to follow, but when he grabs the laptop off his bed and turns back to the door, there he is, leaning on the doorframe, fingers tucked into his pockets.

"You hate this idea."

Spencer puts a hand on his hip, already bracing for the fight. "I don't hate it. I think it'll be good for us."

Brendon's smile is tight, a little surly. "You're kind of a shitty liar, Spence."

Spencer opens his mouth to answer, but nothing he can say won't start a fight, and he's so, so tired of that. He drops the laptop on the bed and sits, leaning forward on his knees so he won't have to look at Brendon. But Brendon's apparently not going to let it go, and he crosses and kneels in front of Spencer, pushing into his space, pushing Spencer back.

"You know, I don't want to go either. I don't think we should be apart, pretty much ever. But I know that if we stay? Something's gonna happen, and I don't know that it'll be something we can come back from."

Spencer doesn't have an answer for that, because in the end, he knows that Brendon's right.

"A month, man. S'only a month, and then it'll be daiquiris poolside and all the good curry we can eat." Brendon grabs hold of his hands, threading their fingers together, and Spencer squeezes. Brendon's so hopeful; he's got all the hope that Spencer can never find, and now he's taking it away with him.

Brendon's smile fades into his serious face, and he draws up tall, looks Spencer right in the eye. "I'm coming back to you, Spence. We're gonna make this work. I will come back to you. Don't forget that, okay?"

Spencer's laugh bubbles up out of his chest. "Bren, if you come back in a month as the Dread Pirate Roberts, I am so kicking your ass."

Brendon tilts his head, confused, but then he gets it and laughs too. "But c'mon, dude, pirates! Plus, I'd look awesome in a mask."

Spencer laughs again, and Brendon leans in, letting go of Spencer's hands to slide his arms around Spencer's waist. The kiss is soft, simple, but after days of going without it's like cool water in the desert. They stay like that for a while, barely moving, just breathing with each other, and Spencer already misses him before he's even gone.

Brendon breaks the kiss, finally, pulls back to tip their foreheads together. "You coming back downstairs? Jon's gonna get the ham and pineapple for you..."

"Yeah, I'll be down in a minute. Go plan your trip. Bring me back a souvenir."

Brendon kisses him again, quick, then stands and takes the laptop. At the door he pauses. "And don't forget, Spence... koalas!"

Spencer smiles, and then Brendon's gone. Spencer fists his hands in the rumpled comforter and holds on, playing Brendon's words back in his head. I'm coming back. We're gonna make this work.

Finally, Jon's voice comes floating up the stairs. "Hey Spence, what sounds good, pizza or Thai?"

Spencer grinds the heel of one hand into his eye and tries to remember to breathe. "Hang on, I'm coming down."

***

They decide on pizza, and have some more beer. Jon and Brendon lay on the couch and bicker about Pink Floyd, and Ryan sits at the table and picks at his pizza, staring at the map. Spencer sits in the armchair and watches Ryan. It's something he's pretty good at, watching Ryan without being seen, but Ryan catches him once or twice. Spencer always looks away.

Finally Ryan stands, grabbing his laptop. "Well, my flight's the day after tomorrow, so I should probably go pack."

Instantly Brendon's on his feet, crossing the room and wrapping Ryan up in a hug. Ryan's stiff at first, but after a moment he slings his arms around Brendon's waist. Brendon pulls back after a moment, then kisses Ryan quick, at the corner of his mouth. He whispers, "see you later," then lets go and disappears into the kitchen.

Jon is slower, but he stands next, approaches with more caution. The hug is gentler, and Ryan tucks his face into Jon's neck, kissing him once along his jawline before pulling away.

Spencer doesn't get up. He's not sure his legs would work to hold him up anyway. He feels numb, he can't believe that Ryan would walk away from him like this, and the voice in his head screaming he'll come back, we'll make this work just isn't loud enough to carry.

Ryan stands over the chair for a long minute. He starts, "Spencer, I..." but then he trails off.

Spencer can't seem to look higher than Ryan's belt buckle, and finally he finds the voice to whisper, "Be safe, Ry."

Spencer can feel Ryan frowning at him, like Spencer's said the wrong thing again, and suddenly he's got a hand behind Spencer's head, tipping his face up roughly. The kiss is brutal, almost painful, and then Ryan pulls back and looks down at Spencer for a long minute. Then he lets go and strides out of the house, the door latching firmly behind him.

After a few minutes, Brendon comes back into the room with red eyes and three more beers. "Well, it looks like I'm walking home, so you bastards better have another one with me before I go." He hands out the beers, then perches on the arm of Spencer's chair, and Spencer knows that if things were normal right now he would be crawling into Spencer's lap, trying to make the world better through cuddles. Spencer appreciates the effort.

