Adventures in Office Romance; or, His Rumpled Secretary (1/2)
Title: Adventures in Office Romance; or, His Rumpled Secretary (1/2)
Disclaimer: I own nothing, and this clearly never happened.
It's a Harlequin romance novel, starring bandboys. Yes, that involves many of the clinchy, shmoopy clichés you’re thinking of. In which Brendon is Spencer's secretary, and somehow Spencer has never really noticed him before.
R (for the tamest of sex scenes) 14,000 words.
Super thanks to sociofemme and elucreh for the fantastic betas. The original idea and story outline was wildestranger's. And I wouldn't have written it out if it weren't for imntsaying -- I would write ANYTHING that made you happy, bb. ♥
Spencer loves his job, but he hates the stress of traveling. In order to get the urban planning contracts signed and finished there are lists and lists of things that need to come with him; files that have been printed out and electronic ones that need to be uploaded. His clothes need to look just as good when he arrives halfway around the world as they do hanging in his closet, and Spencer has to handle himself just like there is no such thing as jet lag. And as if the Wu contract isn’t worth several million dollars.
He opens the closet and looks at his suit jackets, all hanging neatly pressed with shirts and ties coordinated for each. Spencer takes a lot of pride in looking good. He reaches for two blue shirts and the three coordinating ties.
“No,” says Brendon, not looking up. “You don’t have room to pack all of those.”
Brendon’s sitting on the bed with his Palm Pilot out, making notes with his very serious face on. Spencer can tell, because he’s humming Mozart under his breath, not pop music.
“I need shirts,” Spencer grumps.
“We’ll be gone for three days. You can’t pack five shirts. Not unless you’re going to check luggage, and you hate waiting for luggage in international airports.”
Spencer hates when Brendon’s right. It’s unfortunate, therefore, that he basically employs Brendon to be right about this kind of thing. There had been nine secretaries in eight months before Brendon, and none of them had been able to keep up with all the things Spencer needed done during the day. Spencer was sure his file at the temp agency had a giant warning sticker on it, although he’d never set out to be difficult. He just worked long hours, on important projects, and he demanded that everyone working for him be as capable as he was.
Brendon had been an accident. One of those happy accidents of fate that started with Spencer nearly turning him down as soon as he walked in the door, and has ended with Brendon running his life.
Spencer turns, hands on his hips. “Do you have everything?”
“Almost,” says Brendon equably. “You still owe the guys over at Homes for Humanity a phone call.”
“Hippies,” Spencer mutters under his breath, and Brendon flashes him a quick glare. “They hate me,” says Spencer. “It’s not my fault I’m not good at working with them. Their budgets are non-existent-“
“Non-profit,” Brendon says, rolling his eyes.
“-and they’re always going on and on about using green materials and green methods which they can’t afford.”
Brendon just looks at him, one eyebrow up and lips quirked. Brendon drives a horrible little hybrid eco car that has no trunk space or leg room.
Spencer snaps, “And what are you wearing? Not that. You represent a prestigious architectural firm-“
“You represent them, I just represent you,” says Brendon absently. He’s wearing a sparkly silver t-shirt under a tan sports jacket, jeans, and purple sneakers. He knows better than to dress that way when Spencer’s seeing clients in the office; Spencer’s read him the riot act about it often enough. “The Saporta file needs to be printed out, I’ll go back to the office and do it when we’re done here.”
“And then you’re coming back here to pick me up for the drive to the airport?” Spencer asks. “Go now. I can pack without you.”
“You’ll bring seven pairs of shoes,” says Brendon, looking up. He shakes his head. “You can’t be trusted.”
“I did just fine before I hired you-“
“You were a wreck before me,” says Brendon without any heat behind the words. He knows it’s true; Spencer rarely says it, but the rest of the office does. Brendon is the reason Spencer’s sure he can pull this contract off. Spencer’s gone on international trips before, but never anything this important, or worth this much money. There’s a lot of pressure, and he knows he can handle it but it still makes his blood feel bubbly, and his stomach flop. He isn’t going to say out loud how much he’s relying on Brendon, but they both know.
“You packed button-up shirts?” Spencer asks.
Brendon makes a face. “Of course,” he says.
“And ties? Neutral ties?”
Brendon rolls his eyes. “No,” he says, “I’m gonna bring the tie with the penguins on it, and the sweater your mom knitted me for Christmas. With the kitten on it.”
Spencer is not convinced this is an entirely empty threat; Brendon has trouble resisting temptation when temptation strikes him as hilarious. “Which shirts?” he asks.
“The white shirt,” says Brendon patiently. “That you made me buy. And the pink one. And the blue one. Three days, three shirts. Except I’m going to wear the same one on the flight in and out, so I have something pressed to change into. Okay?”
His condescending tone isn’t entirely lost on Spencer, but Spencer turns back to his closet anyway. He grabs a couple of ties, because Brendon only owns ridiculous ones. “Pack mine,” says Spencer, holding a red tie up against Brendon’s cheek.
Brendon’s expression is amazingly long-suffering. “I’m not your dress-up doll,” he says. “You know Weird Gerard down the hall calls me that, right?”
Spencer doesn’t care what Weird Gerard in advertising down the hall says about anything. It’s very important to Spencer that Brendon represent him and look presentable. He doesn’t, on his own, manage it very well. Spencer had nearly sent Brendon back to the temp agency the same day he’d been sent in; he’d been wearing jeans and a t-shirt, for starters, and sparkly sneakers, and he’d bounded into Spencer’s office like he thought it was a dance party. Spencer’s first instinct had been to simply say, “No,” and send him out.
But the agency probably wouldn’t have sent him anyone else for weeks, Spencer knew, so he’d pointed sternly at the desk and said, “Work on the to-do list.” And an hour later Brendon had knocked, a little tentatively, on his door, and said, “It’s all done. And I’m Brendon, by the way.”
Spencer had been too busy that week to worry about replacements, and then he’d turned around and Brendon had everything in the office organized. He knew every client and every file and Spencer suddenly had time for things like dinner and sleeping. Of course, that just meant he took on more projects, and Brendon spent more time in the office with him. He hadn’t thought about replacing Brendon again, and good thing; if Brendon ever left Spencer knew his life would collapse, like a house of cards with the table pulled out from under.
“It’ll be fine, look,” says Spencer, trying the green tie with the subtle blue checks instead. He loops it around Brendon’s neck and does up the knot, because Brendon can never get that entirely straight. Brendon stops fidgeting with the phone and goes still, probably because he doesn’t want Spencer to choke him accidentally. Spencer gives it a little tug and says, “See? That’s fine. Not with the pink shirt, obviously, but it’ll work.”
“Yeah,” Brendon agrees, looking at the floor. He’s still not moving, not until Spencer takes a step back to make sure he’s got the knot straight, and then Brendon, buzzing with energy, jumps to his feet. “I’m going back to the office to pick up the files, is there anything else?”
“You have the Palm Pilot; you tell me,” says Spencer, waving his hand.
“Honestly, you’d be lost without me,” says Brendon. He shakes his head. “I’ll be back to pick you up in an hour. Please don’t have an entire bag of shoes to check through.”
“I won’t, don’t worry,” says Spencer. He really only needs three pairs for a weekend. Four, maybe. “Don’t forget the translation documents. And the passports. And the visas. And-“
“It’s all packed already,” says Brendon, with a tiny eye roll. “I just need to go get it. Relax, please. This weekend is going to be fine. You’re going to get the contract. There is no need to worry.”
Spencer’s not worried. He’s a professional.
--
Jet lag feels a lot like being hung over, without the fun of drinking. Hong Kong looks strange; the streets are too wide, the sky is too low, there are too many wires overhead, and too much neon, twisted into strange shapes that Spencer’s brain doesn’t recognize. He feels illiterate, and it makes him twitchy. It’s early morning, but his brain is telling him it’s past time for bed.
“Hey,” says Brendon, sitting on Spencer’s bed. His eyes are a little red, and he looks as tired as Spencer feels. He spent the whole flight typing up transcripts so Spencer can review them before the meeting tonight. “He’s going to want to take you out for drinks. You should get some rest beforehand.”
Spencer has been staring out the window, looking down over Hong Kong, trying to get his brain to accept that he’s really here, not in a movie somewhere. “I can’t sleep,” he says firmly. He didn’t sleep on the plane, either. “I won’t get back up. But you can go lie down for a while.”
“I’m fine,” says Brendon, around a badly-hidden yawn. He’s hunched over the laptop on Spencer’s bed. Except not hunched, because Brendon’s posture is always impeccable. “Did you look at the list of customs and greetings? You really ought to.”
“I looked,” says Spencer. “I know, I don’t pour my own drink, I bow, I introduce myself by last name first.” Brendon twitches a little, but doesn’t look up. Brendon is terrifyingly good at managing Spencer, and usually Spencer pretends not to notice, but it’s harder tonight, when he’s tired. “I’m crabby,” says Spencer finally. “There’s no point in you being here right now, you’ve already done everything.” He is, as always, grateful for Brendon’s efficiency. “Please go get some rest. If we’re up late tonight one of us has to know what’s going on.”