They don't talk much. Finally, Brendon sits his empty on the coffee table and stands. He walks over to Jon, and Jon stands up into his arms, welcoming the hug. Their kiss is tender, and Spencer almost feels like he should look away. Then Brendon's standing over him, holding out a hand and smiling, and Spencer unfolds himself and climbs to his feet, his knees protesting. They hug, and kiss, and it's the milder version of earlier, but Spencer still wants to take more, wants to not let go. Brendon whispers in his ear, "I'll be back, Buttercup," and Spencer smirks and punches him in the arm. After a lot more looking back, he finally pulls the door shut behind him and is gone.

And now it's just him and Jon, awkward in the middle of his living room. Spencer takes a step toward him, but he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "Hey, I gotta..." and then he turns, heading for the bathroom.

Spencer doesn't want to stand anymore, doesn't even want to be awake, so he flops down onto the couch, throwing an arm over his eyes to block the dimming daylight. He's wondering if he's got enough whiskey to get unconscious with, and while he's taking mental stock of the liquor cabinet, Jon returns.

"So, look."

Spencer moves his arm, and Jon's smiling down at him tentatively. "Yeah?"

Jon scratches at the back of his neck. "So, I know we're supposed to be mad, or taking a break or whatever. But it's been a shitty day, and I don't think anyone would fault us some cuddling. If... if you want to."

Spencer smiles at him, then reaches up to tug on his hand, pulling Jon down on top of him. They shift until it clicks, hips stacked and feet tangled, Jon's chin tucked into Spencer's collarbone. And it helps, a little, makes the hollow space behind Spencer's ribs a little smaller.

He never does get around to buying plane tickets.

***

The next morning, Jon makes breakfast at about noon, then goes to the basement to pack his stuff. Spencer showers, and sort of vaguely sorts his laundry before he finds something acceptable to wear. It's not until he's downstairs that he realizes that the t-shirt is Brendon's, and the hoodie is Jon's. He pulls it off and throws it on top of Jon's bag by the door.

Jon comes upstairs with the cat carrier, and when he sees the hoodie he frowns, grabs it and hands it back to Spencer. "Come on, it's cold out there for desert boys."

Spencer tsks at him for the old joke, but he puts it back on. Jon puts on his flip flops and they carry his stuff out to Spencer's car. The drive to the airport is quiet, Jon flicking idly through the radio stations.

"So, when do you leave?"

"Huh?"

"For Australia. When does your flight leave?"

"Oh. Tomorrow afternoon," Spencer lies.

"I think Bren's convinced you'll be bringing him home a koala."

"He'd just feed it Cheetos and he knows it."

Jon barks out a laugh as they're pulling into the drop-off. Spencer puts the car in park and looks over, and Jon's smiling, big and warm and almost right.

"Do you think this'll work, Spence?"

Spencer's knuckles tighten around the steering wheel. "Do you?"

Jon chuckles, but Spencer notices that he doesn't answer. He puts his hand on Spencer's knee, leaning in, and out of habit, Spencer looks around the drop-off area. But no one seems to be paying them any attention, and Jon never waits anyway. The kiss is firm, a see you soon and not a goodbye.

Spencer watches him walk into the terminal, until he can't see him through the glass doors any longer. Then he drives himself home, slowly, and when he goes inside he locks the door behind him. The tears don't start until then.

He finds that bottle of whiskey, some Jack Daniels that he thinks Ryan bought last year, and he drinks it until he passes out on the couch.

***

Spencer wakes up the next day sober, but with a terrible headache. He eats the last of the pizza, takes some aspirin and goes back to sleep. When he wakes up again it's dark, and he watches a couple hours of Adult Swim with his face mashed against the arm of the couch. He's wide awake and it's three in the morning, so he decides to get blazed and watch Dodgeball. He makes it through most of the movie, which is much more surreal and vaguely terrifying than he remembered. Finally he goes back to sleep, after staring at the ceiling for a while, and when he wakes up again it's light out. He's surprised to discover it's Friday morning, a whole day later than he thought it was.

He stinks and he's starving, so he showers and cooks some Easy Mac, Brendon's go-to late night snack. He checks his voicemail, and finds one message from his mother. She sounds hopeful, wishing him a safe flight and a good time in Australia, and assures him that his sisters will be happy to watch the dogs for a few more weeks. He erases it, and doesn't call back to correct her.

He's got a lot of energy, since apparently he slept for a whole day, so he decides to straighten up the living room, and then the bedroom, which turns into a whole afternoon of laundry while he watches The Two Towers on cable. He goes out for a walk afterward, a few times around the neighborhood so he doesn't have to stare at his ugly walls for another minute, and gets back in time to watch Frodo fail at throwing the One Ring into Mount Doom. He tries not to think about the metaphor.

He practices for a while at night, as much so he can wear himself out as anything, burn out some of his energy. He starts with their stuff, but he barely makes it through "The Only Difference..." before he has to turn off the track and grip the rim of his snare until the shaking stops. He can't do it, he can't play their music without them here, and when he can stand he goes to get Enema of the State, sets the volume up high and tries to keep up.

Finally, aching and wrung out, he turns off the stereo and curls up on the basement couch. It's cool, and dark, and the pillows still smell like Jon. He sleeps off and on, trading between restless dreams he doesn't remember and staring into the blackness. He goes back upstairs when his back starts to hurt, and it's mid-morning.

He's got to get out of the house, he decides. He can't stay here like this, empty house, empty bed, empty days stretching into weeks, waiting to go to India. He packs a bag that will last a few weeks, cleans out the fridge and unplugs the appliances. He doesn't know where he's going to go, except he knows it's not here, and it's not Australia.

For about an hour, he thinks about going down to The Strip. He throws his bag in the trunk, and decides he's going to check into someplace flashy like the Bellagio and play craps for a while, have some free drinks and cheap buffet. Lose himself in noise and glamour. But on the way, he turns onto the 15 instead, going south. He doesn't know why, but he's suddenly hungry for Del Taco.

He drives all the way down to Henderson for it, flops into a booth and mows through a couple of Big Fats and a basket of nachos. He drinks soda until the lunch rush dies down and the staff starts to look at him funny, and then he gets in the car and heads down the 215 to the 515, out toward the lake.

He parks and walks out to the middle of the wall, blending in with the little bit of Saturday crowd. It's sunny but cool, and he leans against the wall for a long time, staring down to the water below. He remembers the first time they brought Jon out here, on the way up to the cabin; the way he walked up and down the road taking pictures, while Ryan and Brendon sat against the wall and talked about the symbolism of wolves. Spencer watched Jon walk, and joined him when he went back down to the far side when water started flowing out of the powerhouse. Spencer liked seeing it through Jon's eyes, something so familiar made new. Jon showed him one of the photos a long time later, a washed-out shot of Spencer smiling, his head and shoulders framed against the clear blue sky.

It's only been five days since they left, and already Spencer's starting to feel like it's over, like he's been cut loose, the ends of him flapping in the breeze. It makes him feel hollow inside, and he stares down the spillway and tries not to think about it. After a while, the height gives him vertigo, and he sits down next to the wall and watches the cars go by.

He stays until it's almost full dark, then heads back to his car and drives back toward the Strip. It's Vegas, so he knows he'll be able to find a hotel room, but when he passes the "Welcome to Las Vegas" sign, it hits him how ridiculous this all is. These are his best friends. What the hell is wrong with them that they think they need to go halfway around the world to fix this? Ryan's an idiot, and Brendon and Jon are no better for listening to him. He's got to fix this, and he only knows one way to do it.

He turns around and heads back to the 15, out into the desert.

***

He stops in Harvard for some food, and to stare at the sky for a while. It's cold, and it's after midnight, and he's starting to wonder what the fuck was wrong with him two hours ago that he thought Pete was the solution to this. It seemed like a good idea; drive out to LA, tell Pete that they're all idiots, and make him do his Pete thing and get them to answer the phone, get them to all get on a plane and come back home. But what the fuck is he going to tell Pete anyway? So, hey, the guys and I are all sleeping together, it's kind of a four-way triangle thing, and we all kind of freaked out and ran away. Pete would probably get it, because Pete's got this weird way of wrapping his head around the strangest things, but it's not the best way to tell your label rep that your band might soon find itself the victim of breakup due to irreconcilable differences.

He gives up on the rest of his greasy burger and eats his cold fries, wiping his hand on his jeans so he can flip his iPod on to shuffle. He skips the first few tracks, but settles on "I'm Not Okay," air drumming along with food still hanging out of his mouth. Brendon would be laughing at him right now, in between belting out the choruses. It's only been this long and he misses them so much. What the fuck is he going to do if it's over?

He stares up at the sky for a while. He remembers a night sky like this, last spring, lying in the grass in his backyard just before they left for Civic. Brendon and Jon had gone inside to sleep, and Ryan had rolled over and kissed Spencer, no preamble, no hey, so I know it's been a while, but. It was just as perfect as the first time, years before when they were tucked together in Spencer's bed, quiet and tentative and overwhelmed with how new it was. But Ryan wasn't tentative this time; he kissed Spencer with no argument, fingers tangled in his hair. That was where it had started, the spark that lit the fire that got them here.

The shuffle flips to "Desert Song," and Spencer starts the car. It's almost two, now, and he's got to get on his way, can't sit in the desert forever. He watches the dotted line roll by, while Gerard Way's voice wails out from the speakers. Spencer's always liked this song, liked the way it was so raw, so much emotion. Ryan put it on a mix years ago, and they'd play it on the bus on gray mornings; Brendon would hum along, still sleepy and loose as he made their coffee, and Jon would tap out the missing rhythm on the tabletop. He plays it five or six times before he lets the shuffle move on.