Brendon rolls his eyes, as if this is a terrible injustice being asked of him, but he closes the laptop. “If you need anything, I’m in 812,” he says, which Spencer thinks he knew, but of course Brendon booked the rooms and Brendon handled the front desk. Brendon leaves his extra keycard on Spencer’s bed and waves vaguely as he leaves. Spencer is too hypnotized by the city to wave back.
It feels like New York or London, but it’s not like them at all. All the cars are the wrong shape, and the streets are too crowded. Spencer stares and stares. His brain is shutting down, layer by layer, and he knows if he doesn’t move around soon he’ll end up asleep, and no good to anyone for the meeting tonight.
He forces himself to stretch and walk around the hotel room a couple of times. He should have made Brendon stay, so he’d have someone to talk to. Brendon could have told him more about his nephew’s dinosaur adventures, or what hideous Disney musical is coming out in the theaters this year. Spencer likes listening to Brendon talk, even when he doesn’t give a damn about the things Brendon is talking about. Before Brendon there were a string of secretaries whose names Spencer couldn’t even remember. Since Brendon there’s only been Brendon, and Spencer has maybe been a little crazy, the way he keeps him around all the time.
Spencer sits down with the contracts and transcripts. Brendon’s clipped them all together, with helpful labeling notes that Spencer can’t understand -- lst 1st 4 st and w smith 4 3 day, whatever that means. He flips through, looking for the one he needs, the precedent for this contract, which ought to say SUAREZ on it in big letters. Wherever it is, it’s not in the pile.
He waffles, but it’s not as if Brendon will be mad at him for knocking on the door. Brendon’s amazingly patient, even when Spencer wants to kick and scream and yell at people. Brendon just gets quiet and snippy under his breath. It took Spencer months to realize Brendon got mad at all.
Spencer grabs the key card and goes down the hall, counting off rooms. The numbers are the same, thank god, although Spencer thinks maybe they use different numbers in Asia. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he couldn’t find Brendon. Fall apart, probably.
He knocks on 812 and waits. Brendon is usually prompt. This takes a second, and Spencer wonders if he’s fallen asleep already. He doesn’t feel guilty, though; this is Brendon’s job.
The door opens, and there’s Brendon. Spencer blinks. He’s changed clothes, and he’s wearing glasses - big black hideous glasses that make him look like the president of the science club in a particularly geeky high school. His hair is sticking up everywhere. He’s wearing a pink t-shirt that’s too small - it must be too small, Spencer thinks, because it’s pulling across his chest and shoulders - and a pair of pajama pants that drag on the floor.
Brendon smiles apologetically. “These aren’t mine,” he says, tugging ruefully on the pants. “I had to borrow them from Shane.”
Spencer stands there for a second. His brain has stuttered and stopped, because all he can think is This isn’t how he looks in the office. He’s… Rumpled. and then he gets stuck on “rumpled,” but he doesn’t know why. “Who’s Shane?” Spencer asks, and thinks that if Brendon says ‘my boyfriend,’ Spencer will hit someone.
“My roommate,” says Brendon. “What’s up?”
Spencer can’t remember why he’s there. He’s known Brendon for fourteen months, and he’s never, ever had this problem before. Brendon has always been the too-loud, too-chatty person who knew when all of Spencer’s most important meetings were.
Now he’s standing barefoot on an expensive hotel rug, and his pajama pants are falling low on his hips, exposing the pale skin between his t-shirt and the waistband. Spencer doesn’t know what to do. “Suarez contract,” he chokes, using the little part of his brain that’s not thinking sleepy. Rumpled.
Spencer tells himself firmly, Secretary. Professional relationship. Friends. It doesn’t help much. Brendon looks tired and vulnerable and open in a way he never does at the office. It makes Spencer’s stomach swoop.
“Oh, shit,” says Brendon, and disappears into the hotel room. Spencer follows automatically. He wishes he weren’t so tired, because he doesn’t have the energy to control his brain.
Brendon leans over the suitcase, open on the floor, and Spencer has a whole new set of problems. Did Brendon always look like that? Was his ass always so… Obvious? Spencer shudders and drags his eyes away, staring at the ceiling instead.
He looks rumpled and sleepy because he was in bed.
Brendon in bed. This is what he looks like when he wakes up in the morning, after spending the night with whomever it is Brendon spends the night with.
Fuck.
“It’s - Hang on, I know it’s here somewhere,” says Brendon. Spencer looks over again, and wishes he hadn’t. Or else wishes he could require Brendon to wear low-riding pajamas to work every day, fuck, they cling, and Spencer wants to touch, to grab.
He tells himself firmly, again, to stop. “I-I’m gonna go,” he says, choking a little awkwardly on the words.
Brendon turns, puzzled. “I’ll find it in a second,” he says.
The bed is right there. Spencer could - Spencer can’t. “No, it’s fine, I remember what it says,” Spencer says, backing up a step.
Brendon runs a hand distractedly through his hair. Bed head, thinks Spencer’s traitorous brain. Sex hair. “Can you give me another minute, I know-“
“You get some sleep,” Spencer says firmly. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
He runs back to his room and makes himself take deep breaths. He sits on the edge of the bed and grips the comforter with both hands, until his knuckles go white.
He has no idea if Brendon has a boyfriend. Maybe his roommate is his boyfriend. Spencer ought to know this; he spends every hour of the day with Brendon, usually six days a week. He knows Brendon has a big family, and he has the impression that Brendon fights with them sometimes about something. There are lots of nieces and nephews who like dinosaurs; Brendon had a collection of toys on his desk before he mailed them off around the holidays.
They talk, but they mostly talk about business. Spencer’s not sure if Brendon even considers him a friend. He might just be Brendon’s unreasonable boss, the one who keeps him in the office until one in the morning and makes him come in on weekends.
Spencer has a vague idea that Brendon probably doesn’t want to be a secretary for the rest of his life. He has no idea what else Brendon might want to do.
Spencer picks up the phone and presses buttons until an operator helps him call back to America, chirping happily in heavily British-accented English about how glad she is to connect him.
The phone rings a few times. Right. It’s night at home.
“…Uh,” says Ryan’s voice, barely awake.
“I’m having a problem,” blurts Spencer, and then stops. He’s not sure what to say, not even to his best friend of twenty years.
There is a pause. “Okay,” says Ryan finally, voice gravely and rough. “You gonna tell me what it is?”
“It’s… I’m in Hong Kong,” says Spencer. That seems safe.
“So this is costing you, what, five dollars a minute?” Ryan agrees. “Spit it out.”
“I… I can’t… It’s Brendon,” Spencer says.
Ryan yawns. “Oh,” he says. “Did you finally notice?”
Spencer almost drops the phone. “What do you mean?” he chokes.
“Brendon,” Ryan says back, mocking a little bit. “Jon and I were wondering how long that would take.”
“Ryan,” says Spencer firmly. “You couldn’t have known. I haven’t told you what the problem is yet.”
Ryan is trying not to laugh. He has the worst fake-serious voice ever. “Let me guess, then,” says Ryan. “Brendon’s hot. You just noticed.”
“His pants!” Spencer says, and wishes again that he’d gotten more sleep.
Ryan does laugh this time. “Yeah,” he says. “They’re kind of obscene, aren’t they?”
Spencer frowns; Ryan should definitely not have seen Brendon’s pajamas. “What?” he says.
“His jeans,” Ryan says patiently. “They’re all… tight. I think he buys them at Baby Gap.”
Spencer’s brain goes briefly blank, trying to remember what kind of jeans Brendon wears. He’s never really noticed. He has a vague impression that they’re tight, and he remembers yelling at Brendon last year to wear more vests and button-up shirts and sports jackets, but he’s never noticed specifically. He feels like he would have, if Brendon’s pants had always shown off his ass like that.
“No,” says Spencer, “these were his pajamas.”
Ryan’s laughter is obvious. “Why were you looking at his pajamas?”
“We’re in the hotel,” Spencer says witheringly.
“Ah. You were forced to see his pajamas, I understand.”
Spencer splutters, “They were obscene. I can’t - He borrowed them from someone named Shane.”
“His roommate,” says Ryan. “Yeah, he’s nice.”
Spencer wonders how Ryan knows that, but of course Brendon’s come out with Ryan and Jon and Spencer a bunch of times. “What kind of roommate lets you borrow pants?” Spencer complains.
“Nice ones, with very secure girlfriends who live across town,” says Ryan, and Spencer can hear him starting to laugh.
“Well, next time I travel he’s not coming. How am I supposed to not notice… that?”
“You wouldn’t be able to find your own head,” Ryan sighs. “You know you’re being hysterical, right? Go deal with contracts and shit, and worry about this when you’re back in the right time zone, and you’ve slept. I’m serious.”
“But-“
“Spence,” says Ryan. “I’m going to make fun of you forever. It’s Brendon.”
Spencer can’t tell from Ryan’s tone if he means that it’s ridiculous to find Brendon attractive, or if he means it would be ridiculous not to. “I’m gonna hang up,” says Spencer.
Ryan yawns. “Yeah,” he agrees.
“You suck,” says Spencer, and hangs up for real.
--
It must be the jet lag, or the lack of sleep, or all the stress of traveling, because normally Spencer can drink for hours and not get this dizzy. But the karaoke lounge is spinning, and the bright lights of Hong Kong below him are fading and blurring together like time-lapse photography.
“One more,” says Mr. Wu, in his British-accented English.