***

By the time he gets to Pete's house, it's after four in the morning, and he's really hoping he remembers the gate code right. He doesn't want to wake the whole house, but he also doesn't really know where he could go to kill some time around here at this hour. At the gate, he punches in the numbers, and is rewarded with a click and the creak of the gates. He parks as far away from the house as he can while still being away from the street, where the paparazzi might notice an extra car. As much as he's had his picture taken, he still finds it baffling that people will actually stand around outside Pete's house all day, waiting for him to come outside.

Normally, there would be a good chance that Pete would be awake at this hour, but ever since the baby the label made an unspoken decision to stick to more real people hours, at least when they know he's at home. He might never sleep, but Ashlee and the baby are a different story. And anyway, he doesn't really know what he's going to say once Pete answers the door. Pete's going to look at him like he's grown a third head, going to say I thought you were in Australia? Pete's going to see right through him, going to see what a fucking wreck he is.

He walks back to the pool, careful not to make too much noise. There's an empty deck chair, and he climbs onto it, curling onto his side. He left his iPod in the car, and he's too tired to go back for it, so he just lays there, listening to the subtle lapping of the water. He falls asleep counting time.

***

The morning sun is bright as he blinks up into it, just rising over the top of the house. He shifts on the deck chair, trying to turn out of the sun, and onto a part of himself that isn't half-numb, when below him on the concrete his phone buzzes.

He flips it open, and it's a text from Ashlee. u comin inside? no poolside breakfast here :)

The back door's open, and he slides in quietly. He hears Ashlee singing in the kitchen, and when he gets to the door she's bopping around the island, pushing down toast and pouring orange juice into two glasses.

"Well, you're pretty chipper for a new mother."

She smiles as she presses a juice into his hand. "You're not in Australia, which means I won the bet!"

Spencer nearly spits out his mouthful. "You were betting on our vacation?"

"Ryan called last week, gave Pete some crap about separate vacations, time apart for creativity, blah blah. I told him at least one of you wouldn't go, but he didn't believe me. Which one wasn't part of the bet, but I had a guess." She steps into his arms and goes up on her toes, wrapping him up in a hug. "You okay, Spence?"

He squeezes her back, probably too tight, and doesn't answer.

The toaster pops, and she pulls away, grabbing it and dropping it onto a plate. "Here, eat that before it gets cold. The eggs'll be done in a minute."

He lets her feed him, eggs and more toast and turkey bacon. She hums something, he thinks it's Dusty Springfield, and it's so nice to just be around another person. He makes her sit down and eat while he washes up the dishes.

"I still can't believe you were betting on us."

"We bet on everything, it's ridiculous."

"Hey, where is Pete anyway? With the baby?"

She raises an eyebrow at him. "He left for DC late last night. The inauguration's in a few days, remember?"

"Shit, you're right." He stares down into the soap suds. "I don't even know what day it is, apparently."

She comes over to the sink, dropping her plate down into the water. She wraps slim fingers over his wrist, pulling slightly so he turns toward her. "You sure everything's all right?"

"No. No, I don't think it is."

There's a hiss from the monitor, and then a feeble wail. She smiles up at him, and reaches over to turn it down. "Hungry baby calls. You wanna come see him?"

"Hell yeah I do."

She leads him to the nursery, and while she digs in the cabinet for a diaper and burp cloth, he moves over to the crib. He's already seen some photos, but they didn't do the kid justice. He's tiny, and adorable, and when he slowly blinks up at Spencer, his wailing tapering into a tiny yawn, Spencer knows he's already gone.

Ashlee comes over to collect him, and out of respect he moves over to the toy shelf, poking and prodding things. He's not really bothered by breastfeeding, but it is his boss's wife, after all, so he can give her some space.

She hums to Bronx while he eats, and after a minute Spencer opens the door to the backyard and lays down in the grass, feeling the sun on his face. After a while, Ashlee's voice floats out to him, "Hey Spence, you wanna hold him?" He's up like a shot and in the door, and Ashlee grins and lets him sit down in the glider before she hands Bronx over.

"So you're the sweet little dude who's gonna give your daddy heart attacks, huh?" He's a little more awake now, and he stares up at Spencer with wide eyes. "Don't worry, Mama'll teach you how to wrap him around that little finger."

Ashlee sits down on the ottoman at his feet, swaying along with them. "Already done, man. Pete's a lost cause."

"I can see why. He's perfect."

"Thanks, we think so!" She reaches out to stroke Bronx's cheek, and he yawns again and promptly falls asleep in Spencer's arms.

After a moment, Ashlee wraps her hand over his knee. "So, stop me if I'm wrong, but... this is about something more than the band, isn't it?"

Spencer shifts in his seat, carefully watching Bronx's tiny fists. Finally he whispers, "Yeah."

"Is it Ryan? Are you two..."

"I... it's... complicated."

"It always is, babe." She considers him for a second, chewing on her lip. "You love him."

"Yeah, of course. I just... don't know if he loves me." Spencer mentally fills in all the values of he for that sentence. It doesn't feel like a lie that way, and it's easier than trying to explain.

"Why wouldn't he?"

Spencer rolls his eyes and smiles. "Why would he, you know?"

She narrows her eyes. "Spencer James Smith, you are lucky you're holding my son right now, else I'd kick your ass up the stairs just so I could kick it down again. If that's the question you're asking yourself, then Ryan's not the dumb boy you need to be worrying about."

Spencer just blinks at her.

She stands, brushing off her hands. "You don't need to thank me, babe. It's all part of the service." He watches her walk outside, still holding her baby in his lap, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

***

He manages to get Bronx back in the crib without waking him up, and when he follows her out to the lawn she's lying in the grass, face tipped up toward the sun. He flops down next to her, and she squeezes his hand.

"So I'm the problem, huh?"

She rolls onto her side, propping her chin up to look down at him. "I don't think you know what the problem is, kiddo. That's what you've gotta figure out."

He tucks his hands under his head. "I... don't know how to do that."

"Take a vacation. A real one, the one you're supposed to be on right now. Go somewhere nice, do some stuff you don't normally do, think about your situation. Drive that pretty car of yours up the coast and see where you end up."

"Okay, Ms. Travel Agent, where should I go?"

Ashlee shrugs with one shoulder. "San Francisco's always nice. Eat some fish, ride a cable car, go see Alcatraz, whatever."

Spencer laughs. "I like fish and prisons."

Ashlee snorts. "See, there you go, it's perfect!"

"Okay, but then what?"

"I don't know, go wherever you want! Drive until you need gas, drive until you have to sleep, drive until your butt hurts. But don't just, like, go back to Vegas and play craps or whatever you do when you live there and don't want to go home."

He knows she's right, even though he's reluctant to admit it. He would have driven himself crazy if he just stayed in Vegas all this time, even if he did go down to the Strip and waste his time and money at the tables. And San Francisco was nice the last time they were there. He could find some things to go see, some ways to pass the time.

"Okay, fine, you win. Though if I'm going on vacation, technically I think you lose your bet."

"Eh, Pete'll probably pay up anyway. And you better send me some postcards, kiddo. No cheating on this trip, I've got my eye on you."

He laughs, and tosses off a lazy salute, dropping his hand back to his chest. "Yes, ma'am."

***

Ashlee finds a hotel for him in San Francisco, a place she saw on a travel show called the Clift Hotel. It's in a good walking neighborhood, close to the kinds of things she thinks Spencer would like to do. He's pretty much sold when she says shopping, but it sounds like a nice place. He plays with Bronx a little bit more, and Ashlee makes them some lunch. But finally she kisses him on the cheek, and firmly but cheerfully throws him out of the house.

He ends up taking two days to make the drive, stopping a lot along the way to watch the ocean and soak in a little of the weak sunlight. Finally he gets to San Francisco, and it's cold and a little rainy and kind of perfect. He texts Ashlee, maybe u were right, this is nice, and she texts back :D!

The first few days he spends just wandering around near his hotel, checking out vintage stores and consignment shops. He spots quite a few good finds, clothes and belts and whatnot, and he figures Brendon will steal half of it. He buys enough pairs of shoes that he's glad he has the car, rather than trying to take them on a plane. Way in the back of one store he finds this awesome writing case, all blue leather and chrome trim, still in amazing shape. Fighting or not, he buys it for Ryan.

Pete calls him on Saturday, and Spencer rolls his eyes but takes the call.

"I'm pretty sure you know that I shouldn't be talking to you right now."

"Yeah, whatever, you cost me a week in Hawaii, you can spare me a phone call."

"Man, you and Ashlee don't fuck around, do you?"

"Only on our off days, dude." Spencer can practically see him waggling his eyebrows.

"La la, don't want to know! Tell me what you want instead."

"What I want, my dear Mr. Smith, is for you to do your job for me."

"Hey, the other guys in my band are each a continent away, I'm pretty sure I'm between jobs right now." It still sounds a little bitter, but better than he thought it would.

"No, smart ass, your other job. I want you to go listen to a band for me."

Spencer finishes the last of his smoothie, then tosses the cup toward the nearest garbage can. He misses. "What, like, scout them to be signed?"

"And someone give the man a cookie. Dude, do I need to remind you that your title is not just for show? If I just wanted to let The Cab kiss your ass in their liner notes, I could have done it without paying you a finder's fee."

"Pete, you bought lunch at Del Taco and got me a miniature blue ninja from the quarter machine."

"Your rates are stupidly competitive, I can't argue with that. Anyway, Spence, I'm serious. From what I've heard these guys are pretty good, and I can't get up there tonight to see them, and it's the last time they're playing until after I leave for tour."