“Sure!” Spencer agrees, lifting his glass sloppily. Gin - vodka? Whiskey? - spills all over his hand.
“Let me refill that for you, Mr. Smith,” says Brendon immediately, taking it out of his hand. He gives back a different glass, but Spencer doesn’t think anything of it until he takes a drink and it’s… Water. He glares at Brendon, but Brendon is carefully looking through his briefcase, and Spencer can’t catch his eye.
“To a long and happy future working together,” says Mr. Wu, and they drink again. Spencer’s having trouble staying on the padded bench seat.
He blinks a little more slowly than usual, and suddenly Brendon is talking to Wu, with that same stupid, earnest face he gets when he’s charming people. Even the hippies at Homes for Humanity like that face. Spencer hates it, because now it makes him think about Brendon answering his hotel room door, rumpled and sincere and exhausted. And how Spencer wanted to walk him backwards to the bed and crawl in with him, and spend the rest of the weekend there.
“…so much,” says Brendon, and then grabs Spencer’s arm, pulling him to his feet. “Thank you.”
“What’s goin’ on?” Spencer manages.
“We’re done for the night. Back to the room for a few hours to sleep, and we fly out at six.” Brendon wrinkles up his nose. It’s adorable. Spencer wonders what it would look like if Brendon still had his glasses on. “You reek like you were swimming in whiskey.”
“You smell nice,” Spencer mumbles, leaning heavily on Brendon’s neck. He thinks it’s a little creepy to sniff his secretary. He can’t help it, though. He’s taller than Brendon, so he’s draped all over him, standing in the elevator, one hand braced against the wall and the other wrapped around Brendon’s neck. Brendon’s warm, and he smells great. Spencer says it again, just to be sure Brendon knows.
Brendon laughs a little bit. “Sure, Spencer,” he says. He almost never calls Spencer by his first name when they’re working with clients. He’s careful about that.
Spencer likes it. “That’s my name,” says Spencer seriously. “You said it.”
“I guess so. I should have cut you off an hour ago,” Brendon complains, pulling Spencer out of the elevator. “Thank god we’re not far.” He drags Spencer down the hall, and Spencer could be more helpful, probably. But he lets his feet drag and leans more heavily on Brendon than he really needs to. One of his hands tries to wander down to Brendon’s ass, but the part of Spencer’s brain that’s still working tells him it’s wrong. He can’t cop a feel from his employee. No matter how awesome that employee’s ass happens to be.
He starts to tell Brendon about his ass, but figures Brendon probably knows. He’d have to, wouldn’t he? Just because Spencer spent a whole year not noticing, like some kind of dumbass - He laughs.
“What?” Brendon asks, twisting around. Spencer’s laughing against his neck, it must be all wet where Spencer’s breathing on it.
“Dumbass,” says Spencer, and laughs again, hiccupping a little.
Brendon looks puzzled, but he smiles. God, he has such a good smile. “Okay,” he says. “If you say so. I think we did pretty well this weekend.”
“You were great,” says Spencer. “You’re… great.” He manages not to specify which part, because he means all of him, really.
Brendon wasn’t drinking, so Spencer doesn’t know why he goes a little red. “You are so wasted,” Brendon complains. He fumbles a key card out of Spencer’s pocket. Spencer is deliberately unhelpful, because that way Brendon’s fingers are in his pocket, brushing against his leg. Spencer hugs Brendon’s neck more tightly and buries his face in Brendon’s neck.
When the door opens, Brendon staggers, and they both almost fall. “Jesus,” Brendon laughs, “you’re a lump.” He lets Spencer collapse on the bed.
Spencer looks at the ceiling. If he’d taken Brendon back to bed this morning, they could have been lying here, looking at this ceiling. He could have had Brendon snuggled up against him, glasses leaving marks against his cheek where they were pressed into the pillow, pajama pants riding so low that Spencer would barely have to pull on them to slip his hand down-
“Uggggh, your shoes,” Brendon complains, pulling them off. He reaches up and starts unknotting Spencer’s tie. His fingers are slow and a little shaky - he’s exhausted, Spencer knows. He wants to reach up and grab Brendon’s tie, drag him down in to bed, roll on top of him, and keep him there until it’s time to fly home. By the time he realizes this, Brendon’s already finished and thrown a blanket over him.
“You can sleep more on the plane tomorrow,” says Brendon. He sounds tired, and maybe a little sad. “If you wake up, drink some water. Good night.”
Spencer wants to say good night, but he blinks, and by the time he can drag his eyes open again the room is dark and the door is shut.
--
Brendon knocks on the door when they have 45 minutes to get to the airport. Spencer’s head is killing him. Brendon packs up all of his clothes for him and shoves him downstairs. Brendon has a bottle of water and some pills he’ll smuggle through security, and Spencer closes his eyes in the car and tries to think of nothing until his head stops pounding.
There have been times when Spencer was hung over after a long night of drinking with Ryan and Jon, when Brendon teased him mercilessly, turning up the volume of the radio in his car and banging around the office with deliberate malice. Brendon always explains, with sniffy superiority, that since he was out with them, too, and he’s not hung over, Spencer doesn’t deserve babying.
Spencer always makes a note afterwards to stop bringing Brendon along when they go out, but he never does.
Today, though, Brendon is quiet. He gives the taxi driver hushed directions and sits in the car without moving around too much. He’s messaging on his Palm Pilot, but he has it set to silent. When they get to the airport Brendon has their documents out and they move so quickly through the lines that Spencer wonders if Brendon bribed someone.
He looks at Brendon, but Brendon doesn’t look like he’s been scheming. He looks tired, even tireder than he did the day before, hair in his face and glasses on. He’s wearing the same shirt he wore to fly out, and it’s rumpled and a little sweaty.
Spencer can’t help the way his chest clutches now when he looks at Brendon. He’d take an oath that this is new. Brendon didn’t look like this last week, or last month, or a year ago. He couldn’t have. Spencer would have noticed.
Brendon finds them seats in the VIP lounge, where lots of businessmen from all over the world are having glasses of wine and hushed conversations on their phones in a multitude of languages. Spencer closes his eyes and puts his head back on the cushioned headrest. If anything needs to get done, Brendon will handle it.
When he hears the first call for their flight, he opens his eyes again, and Brendon is watching him. He looks away immediately, eyes dropping to the floor, but he’s smiling, a funny shy little smile that Spencer doesn’t recognize. “What?” says Spencer, voice gravely. “My hair’s all fucked up, right? I’ll fix it before we get back.”
“Your hair’s okay,” says Brendon, and bites his lip. “C’mon, they’re boarding us.” He grabs his carry-on and Spencer’s, and Spencer follows him onto the plane.
--
It doesn’t occur to Spencer until they’re in the air that Brendon might be smiling at him like that because he said something stupid and obvious when he was drunk. He remembers thinking about Brendon’s ass, but can’t recall if he said anything out loud.
There is no subtle way to ask Brendon if he owes him an apology for accidental sexual harassment. He can’t do it, even if he comes up with one; Brendon passes out as soon as he sits down, and spends the whole thirteen-hour flight home with his face smushed against the window, mouth open, making little sniffling noises.
Last week, Spencer would have poked him awake and made him explain the latest office gossip about Weird Gerard. Or snapped a picture on his phone of Brendon drooling, and blown it up to hang in the office. Or both, probably.
Now touching him feels fraught. Taking his picture feels creepy. Spencer fidgets and tries to concentrate on finishing his paperwork, but he keeps looking at Brendon instead. Did he say something awful? Should he say something now? Is this fluttering in his stomach going to go away when they land and Spencer gets some sleep?
Airplanes are always overly air-conditioned, and Brendon’s shirt is unbuttoned and rolled up at the cuffs. Spencer tells himself firmly that he would have done the same thing before the trip, before he struggles out of his jacket and puts it over Brendon.
He never manages to stop looking.
--
They land. Brendon is bleary but efficient, getting them through the airport and back to the building where Spencer left his car. Spencer trails along after him, feeling like a zombie. Brendon texts and emails the firm, and then looks wearily at Spencer. “What do you want to do now?” he asks.
Spencer thinks about being in the office with Brendon, as tired as he is. Something stupid would happen. “Go home,” says Spencer, and relief flashes across Brendon’s face. “I’m going home, too. In fact, take a few days. Take a week. You deserve it.”
Brendon looks understandably confused. He’s never had three days in a row off in the whole time he’s worked for Spencer. There has certainly never been a surprise vacation. “A… A week?” he stutters, like he thinks he’s heard wrong.
“Don’t come back until next Monday,” says Spencer firmly. He expects that he’ll break down by Wednesday, but he can live without Brendon for a few days. As soon as he thinks it, his stomach flutters.
“Monday,” says Brendon skeptically.
Spencer points to Brendon’s weird little hybrid car. “Go home,” he orders. “I don’t want to see you again until Monday. Get it?”
“Okay,” says Brendon, holding up his hands. “Have a good week off. I guess.” He gives Spencer one last confused look and gets in the car.
Spencer’s hands are shaking a little bit. He drives home slowly, the way Ryan drives, and crawls into bed. He sleeps for twenty straight hours.
The first thing he thinks when he wakes up is Brendon.