He's not sure why he's arguing, but he does it anyway. "I don't know what I can tell you that you can't just find out on their MySpace."

"Don't be a dick, Spence. I need to know what they're like live, how the crowd reacts to them, what tracks they play, what order, if they cover anything, blah blah. I want to know what you can tell me about them, if you like them, if you think they'd be a good fit for the label."

Spencer's quiet for a moment, tapping out a pattern on his thigh with his fingertips. "You want me to go review them. Like, really, for the label."

"Am I speaking Urdu? Yes, like really for the label."

"Well, shit. I guess I'll need a name, and the name of the place, then. And you're paying for my drinks, asshole."

"Whatever, submit a receipt, dickwad."

Spencer laughs, and Pete disappears for a moment so he can text the information to Spencer. When he comes back on the line, Spencer doesn't really know what to say next.

"So, thanks man, this is kind of cool."

"Hey, I value your opinion, and you're doing me a solid. And if you do good, maybe I'll spring for Del Taco again."

"That's my boss, the last of the big spenders."

"Shut up and go work, Mr. Smith."

***

The band's called Gallery Queen, and they're playing at a hole-in-the-wall club called Bottom of the Hill. It's not a bad place, and Spencer deposits himself in a seat at the end of the bar. The bartender's a hot redhead with a stark black back tattoo that Spencer can't identify peeking out of her tank top. She smiles when she cards him, makes a comment about the beard making him look older. It's a young crowd, but no one seems to really notice him, or realize who he is. He's not sure why that surprises him.

The opening acts are pretty bad, really. The first one can't seem to get through their set, which is only five songs, and the lead singer and the guitarist get in a fight halfway through. Spencer can tell that they're not going to make it much longer. The second act actually isn't terrible, though it's really just one guy, since the rest of his band had car trouble getting back from San Diego and couldn't get there in time. It's hard to tell much about their music, because clearly they write in a style that needs more than a single guitar, but there are a few songs that get Spencer interested. He makes a note of their MySpace page to check out later.

Spencer moves to the other end of the bar when Gallery Queen comes on, so he can see the stage and the crowd a little better. They've clearly got a bit of a following, because there's a press of young hipsters clustered around the stage. It only takes a few minutes for Spencer to figure out what caught Pete's eye. The lead singer's electric, owning every inch of the tiny space, capturing his audience's attention to the point where people are actually leaving the bar to move closer to the stage. The lead guitarist is a woman, a young girl really, with rockabilly bangs and a button on her guitar strap that says "music girls kick ass." And she does, firing off licks that make it clear she could play rings around all comers. The bassist is solid, his dirty jeans and piercings contradicting the delicate harmonies he adds to the vocals. The drummer's amazing, and he seriously considers giving away his presence to them just so he can talk to her, ask her what she listens to, and try not to geek out too much over her serious double bass skills.

He makes a setlist on his phone, typing in a few notes between songs. Their set is tight, not much down time to let the crowd's attention wander. There's a few little changes he'd make, if they were asking him, like putting "Don't Know Why" after "Just Fucking With You," instead of before. But really, they already know what they're doing, and they end the set to thunderous applause.

He has to wait in line to buy their EP, and the merch kid blinks at him, but sells him the CD without saying anything. Behind him, the drummer and the guitarist are staring at him, whispering to each other without looking away, and he smiles and waves. They wave back, but before the guitarist can move around the table toward him, the singer grabs her up in a hug and spins her around. Spencer takes the opportunity to disappear.

It takes a while to write up his review. He tries to remember as much as he can, about the mood of the audience, the kinds of equipment they were using, the way they were joking with the audience in between songs. He finds a couple of YouTube videos from past performances, links them in for context. He reads it all over again, and then decides his opinion is, "Yes. Meet these kids, Pete, you won't be sorry." It's late when he finally emails the whole mess off, and he wastes no time in planting himself face first into bed.

When he wakes up the next morning, he's got a reply back from Pete. All it says is, "If you want it one day, I'll totally give you one of these. You da man." The attachment is a photo of Pete's 'home office,' his disorganized desk that's constantly covered in merch samples, tour schedules, and demo recordings. There's a Decaydance banner on the wall behind it, and Spencer knows exactly what he's offering.

***

Spencer bursts through the swinging door, looking around for the stairs up. He's late, he's so fucking late, and he has no idea where the stage is, or even where the hell he is. Nothing about this venue is familiar, and around three corners he finds the stairs up, running, running, only to find... more hallways.

What the fuck, seriously. He's mentally cursing out everyone he can think of, and after he rounds two more corners and goes through another door, there's Zack.

"Fuck dude, about time, I am so lost. Which way is the stage?"

Zack shrugs, seemingly unconcerned. "Down the hall, up the stairs. The band's already on, so."

"Fuck! What the hell, Zack?!" He pushes past Zack, running even faster down the hall, which seems like it goes on forever, until he finally gets to the stairs. He runs up, up, and he can hear the music getting louder, until finally he finds the stage door and runs right to the edge of the space.

But the band on the stage isn't Panic at the Disco, it's Gallery Queen. There's the singer, strutting out onto the apron of the smallish stage, with the bassist just to his left, headbanging to the beat. The guitarist is facing backstage, grinning up at the drummer like she's just won the lottery, and the drummer's hair is starting to fall out of her ponytail as she whales on her kit.

Spencer doesn't understand what's happening, doesn't know where the rest of his band is, and then Zack appears behind him.

"Hey dude, you dropped this in the hall. Can't lose this, man, you know that."

Zack presses something into his hand, and Spencer looks down. It's a staff pass, with Gallery Queen's tour artwork at the top, then Spencer's picture, then "STAFF" in big black letters, and then smaller underneath, scribbled in red Sharpie, "Best A&R EVER!!"

He looks up, and Zack is smiling. "Your kids are pretty good, Spence."

"Mine?"

Spencer's eyes fly open at the sound of his cell phone blaring "Can You Keep A Secret?," and he's groping for it on the nightstand before he's really awake enough to think about it. He finally gets his hand around it, then stabs the talk button and mashes it to his cheek.

"'lo?"

"Aw, dude, Spence, sorry. I must have screwed up the math, I thought it would be afternoon there. Go back to bed, man."

Spencer blinks once or twice, then remembers oh yeah, you're in Australia, not Portland. "Nah, Singer, it's all right. I was just taking a nap. What's up?"

"Dude, don't worry, I'll take care of--"

Spencer growls a little, which he blames on not enough sleep. "Already awake, dude, spit it out."

Singer sighs, and Spencer can just picture him, probably cross-legged on the floor, tugging on a chunk of his hair. "I just... it wasn't a good day."

Spencer rolls over to his back, trying to untangle his arms from the blankets. "Cab trouble?"

"It's the music, man. We scrapped two songs today in rehearsal, and Cash thinks we should scrap two more because he's an asshole. That's a third of the fucking album, dude, I don't even know what to do with that! I just... fuck."

Spencer scrubs a hand over his face, trying to wake the rest of the way up. "That kind of stuff can happen with the second album, man. Sometimes you have to let stuff go, so you can find something else that's right. Three words: Ryan's wolf opera."

"But there's nothing else!" Singer sucks in a couple of deep breaths, then speaks again a little more softly. "I don't have any other ideas, Spence, not right now. Pete's lining up a late summer tour for us, a headlining tour, and if we want to be out of the studio before then we need to start recording in a couple of weeks. We can't be dicking around like this."

Spencer pulls out his best impression of Ryan's deadpan. "Is there some other way you should be dicking around?"

Singer cackles at that, a long-winded laugh, even though it wasn't really that funny, and Spencer can practically hear the tension bleeding out of him. Singer keeps giggling for a while, and finally he sighs again. "Thanks, man, I think I needed that."

"I know this is freaking you out, man, I get it. But you know what? If the album's not done in time for the tour, then it's not done. Pete's getting you a tour right now based on Whisper War, not for the mythical album you haven't recorded yet. If it's not done, then you go on tour, and you play what people know, and you tease them with the new album songs, so that they're excited. Shit, you could do a tour EP, exclusive to the shows, and kids would eat them up."

"Wow, that would be kind of cool. We could call it, like, the What Happens In Vegas EP."

"See, there you go. But Pete's not going to cancel the tour if he can get it set up. Hell, he probably wouldn't even be mad, he let us dick around on our album for six months."

"You're right. Sorry, I guess I was just freaking out."

"It's okay, seriously. Talking helps."

"Thanks, Spence. You're, like, a genius. Best A&R ever!"

Spencer blinks into the darkness of his room. "Wait, what?"

"Best A&R ever, dude. Seriously, have you thought about doing it for a living? I bet Pete would give a job, not that you couldn't get one on your own. Not that, like, you should do that right now! Cash and I would probably have to form a suicide pact if Panic actually broke up."

"I... thanks, Singer."

"Thank you man, seriously. Now, quit napping away your vacation! Go out and soak up the sun, dude!"

Spencer smiles. "I'll do that. Bye, Singer."

The line clicks off, and Spencer thumbs the phone to vibrate before tossing it in the vague direction of the armchair across the room. He spends a long while waiting to go back to sleep, smiling up at the ceiling.

***

Spencer's standing in Pike's Place Market in Seattle waiting to get some fish and chips when Pete calls him, yet again.

"Seriously, Pete, Ryan is going to kick my ass in a week for not following his rules, and it's going to be all your fault."

"Whatever, Ryan can take it up with me, I'll school him like a fish."

Spencer snorts, both at the terrible pun and at how unintentionally ironic his lunch just became. "What do you want, anyway? I'm on vacation, in case you've forgotten. Again."