Spencer doesn’t know what to do about that, so he drives straight to Ryan’s house and flings himself on Ryan’s couch. He can feel Ryan looking at him, eyebrows up, but Ryan would know he was freaking out even if there hadn’t been a panicked phone call from another continent, so he doesn’t say anything.
After a minute, Ryan sits down in a chair and crosses his legs. “Shouldn’t you be at work?” Ryan asks. Ryan owns a little antiques store, so he makes his own work hours.
“I’m taking time off,” says Spencer. “I sent Brendon home.”
Ryan whistles and nods. “So it’s a full scale nervous breakdown,” he says. “Good to know.”
“Shut up,” says Spencer, without heat. “I don’t know what to do.”
Ryan sighs and looks at the ceiling for a minute. Spencer shifts on the couch and tries to get comfortable. It’s a little like therapy, except he knows Ryan’s just as fucked up as he is. When Ryan was falling for Jon he was a mess for days.
Spencer’s not falling for anyone, it’s just an analogy.
“The problem is Brendon, right?” says Ryan cautiously.
“Yeah,” Spencer agrees.
Ryan shakes his head. “I don’t get it,” he says. “Hasn’t it… Hasn’t it always been Brendon?”
Spencer’s not sure how to explain it. “Brendon was just Brendon last week. But now he’s… Now it’s different.”
“Just Brendon,” Ryan echoes. “Huh.”
“What?”
“Nothing, just… What do you mean by ‘just Brendon?’ Do you mean ‘Just the guy you spend 20 hours a day with?’ Or ‘Just the person who runs and organizes your life?’” He pauses. “Do you maybe mean ‘Just the person you talk about all the time?’”
“He’s my secretary, of course he runs my life.”
“Nnno,” says Ryan slowly. “You’ve had secretaries before. This is definitely different.”
“How am I supposed to work with him in a professional capacity when this is going on?” Spencer snaps.
Ryan shrugs. “How have you been doing it all year? Brendon hasn’t changed.”
“Yes he has! He was just Brendon, and now he’s… I shouldn’t be thinking about sex when I look at my secretary!”
Ryan is clearly trying not to laugh. Spencer needs a new best friend. “Spence,” he says. “You haven’t been on a date in a year.”
“I’m busy,” Spencer grumps.
“When you do go out, it’s with Brendon. To a bar. To a game. To a party. When you go out with Jon and me you bring Brendon.”
“I’m usually entertaining clients! He has to come.”
“You brought him home for Christmas last year.”
Spencer gets a little red. “We were working over the holiday, and he’s got some kind of weird family issues. It was logical.”
“I’m pretty sure your mom thinks he’s your boyfriend. She knitted him a sweater.”
“Well, I’ll just call and disabuse her of that notion, then,” Spencer scowls. This isn’t fair. The whole world is insane.
“What’s wrong, exactly, with Brendon being your boyfriend?”
“He’s my secretary! It’s… He’s Brendon!”
Ryan gives Spencer a really sharp look. “Funny,” he says, dryly. “That’s exactly why we all thought it was such a good idea.”
Spencer has no answer to that, so he splutters and kicks one foot against the couch, and glares. “When Brendon gets back from his vacation, I’m making ‘find me a new best friend’ the first thing in his day planner.”
Ryan raises an eyebrow. “Brendon’s on vacation?”
“Well I couldn’t have him wandering around the office, when all I can think about is his ass,” Spencer says witheringly.
Ryan chokes. “His… Oh. You finally noticed that, did you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I think a lot of people start with his ass, and then move on from there.”
The door opens and Jon comes in. He’s carrying coffee, god bless him, and he kisses Ryan hello, and waves to Spencer. Jon is by far the best thing that has ever happened to Ryan Ross. He makes Ryan mellow and happy, when his natural tendency is toward high strung and crazy. This is why Spencer has allowed Jon to usurp so much of Ryan’s time.
“What’s up? Hey, Spencer,” says Jon.
Ryan looks at him gravely. “Spencer’s just noticed Brendon’s ass,” he says.
Jon’s face goes curiously blank. “Huh,” is all he says. And then, “I, uh. Need to put down the hot coffee for this conversation.” He wanders into the kitchen and then back. “Tell me more.”
Ryan still has his utterly sincere face on, which means he is amused beyond words. “Apparently,” he says to Jon, stressing the word, “Spencer is worried that he might have a crush of some sort. Due to Brendon’s ass. I think.”
“Shut up, I walked in and he was leaning over a suitcase-“
“It’s pretty fantastic, as asses go,” Jon agrees. He presses his lips together. “But you… You really just noticed?”
“I think he’s slow,” says Ryan mournfully. “If only we’d known back in high school. He could have gotten the help he so clearly needs.”
Spencer throws a couch pillow at him. He’s glad he didn’t mention the other parts to Ryan, the part that’s not just about what Brendon looks like. The part where he wishes he could make Brendon laugh all the time, and the way Brendon’s smile and offer of coffee in the morning makes Spencer want to get out of bed and come to work.
Jon swallows a choked laugh. “Didn’t he go home with you for Christmas?” he asks.
“That was for work!”
“Don’t you take him shopping?”
Spencer starts to yell, and has to stop. He has, in fact, taken Brendon clothes shopping. It’s not the way Jon and Ryan are trying to make it sound, though, swallowing their giggles. Brendon was a broke college graduate, with no decent work clothes, and Spencer needed him to be presentable for business meetings. He took Brendon out and told the woman at the store to find him “whatever,” and then sat around in the dressing room while Brendon bought jackets and ties and shirts.
Spencer realizes, suddenly, that there had been quite a lot of Spencer futzing with Brendon’s ties, and straightening his collar. He recalls, with terrifying clarity, how the saleswoman had cooed at Brendon, all dressed up, and agreed with Spencer that pink was a great color for him, how it brought out his eyes.
Spencer can’t remember having much of an opinion on Brendon’s pants. He can’t believe, in retrospect, that he missed how… How… How boyfriendy that afternoon was.
Why hadn’t Brendon said anything?
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Spencer asks grumpily.
“When?” Ryan asks. “When you were dressing him up? Or when your mom called me and asked if she needed to set up the guest room down the hall for him, or if he was just going to stay in your room?”
Spencer must look honestly bewildered, because Jon and Ryan both burst into laughter. It’s loud, and obnoxious, and Spencer takes back every nice thing he’s ever said about Jon Walker.
“We’re just glad you finally joined the party,” says Ryan, and then he laughs again, and he and Jon go into the kitchen.
Spencer sulks for a good five minutes, and then takes his phone out of his pocket. He calls home. “Sweetheart!” says his mom. “How are you?”
“Brendon’s my secretary, not my boyfriend,” Spencer says grumpily.
“Oh, have you two had a fight?” his mom asks, sounding sympathetic.
Spencer throws the phone across the room, and hides his face under a pillow.
--
He spends three days sulking at Ryan’s house, wishing Jon would stop giving him sympathetic looks. Brendon texts him once, njoyin ur vay k? and Spencer texts back a sharp, y, so don’t text me. Brendon doesn’t. Spencer’s a little disappointed.
He worries that if he goes home he’ll spend too much time thinking about Brendon, and what to do. But he spends every minute Jon and Ryan aren’t around doing the same thing, so it’s probably pointless.
The problem is that there’s nothing to be done; Spencer can’t function as a professional without Brendon. But he’s not sure he can behave like a professional around Brendon.
Spencer’s never been afraid of confrontation, not when it actually matters. Nothing rattles him that badly. So on the fourth day he gets up before Ryan - some days Ryan doesn’t open the antique store until two - and drives to Brendon’s house.
Spencer’s never been to Brendon’s house, but he knows where it is. It turns out to be a rickety townhouse with a porch in front, and a long driveway, and Spencer feels a little absurd knocking on the door.
It’s answered by someone who isn’t Brendon. He’s tall and skinny, with crazy dark hair that sticks up everywhere, and no shirt. Spencer’s a little surprised that his first response to that is overwhelming, choking anger, and then he remembers Brendon mentioning a roommate.
“Shane?” Spencer asks, as politely as he can manage.
“Yeah,” says Shane. “Uh. Spencer, right?”
Spencer isn’t sure he wants to know how Shane knows that. “Is Brendon around?”
“Yeah, come on in, I’ll go get him.” Shane wanders into the house and Spencer follows him. His heart is beating a little faster, now; he really could have thought out what he was going to say before he decided to drive over.
Shane goes upstairs, and after a minute comes down again with Brendon in tow. Brendon looks rested, although Spencer can’t help but wish he was wearing a bigger t-shirt or jeans that were a little less painted on.
“You look shitty,” says Brendon. “What kind of vacation are you taking?”
“It hasn’t been very relaxing,” Spencer concedes.
Brendon rolls his eyes. “I’m gonna make some coffee. You want some?”
One of the things Spencer likes best about Brendon is the way he makes coffee. Spencer reminds himself firmly that there are lots of things he dislikes about Brendon, too. He is loud in the morning, he makes fun of Spencer’s beard, he dresses like a fourteen year old girl. Spencer can concentrate on those until the others go away.
He sits at a stool in the kitchen, and Shane, looking puzzled, sits down on the couch with the newspaper. It’s the perfect distance for not-too-subtle eavesdropping. Brendon hands them both coffee and then leans his elbow on the counter, chin on his hand. “So?” he says. “What’s up with the impromptu vacation? Did something happen?”
Spencer almost chokes on coffee. He refuses to stutter like an embarrassed child. “Not with work,” he says.
“Huh,” says Brendon, frowning. That’s another thing Spencer can dislike. The way Brendon’s face shows everything he’s thinking.
Spencer takes a deliberate sip of coffee and then says, in a stuffy voice, “I got drunk in that meeting.”
“With Mr. Wu? You sure did,” Brendon agrees, laughing a little. “I had to carry you back to the hotel room.”
Spencer is glad about the beard, because it makes turning red less of a problem. “I just wanted to apologize for my behavior,” he says stiffly.
Brendon looks puzzled. “What, getting drunk? That’s kind of the custom, I was expecting it.”
Spencer shakes his head. “No,” he says, “It was inappropriate, and I want to apologize if I said or did anything that made you… Uncomfortable.”
Brendon’s eyes go wide. He looks at Shane, who is looking over his shoulder at them, and immediately pretends to go back to the newspaper. “You didn’t,” says Brendon slowly, but he’d say that anyway. He’s very polite.
“I was jet lagged and exhausted and drunk, and I shouldn’t have…” Spencer doesn’t want to just say talked about your ass in case he didn’t, but he doesn’t want to not say it, in case he did. “I shouldn’t have barged into your hotel room when you were in your pajamas,” he says instead. It sounds lame.
“Your pajamas, actually, Shane,” says Brendon cheerfully.
Shane makes a face. “He sleeps naked. Or he used to. That’s a hell of a thing to wake up to, wandering the apartment. I told him it was pretty inappropriate for a business trip.”
Spencer had been sure his brain was as derailed as it could have been, but it turns out he was wrong. Everything goes white for a second, and then when he feels himself back in the room Shane and Brendon are bickering happily about whether pajamas can be part of your work uniform or not. “You,” Spencer starts, and they both stop. “I shouldn’t have barged in, and I shouldn’t have gotten that drunk, and if I said anything about your… About… I’m sorry.”
“About my what?” Brendon frowns. “Did I screw something up?”
“About…” Spencer starts, but he can’t finish the sentence because he’s sure this falls under HR’s definition of harassment. He gestures vaguely, and Brendon looks even more confused. “I think I remember making a joke about your ass,” says Spencer finally, painfully.
Brendon’s face goes shocked, and Shane hides a guffaw very badly behind the newspaper. “You didn’t,” Brendon says, in a choked voice. “You called me a dumbass, but-“
Spencer remembers that. “No,” he says quickly, “I meant me, not you. For getting so drunk.”
“It was fine-“ Brendon assures him.
“It wasn’t,” says Spencer firmly. “I just wanted to let you know that it won’t happen again. I value our professional working relationship too much. I really am sorry.”
He stares at Brendon and wills him to understand and accept the apology, but Brendon looks baffled and a little horrified. “You really didn’t say anything about my… Nothing you said or did bothered me, honestly,” Brendon says. “I guess I accept your apology if it means that much to you, but-“
“It does.”
“Okay. Sure, then.”
Shane puts down the paper. “I want to hear what you said about Brendon’s ass,” he interrupts.
“Shut up,” Brendon orders, throwing a piece of paper at Shane’s head.
Spencer feels like this is a fair request. “Just that… I noticed it. And I didn’t mean to. But then when I was drunk it was hard not to notice -“ Shane giggles. “If I’m making you uncomfortable you can switch partners, but I hope you don’t.”
Brendon looks… Spencer has trouble figuring out how Brendon looks, actually, which is a rare occurrence. His eyes are wide, and his mouth is a little open - his mouth might be another problem, Spencer realizes ruefully- but the look on his face isn’t harassed or upset. It’s surprised and almost… If Spencer didn’t know better, he’d think it fell somewhere between ‘delighted’ and ‘hopeful.’ “Don’t worry about it,” says Brendon.
“Okay,” says Spencer, because he’s apologized as much as he can. “I’ll see you in the office tomorrow?”
“What happened to ‘don’t come back before Monday?’” Brendon asks, rolling his eyes.
“There’s tons of work to be done, don’t be ridiculous,” says Spencer, and stands up. “Nice to meet you, Shane.”
“Oh my god, the pleasure was all mine,” says Shane, badly hiding another laugh.
Spencer ignores him. Everything is all fixed now, and they can go back to work. Thank god.
part two
Disclaimer: I own nothing, and this clearly never happened.
It's a Harlequin romance novel, starring bandboys. Yes, that involves many of the clinchy, shmoopy clichés you’re thinking of. In which Brendon is Spencer's secretary, and somehow Spencer has never really noticed him before.
R (for the tamest of sex scenes) 14,000 words.
Super thanks to sociofemme and elucreh for the fantastic betas. The original idea and story outline was wildestranger's. And I wouldn't have written it out if it weren't for imntsaying -- I would write ANYTHING that made you happy, bb. ♥
Spencer loves his job, but he hates the stress of traveling. In order to get the urban planning contracts signed and finished there are lists and lists of things that need to come with him; files that have been printed out and electronic ones that need to be uploaded. His clothes need to look just as good when he arrives halfway around the world as they do hanging in his closet, and Spencer has to handle himself just like there is no such thing as jet lag. And as if the Wu contract isn’t worth several million dollars.
He opens the closet and looks at his suit jackets, all hanging neatly pressed with shirts and ties coordinated for each. Spencer takes a lot of pride in looking good. He reaches for two blue shirts and the three coordinating ties.
“No,” says Brendon, not looking up. “You don’t have room to pack all of those.”
Brendon’s sitting on the bed with his Palm Pilot out, making notes with his very serious face on. Spencer can tell, because he’s humming Mozart under his breath, not pop music.
“I need shirts,” Spencer grumps.
“We’ll be gone for three days. You can’t pack five shirts. Not unless you’re going to check luggage, and you hate waiting for luggage in international airports.”
Spencer hates when Brendon’s right. It’s unfortunate, therefore, that he basically employs Brendon to be right about this kind of thing. There had been nine secretaries in eight months before Brendon, and none of them had been able to keep up with all the things Spencer needed done during the day. Spencer was sure his file at the temp agency had a giant warning sticker on it, although he’d never set out to be difficult. He just worked long hours, on important projects, and he demanded that everyone working for him be as capable as he was.
Brendon had been an accident. One of those happy accidents of fate that started with Spencer nearly turning him down as soon as he walked in the door, and has ended with Brendon running his life.
Spencer turns, hands on his hips. “Do you have everything?”
“Almost,” says Brendon equably. “You still owe the guys over at Homes for Humanity a phone call.”
“Hippies,” Spencer mutters under his breath, and Brendon flashes him a quick glare. “They hate me,” says Spencer. “It’s not my fault I’m not good at working with them. Their budgets are non-existent-“
“Non-profit,” Brendon says, rolling his eyes.
“-and they’re always going on and on about using green materials and green methods which they can’t afford.”
Brendon just looks at him, one eyebrow up and lips quirked. Brendon drives a horrible little hybrid eco car that has no trunk space or leg room.
Spencer snaps, “And what are you wearing? Not that. You represent a prestigious architectural firm-“
“You represent them, I just represent you,” says Brendon absently. He’s wearing a sparkly silver t-shirt under a tan sports jacket, jeans, and purple sneakers. He knows better than to dress that way when Spencer’s seeing clients in the office; Spencer’s read him the riot act about it often enough. “The Saporta file needs to be printed out, I’ll go back to the office and do it when we’re done here.”
“And then you’re coming back here to pick me up for the drive to the airport?” Spencer asks. “Go now. I can pack without you.”
“You’ll bring seven pairs of shoes,” says Brendon, looking up. He shakes his head. “You can’t be trusted.”
“I did just fine before I hired you-“
“You were a wreck before me,” says Brendon without any heat behind the words. He knows it’s true; Spencer rarely says it, but the rest of the office does. Brendon is the reason Spencer’s sure he can pull this contract off. Spencer’s gone on international trips before, but never anything this important, or worth this much money. There’s a lot of pressure, and he knows he can handle it but it still makes his blood feel bubbly, and his stomach flop. He isn’t going to say out loud how much he’s relying on Brendon, but they both know.
“You packed button-up shirts?” Spencer asks.
Brendon makes a face. “Of course,” he says.
“And ties? Neutral ties?”
Brendon rolls his eyes. “No,” he says, “I’m gonna bring the tie with the penguins on it, and the sweater your mom knitted me for Christmas. With the kitten on it.”
Spencer is not convinced this is an entirely empty threat; Brendon has trouble resisting temptation when temptation strikes him as hilarious. “Which shirts?” he asks.
“The white shirt,” says Brendon patiently. “That you made me buy. And the pink one. And the blue one. Three days, three shirts. Except I’m going to wear the same one on the flight in and out, so I have something pressed to change into. Okay?”
His condescending tone isn’t entirely lost on Spencer, but Spencer turns back to his closet anyway. He grabs a couple of ties, because Brendon only owns ridiculous ones. “Pack mine,” says Spencer, holding a red tie up against Brendon’s cheek.
Brendon’s expression is amazingly long-suffering. “I’m not your dress-up doll,” he says. “You know Weird Gerard down the hall calls me that, right?”