"I got an email from Andrew Kelham yesterday, he's looking for an interview."

"Kelham... wait, the guy from Rocksound?"

"That's the one. Said he's got an empty spot in a piece about albums to look for in 2009, I told him you guys were unavailable on vacation, he only got more excited. He promised no more than fifteen minutes tops. You feel up to it?"

Spencer sighs and shakes more malt vinegar onto his fries. "I suppose so. I don't really know what to say about the album, Pete."

"You guys are giving me another album, Spencer, I don't care how long I have to lock you up in that cabin to work out your shit. You guys aren't done with your stories yet, I know it."

Spencer's kind of glad Pete's hundreds of miles away, because hugging him would be awkward with his hands covered in grease. "All right, fine, I'll do it."

"Thanks, man, really. I'll email him back with your number. I won't let him know where you are, I'll just tell him that you're behind him in the time zones. Hopefully he won't call too late."

"Thanks, Pete. I'll be nice to him."

"Of course you will. Oh, and Ash says hello, and where's her postcards?"

"Tell her to text me your zip code, because apparently I fail at addresses."

"Done and done. Thanks, man, you're my favorite future brother-in-law."

"For the millionth time, I'm not marrying your sister."

"Whatever, Spence Wentz. Have fun, be safe."

Spencer clicks off the line and digs into his fish.

***

He's sitting on a bench near the back of the market, in between a jewelry stand and a magic store when his phone rings again. He answers, and a slightly familiar British accent greets him.

"Hello, this is Spencer Smith, yes? Andrew Kelham from Rocksound, how are you doing?"

He leans back and tries to sound well-rested and sun-warmed. "Hi Andrew, I'm doing well. How are things in the UK?"

"Cold and shitty, as per usual. How are things on vacation? Can I get an exclusive report on whatever exotic locale you boys have jetted off to?"

Spencer chuckles as he rolls his eyes. "Well Andrew, I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you, so..."

"Ooh, a secret location then, fine. Are any of the other boys there with you? We'd like to check in with them too, if they're willing, see how they're doing."

"Well, they're off on serious vacation business, you know. I drew the short straw, so I had to go pick up more beer." He splays his hand over the seat next to him, wishing it was occupied.

Andrew laughs, the line crackling a little bit. "Fair enough, fair enough. Well, we all know about the last album, the Honda Civic Tour, then the Rock Band dates. Is it nice to have some time to yourselves after half a year of touring?"

Spencer picks at a faded spot on the knee of his jeans. "It's always good to get off the road sometimes, take a break and reconnect with the real world. Of course, you start to miss it after a while, but isn't that always the way?"

"Grass is always greener, eh?"

Spencer shrugs. "Just different, I guess. Not every field is the same, you know?"

There's a pause, probably while Andrew is taking notes. "I think I understand. So, what do you think we can expect from the new album?"

Spencer rubs at his eye and resists the urge to say there's no new album, asshole, we're moving to Canada to grow hemp and start a free love commune. "Well, I have to say that, while we've got a few ideas, we're not really at that stage yet."

"Is there going to be a new album?"

"Don't put words in my mouth, man." It comes out a little abrupt, and Spencer hopes he put enough smile into it to soften the blow. "We've done some work on new material, don't get me wrong. We're just... taking time for other things. Regrouping, you know? Every day is a new day."

"Oh, well played, sir. Every day is a new day." He repeats it, with pauses, like he's writing it as he says it. "Well, can I at least ask about the sound? A continuation of your newer, Beatles-infused sound, or perhaps more of a return to your hard-driving techno roots?"

Spencer laughs at that. "Well, you know, I can give you the pat answer, that we are constantly being influenced by new ideas, and that it's minimizing that to assume that our next album will sound a certain way. But, you know, I feel that it's safe to tell you now that we're recording the entirety of the next album on didgeridoos. Except me, I'm gonna play the spoons."

Andrew barks out a sharp guffaw. "And do you think that this will be upsetting to your fan base?"

"Well, with every album you run the risk of losing some fans. We figure ticket sales in Australia are gonna go through the roof, though."

"And I'm sure your Australian fans will be happy to see you on tour in the Outback. Thank you very much for your time, Spencer, I think I've got all the information I'll need. You guys will have a drop-in box in the article, which I think will appear in March."

"Great, we'll have to remember to pick up a copy."

"Thanks again for taking time out for Rocksound, and good luck with the secret vacation."

Spencer gets through the pleasantries, then thumbs off the phone. He thought it would be harder than that, thought the guy would know something was up. Would catch Spencer out in his lies. But when you get right down to it, nothing in that call was a lie. Well, except the part where he said the guys were here, but random interviewers from Rocksound don't need to know where they're taking vacation. In the end, really, he doesn't need to know a damn thing about them.

Spencer pockets his phone, and gets up to go see about this Elvis "rock star" fortune telling machine in the magic shop.



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