Spencer doesn’t care what Weird Gerard in advertising down the hall says about anything. It’s very important to Spencer that Brendon represent him and look presentable. He doesn’t, on his own, manage it very well. Spencer had nearly sent Brendon back to the temp agency the same day he’d been sent in; he’d been wearing jeans and a t-shirt, for starters, and sparkly sneakers, and he’d bounded into Spencer’s office like he thought it was a dance party. Spencer’s first instinct had been to simply say, “No,” and send him out.
But the agency probably wouldn’t have sent him anyone else for weeks, Spencer knew, so he’d pointed sternly at the desk and said, “Work on the to-do list.” And an hour later Brendon had knocked, a little tentatively, on his door, and said, “It’s all done. And I’m Brendon, by the way.”
Spencer had been too busy that week to worry about replacements, and then he’d turned around and Brendon had everything in the office organized. He knew every client and every file and Spencer suddenly had time for things like dinner and sleeping. Of course, that just meant he took on more projects, and Brendon spent more time in the office with him. He hadn’t thought about replacing Brendon again, and good thing; if Brendon ever left Spencer knew his life would collapse, like a house of cards with the table pulled out from under.
“It’ll be fine, look,” says Spencer, trying the green tie with the subtle blue checks instead. He loops it around Brendon’s neck and does up the knot, because Brendon can never get that entirely straight. Brendon stops fidgeting with the phone and goes still, probably because he doesn’t want Spencer to choke him accidentally. Spencer gives it a little tug and says, “See? That’s fine. Not with the pink shirt, obviously, but it’ll work.”
“Yeah,” Brendon agrees, looking at the floor. He’s still not moving, not until Spencer takes a step back to make sure he’s got the knot straight, and then Brendon, buzzing with energy, jumps to his feet. “I’m going back to the office to pick up the files, is there anything else?”
“You have the Palm Pilot; you tell me,” says Spencer, waving his hand.
“Honestly, you’d be lost without me,” says Brendon. He shakes his head. “I’ll be back to pick you up in an hour. Please don’t have an entire bag of shoes to check through.”
“I won’t, don’t worry,” says Spencer. He really only needs three pairs for a weekend. Four, maybe. “Don’t forget the translation documents. And the passports. And the visas. And-“
“It’s all packed already,” says Brendon, with a tiny eye roll. “I just need to go get it. Relax, please. This weekend is going to be fine. You’re going to get the contract. There is no need to worry.”
Spencer’s not worried. He’s a professional.
--
Jet lag feels a lot like being hung over, without the fun of drinking. Hong Kong looks strange; the streets are too wide, the sky is too low, there are too many wires overhead, and too much neon, twisted into strange shapes that Spencer’s brain doesn’t recognize. He feels illiterate, and it makes him twitchy. It’s early morning, but his brain is telling him it’s past time for bed.
“Hey,” says Brendon, sitting on Spencer’s bed. His eyes are a little red, and he looks as tired as Spencer feels. He spent the whole flight typing up transcripts so Spencer can review them before the meeting tonight. “He’s going to want to take you out for drinks. You should get some rest beforehand.”
Spencer has been staring out the window, looking down over Hong Kong, trying to get his brain to accept that he’s really here, not in a movie somewhere. “I can’t sleep,” he says firmly. He didn’t sleep on the plane, either. “I won’t get back up. But you can go lie down for a while.”
“I’m fine,” says Brendon, around a badly-hidden yawn. He’s hunched over the laptop on Spencer’s bed. Except not hunched, because Brendon’s posture is always impeccable. “Did you look at the list of customs and greetings? You really ought to.”
“I looked,” says Spencer. “I know, I don’t pour my own drink, I bow, I introduce myself by last name first.” Brendon twitches a little, but doesn’t look up. Brendon is terrifyingly good at managing Spencer, and usually Spencer pretends not to notice, but it’s harder tonight, when he’s tired. “I’m crabby,” says Spencer finally. “There’s no point in you being here right now, you’ve already done everything.” He is, as always, grateful for Brendon’s efficiency. “Please go get some rest. If we’re up late tonight one of us has to know what’s going on.”
Brendon rolls his eyes, as if this is a terrible injustice being asked of him, but he closes the laptop. “If you need anything, I’m in 812,” he says, which Spencer thinks he knew, but of course Brendon booked the rooms and Brendon handled the front desk. Brendon leaves his extra keycard on Spencer’s bed and waves vaguely as he leaves. Spencer is too hypnotized by the city to wave back.
It feels like New York or London, but it’s not like them at all. All the cars are the wrong shape, and the streets are too crowded. Spencer stares and stares. His brain is shutting down, layer by layer, and he knows if he doesn’t move around soon he’ll end up asleep, and no good to anyone for the meeting tonight.
He forces himself to stretch and walk around the hotel room a couple of times. He should have made Brendon stay, so he’d have someone to talk to. Brendon could have told him more about his nephew’s dinosaur adventures, or what hideous Disney musical is coming out in the theaters this year. Spencer likes listening to Brendon talk, even when he doesn’t give a damn about the things Brendon is talking about. Before Brendon there were a string of secretaries whose names Spencer couldn’t even remember. Since Brendon there’s only been Brendon, and Spencer has maybe been a little crazy, the way he keeps him around all the time.
Spencer sits down with the contracts and transcripts. Brendon’s clipped them all together, with helpful labeling notes that Spencer can’t understand -- lst 1st 4 st and w smith 4 3 day, whatever that means. He flips through, looking for the one he needs, the precedent for this contract, which ought to say SUAREZ on it in big letters. Wherever it is, it’s not in the pile.
He waffles, but it’s not as if Brendon will be mad at him for knocking on the door. Brendon’s amazingly patient, even when Spencer wants to kick and scream and yell at people. Brendon just gets quiet and snippy under his breath. It took Spencer months to realize Brendon got mad at all.
Spencer grabs the key card and goes down the hall, counting off rooms. The numbers are the same, thank god, although Spencer thinks maybe they use different numbers in Asia. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he couldn’t find Brendon. Fall apart, probably.
He knocks on 812 and waits. Brendon is usually prompt. This takes a second, and Spencer wonders if he’s fallen asleep already. He doesn’t feel guilty, though; this is Brendon’s job.
The door opens, and there’s Brendon. Spencer blinks. He’s changed clothes, and he’s wearing glasses - big black hideous glasses that make him look like the president of the science club in a particularly geeky high school. His hair is sticking up everywhere. He’s wearing a pink t-shirt that’s too small - it must be too small, Spencer thinks, because it’s pulling across his chest and shoulders - and a pair of pajama pants that drag on the floor.
Brendon smiles apologetically. “These aren’t mine,” he says, tugging ruefully on the pants. “I had to borrow them from Shane.”
Spencer stands there for a second. His brain has stuttered and stopped, because all he can think is This isn’t how he looks in the office. He’s… Rumpled. and then he gets stuck on “rumpled,” but he doesn’t know why. “Who’s Shane?” Spencer asks, and thinks that if Brendon says ‘my boyfriend,’ Spencer will hit someone.
“My roommate,” says Brendon. “What’s up?”
Spencer can’t remember why he’s there. He’s known Brendon for fourteen months, and he’s never, ever had this problem before. Brendon has always been the too-loud, too-chatty person who knew when all of Spencer’s most important meetings were.
Now he’s standing barefoot on an expensive hotel rug, and his pajama pants are falling low on his hips, exposing the pale skin between his t-shirt and the waistband. Spencer doesn’t know what to do. “Suarez contract,” he chokes, using the little part of his brain that’s not thinking sleepy. Rumpled.
Spencer tells himself firmly, Secretary. Professional relationship. Friends. It doesn’t help much. Brendon looks tired and vulnerable and open in a way he never does at the office. It makes Spencer’s stomach swoop.
“Oh, shit,” says Brendon, and disappears into the hotel room. Spencer follows automatically. He wishes he weren’t so tired, because he doesn’t have the energy to control his brain.
Brendon leans over the suitcase, open on the floor, and Spencer has a whole new set of problems. Did Brendon always look like that? Was his ass always so… Obvious? Spencer shudders and drags his eyes away, staring at the ceiling instead.
He looks rumpled and sleepy because he was in bed.
Brendon in bed. This is what he looks like when he wakes up in the morning, after spending the night with whomever it is Brendon spends the night with.
Fuck.
“It’s - Hang on, I know it’s here somewhere,” says Brendon. Spencer looks over again, and wishes he hadn’t. Or else wishes he could require Brendon to wear low-riding pajamas to work every day, fuck, they cling, and Spencer wants to touch, to grab.
He tells himself firmly, again, to stop. “I-I’m gonna go,” he says, choking a little awkwardly on the words.
Brendon turns, puzzled. “I’ll find it in a second,” he says.
The bed is right there. Spencer could - Spencer can’t. “No, it’s fine, I remember what it says,” Spencer says, backing up a step.
Brendon runs a hand distractedly through his hair. Bed head, thinks Spencer’s traitorous brain. Sex hair. “Can you give me another minute, I know-“
“You get some sleep,” Spencer says firmly. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
He runs back to his room and makes himself take deep breaths. He sits on the edge of the bed and grips the comforter with both hands, until his knuckles go white.
He has no idea if Brendon has a boyfriend. Maybe his roommate is his boyfriend. Spencer ought to know this; he spends every hour of the day with Brendon, usually six days a week. He knows Brendon has a big family, and he has the impression that Brendon fights with them sometimes about something. There are lots of nieces and nephews who like dinosaurs; Brendon had a collection of toys on his desk before he mailed them off around the holidays.
They talk, but they mostly talk about business. Spencer’s not sure if Brendon even considers him a friend. He might just be Brendon’s unreasonable boss, the one who keeps him in the office until one in the morning and makes him come in on weekends.
Spencer has a vague idea that Brendon probably doesn’t want to be a secretary for the rest of his life. He has no idea what else Brendon might want to do.
Spencer picks up the phone and presses buttons until an operator helps him call back to America, chirping happily in heavily British-accented English about how glad she is to connect him.
The phone rings a few times. Right. It’s night at home.
“…Uh,” says Ryan’s voice, barely awake.
“I’m having a problem,” blurts Spencer, and then stops. He’s not sure what to say, not even to his best friend of twenty years.
There is a pause. “Okay,” says Ryan finally, voice gravely and rough. “You gonna tell me what it is?”
“It’s… I’m in Hong Kong,” says Spencer. That seems safe.
“So this is costing you, what, five dollars a minute?” Ryan agrees. “Spit it out.”
“I… I can’t… It’s Brendon,” Spencer says.
Ryan yawns. “Oh,” he says. “Did you finally notice?”
Spencer almost drops the phone. “What do you mean?” he chokes.
“Brendon,” Ryan says back, mocking a little bit. “Jon and I were wondering how long that would take.”
“Ryan,” says Spencer firmly. “You couldn’t have known. I haven’t told you what the problem is yet.”
Ryan is trying not to laugh. He has the worst fake-serious voice ever. “Let me guess, then,” says Ryan. “Brendon’s hot. You just noticed.”
“His pants!” Spencer says, and wishes again that he’d gotten more sleep.
Ryan does laugh this time. “Yeah,” he says. “They’re kind of obscene, aren’t they?”
Spencer frowns; Ryan should definitely not have seen Brendon’s pajamas. “What?” he says.
“His jeans,” Ryan says patiently. “They’re all… tight. I think he buys them at Baby Gap.”
Spencer’s brain goes briefly blank, trying to remember what kind of jeans Brendon wears. He’s never really noticed. He has a vague impression that they’re tight, and he remembers yelling at Brendon last year to wear more vests and button-up shirts and sports jackets, but he’s never noticed specifically. He feels like he would have, if Brendon’s pants had always shown off his ass like that.
“No,” says Spencer, “these were his pajamas.”
Ryan’s laughter is obvious. “Why were you looking at his pajamas?”
“We’re in the hotel,” Spencer says witheringly.
“Ah. You were forced to see his pajamas, I understand.”
Spencer splutters, “They were obscene. I can’t - He borrowed them from someone named Shane.”
“His roommate,” says Ryan. “Yeah, he’s nice.”
Spencer wonders how Ryan knows that, but of course Brendon’s come out with Ryan and Jon and Spencer a bunch of times. “What kind of roommate lets you borrow pants?” Spencer complains.
“Nice ones, with very secure girlfriends who live across town,” says Ryan, and Spencer can hear him starting to laugh.
“Well, next time I travel he’s not coming. How am I supposed to not notice… that?”
“You wouldn’t be able to find your own head,” Ryan sighs. “You know you’re being hysterical, right? Go deal with contracts and shit, and worry about this when you’re back in the right time zone, and you’ve slept. I’m serious.”
“But-“
“Spence,” says Ryan. “I’m going to make fun of you forever. It’s Brendon.”
Spencer can’t tell from Ryan’s tone if he means that it’s ridiculous to find Brendon attractive, or if he means it would be ridiculous not to. “I’m gonna hang up,” says Spencer.
Ryan yawns. “Yeah,” he agrees.
“You suck,” says Spencer, and hangs up for real.
--
It must be the jet lag, or the lack of sleep, or all the stress of traveling, because normally Spencer can drink for hours and not get this dizzy. But the karaoke lounge is spinning, and the bright lights of Hong Kong below him are fading and blurring together like time-lapse photography.
“One more,” says Mr. Wu, in his British-accented English.
“Sure!” Spencer agrees, lifting his glass sloppily. Gin - vodka? Whiskey? - spills all over his hand.
“Let me refill that for you, Mr. Smith,” says Brendon immediately, taking it out of his hand. He gives back a different glass, but Spencer doesn’t think anything of it until he takes a drink and it’s… Water. He glares at Brendon, but Brendon is carefully looking through his briefcase, and Spencer can’t catch his eye.
“To a long and happy future working together,” says Mr. Wu, and they drink again. Spencer’s having trouble staying on the padded bench seat.
He blinks a little more slowly than usual, and suddenly Brendon is talking to Wu, with that same stupid, earnest face he gets when he’s charming people. Even the hippies at Homes for Humanity like that face. Spencer hates it, because now it makes him think about Brendon answering his hotel room door, rumpled and sincere and exhausted. And how Spencer wanted to walk him backwards to the bed and crawl in with him, and spend the rest of the weekend there.
“…so much,” says Brendon, and then grabs Spencer’s arm, pulling him to his feet. “Thank you.”
“What’s goin’ on?” Spencer manages.
“We’re done for the night. Back to the room for a few hours to sleep, and we fly out at six.” Brendon wrinkles up his nose. It’s adorable. Spencer wonders what it would look like if Brendon still had his glasses on. “You reek like you were swimming in whiskey.”
“You smell nice,” Spencer mumbles, leaning heavily on Brendon’s neck. He thinks it’s a little creepy to sniff his secretary. He can’t help it, though. He’s taller than Brendon, so he’s draped all over him, standing in the elevator, one hand braced against the wall and the other wrapped around Brendon’s neck. Brendon’s warm, and he smells great. Spencer says it again, just to be sure Brendon knows.
Brendon laughs a little bit. “Sure, Spencer,” he says. He almost never calls Spencer by his first name when they’re working with clients. He’s careful about that.
Spencer likes it. “That’s my name,” says Spencer seriously. “You said it.”
“I guess so. I should have cut you off an hour ago,” Brendon complains, pulling Spencer out of the elevator. “Thank god we’re not far.” He drags Spencer down the hall, and Spencer could be more helpful, probably. But he lets his feet drag and leans more heavily on Brendon than he really needs to. One of his hands tries to wander down to Brendon’s ass, but the part of Spencer’s brain that’s still working tells him it’s wrong. He can’t cop a feel from his employee. No matter how awesome that employee’s ass happens to be.
He starts to tell Brendon about his ass, but figures Brendon probably knows. He’d have to, wouldn’t he? Just because Spencer spent a whole year not noticing, like some kind of dumbass - He laughs.
“What?” Brendon asks, twisting around. Spencer’s laughing against his neck, it must be all wet where Spencer’s breathing on it.
“Dumbass,” says Spencer, and laughs again, hiccupping a little.
Brendon looks puzzled, but he smiles. God, he has such a good smile. “Okay,” he says. “If you say so. I think we did pretty well this weekend.”
“You were great,” says Spencer. “You’re… great.” He manages not to specify which part, because he means all of him, really.
Brendon wasn’t drinking, so Spencer doesn’t know why he goes a little red. “You are so wasted,” Brendon complains. He fumbles a key card out of Spencer’s pocket. Spencer is deliberately unhelpful, because that way Brendon’s fingers are in his pocket, brushing against his leg. Spencer hugs Brendon’s neck more tightly and buries his face in Brendon’s neck.
When the door opens, Brendon staggers, and they both almost fall. “Jesus,” Brendon laughs, “you’re a lump.” He lets Spencer collapse on the bed.
Spencer looks at the ceiling. If he’d taken Brendon back to bed this morning, they could have been lying here, looking at this ceiling. He could have had Brendon snuggled up against him, glasses leaving marks against his cheek where they were pressed into the pillow, pajama pants riding so low that Spencer would barely have to pull on them to slip his hand down-
“Uggggh, your shoes,” Brendon complains, pulling them off. He reaches up and starts unknotting Spencer’s tie. His fingers are slow and a little shaky - he’s exhausted, Spencer knows. He wants to reach up and grab Brendon’s tie, drag him down in to bed, roll on top of him, and keep him there until it’s time to fly home. By the time he realizes this, Brendon’s already finished and thrown a blanket over him.
“You can sleep more on the plane tomorrow,” says Brendon. He sounds tired, and maybe a little sad. “If you wake up, drink some water. Good night.”
Spencer wants to say good night, but he blinks, and by the time he can drag his eyes open again the room is dark and the door is shut.
--
Brendon knocks on the door when they have 45 minutes to get to the airport. Spencer’s head is killing him. Brendon packs up all of his clothes for him and shoves him downstairs. Brendon has a bottle of water and some pills he’ll smuggle through security, and Spencer closes his eyes in the car and tries to think of nothing until his head stops pounding.
There have been times when Spencer was hung over after a long night of drinking with Ryan and Jon, when Brendon teased him mercilessly, turning up the volume of the radio in his car and banging around the office with deliberate malice. Brendon always explains, with sniffy superiority, that since he was out with them, too, and he’s not hung over, Spencer doesn’t deserve babying.
Spencer always makes a note afterwards to stop bringing Brendon along when they go out, but he never does.
Today, though, Brendon is quiet. He gives the taxi driver hushed directions and sits in the car without moving around too much. He’s messaging on his Palm Pilot, but he has it set to silent. When they get to the airport Brendon has their documents out and they move so quickly through the lines that Spencer wonders if Brendon bribed someone.
He looks at Brendon, but Brendon doesn’t look like he’s been scheming. He looks tired, even tireder than he did the day before, hair in his face and glasses on. He’s wearing the same shirt he wore to fly out, and it’s rumpled and a little sweaty.
Spencer can’t help the way his chest clutches now when he looks at Brendon. He’d take an oath that this is new. Brendon didn’t look like this last week, or last month, or a year ago. He couldn’t have. Spencer would have noticed.
Brendon finds them seats in the VIP lounge, where lots of businessmen from all over the world are having glasses of wine and hushed conversations on their phones in a multitude of languages. Spencer closes his eyes and puts his head back on the cushioned headrest. If anything needs to get done, Brendon will handle it.
When he hears the first call for their flight, he opens his eyes again, and Brendon is watching him. He looks away immediately, eyes dropping to the floor, but he’s smiling, a funny shy little smile that Spencer doesn’t recognize. “What?” says Spencer, voice gravely. “My hair’s all fucked up, right? I’ll fix it before we get back.”
“Your hair’s okay,” says Brendon, and bites his lip. “C’mon, they’re boarding us.” He grabs his carry-on and Spencer’s, and Spencer follows him onto the plane.
--
It doesn’t occur to Spencer until they’re in the air that Brendon might be smiling at him like that because he said something stupid and obvious when he was drunk. He remembers thinking about Brendon’s ass, but can’t recall if he said anything out loud.
There is no subtle way to ask Brendon if he owes him an apology for accidental sexual harassment. He can’t do it, even if he comes up with one; Brendon passes out as soon as he sits down, and spends the whole thirteen-hour flight home with his face smushed against the window, mouth open, making little sniffling noises.
Last week, Spencer would have poked him awake and made him explain the latest office gossip about Weird Gerard. Or snapped a picture on his phone of Brendon drooling, and blown it up to hang in the office. Or both, probably.
Now touching him feels fraught. Taking his picture feels creepy. Spencer fidgets and tries to concentrate on finishing his paperwork, but he keeps looking at Brendon instead. Did he say something awful? Should he say something now? Is this fluttering in his stomach going to go away when they land and Spencer gets some sleep?
Airplanes are always overly air-conditioned, and Brendon’s shirt is unbuttoned and rolled up at the cuffs. Spencer tells himself firmly that he would have done the same thing before the trip, before he struggles out of his jacket and puts it over Brendon.
He never manages to stop looking.
--
They land. Brendon is bleary but efficient, getting them through the airport and back to the building where Spencer left his car. Spencer trails along after him, feeling like a zombie. Brendon texts and emails the firm, and then looks wearily at Spencer. “What do you want to do now?” he asks.
Spencer thinks about being in the office with Brendon, as tired as he is. Something stupid would happen. “Go home,” says Spencer, and relief flashes across Brendon’s face. “I’m going home, too. In fact, take a few days. Take a week. You deserve it.”
Brendon looks understandably confused. He’s never had three days in a row off in the whole time he’s worked for Spencer. There has certainly never been a surprise vacation. “A… A week?” he stutters, like he thinks he’s heard wrong.
“Don’t come back until next Monday,” says Spencer firmly. He expects that he’ll break down by Wednesday, but he can live without Brendon for a few days. As soon as he thinks it, his stomach flutters.
“Monday,” says Brendon skeptically.
Spencer points to Brendon’s weird little hybrid car. “Go home,” he orders. “I don’t want to see you again until Monday. Get it?”
“Okay,” says Brendon, holding up his hands. “Have a good week off. I guess.” He gives Spencer one last confused look and gets in the car.
Spencer’s hands are shaking a little bit. He drives home slowly, the way Ryan drives, and crawls into bed. He sleeps for twenty straight hours.
The first thing he thinks when he wakes up is Brendon.
Spencer doesn’t know what to do about that, so he drives straight to Ryan’s house and flings himself on Ryan’s couch. He can feel Ryan looking at him, eyebrows up, but Ryan would know he was freaking out even if there hadn’t been a panicked phone call from another continent, so he doesn’t say anything.
After a minute, Ryan sits down in a chair and crosses his legs. “Shouldn’t you be at work?” Ryan asks. Ryan owns a little antiques store, so he makes his own work hours.
“I’m taking time off,” says Spencer. “I sent Brendon home.”
Ryan whistles and nods. “So it’s a full scale nervous breakdown,” he says. “Good to know.”
“Shut up,” says Spencer, without heat. “I don’t know what to do.”
Ryan sighs and looks at the ceiling for a minute. Spencer shifts on the couch and tries to get comfortable. It’s a little like therapy, except he knows Ryan’s just as fucked up as he is. When Ryan was falling for Jon he was a mess for days.
Spencer’s not falling for anyone, it’s just an analogy.
“The problem is Brendon, right?” says Ryan cautiously.
“Yeah,” Spencer agrees.
Ryan shakes his head. “I don’t get it,” he says. “Hasn’t it… Hasn’t it always been Brendon?”
Spencer’s not sure how to explain it. “Brendon was just Brendon last week. But now he’s… Now it’s different.”
“Just Brendon,” Ryan echoes. “Huh.”
“What?”
“Nothing, just… What do you mean by ‘just Brendon?’ Do you mean ‘Just the guy you spend 20 hours a day with?’ Or ‘Just the person who runs and organizes your life?’” He pauses. “Do you maybe mean ‘Just the person you talk about all the time?’”
“He’s my secretary, of course he runs my life.”
“Nnno,” says Ryan slowly. “You’ve had secretaries before. This is definitely different.”
“How am I supposed to work with him in a professional capacity when this is going on?” Spencer snaps.
Ryan shrugs. “How have you been doing it all year? Brendon hasn’t changed.”
“Yes he has! He was just Brendon, and now he’s… I shouldn’t be thinking about sex when I look at my secretary!”
Ryan is clearly trying not to laugh. Spencer needs a new best friend. “Spence,” he says. “You haven’t been on a date in a year.”
“I’m busy,” Spencer grumps.
“When you do go out, it’s with Brendon. To a bar. To a game. To a party. When you go out with Jon and me you bring Brendon.”
“I’m usually entertaining clients! He has to come.”
“You brought him home for Christmas last year.”
Spencer gets a little red. “We were working over the holiday, and he’s got some kind of weird family issues. It was logical.”
“I’m pretty sure your mom thinks he’s your boyfriend. She knitted him a sweater.”
“Well, I’ll just call and disabuse her of that notion, then,” Spencer scowls. This isn’t fair. The whole world is insane.
“What’s wrong, exactly, with Brendon being your boyfriend?”
“He’s my secretary! It’s… He’s Brendon!”
Ryan gives Spencer a really sharp look. “Funny,” he says, dryly. “That’s exactly why we all thought it was such a good idea.”
Spencer has no answer to that, so he splutters and kicks one foot against the couch, and glares. “When Brendon gets back from his vacation, I’m making ‘find me a new best friend’ the first thing in his day planner.”
Ryan raises an eyebrow. “Brendon’s on vacation?”
“Well I couldn’t have him wandering around the office, when all I can think about is his ass,” Spencer says witheringly.
Ryan chokes. “His… Oh. You finally noticed that, did you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I think a lot of people start with his ass, and then move on from there.”
The door opens and Jon comes in. He’s carrying coffee, god bless him, and he kisses Ryan hello, and waves to Spencer. Jon is by far the best thing that has ever happened to Ryan Ross. He makes Ryan mellow and happy, when his natural tendency is toward high strung and crazy. This is why Spencer has allowed Jon to usurp so much of Ryan’s time.
“What’s up? Hey, Spencer,” says Jon.
Ryan looks at him gravely. “Spencer’s just noticed Brendon’s ass,” he says.
Jon’s face goes curiously blank. “Huh,” is all he says. And then, “I, uh. Need to put down the hot coffee for this conversation.” He wanders into the kitchen and then back. “Tell me more.”
Ryan still has his utterly sincere face on, which means he is amused beyond words. “Apparently,” he says to Jon, stressing the word, “Spencer is worried that he might have a crush of some sort. Due to Brendon’s ass. I think.”
“Shut up, I walked in and he was leaning over a suitcase-“
“It’s pretty fantastic, as asses go,” Jon agrees. He presses his lips together. “But you… You really just noticed?”
“I think he’s slow,” says Ryan mournfully. “If only we’d known back in high school. He could have gotten the help he so clearly needs.”
Spencer throws a couch pillow at him. He’s glad he didn’t mention the other parts to Ryan, the part that’s not just about what Brendon looks like. The part where he wishes he could make Brendon laugh all the time, and the way Brendon’s smile and offer of coffee in the morning makes Spencer want to get out of bed and come to work.
Jon swallows a choked laugh. “Didn’t he go home with you for Christmas?” he asks.
“That was for work!”
“Don’t you take him shopping?”
Spencer starts to yell, and has to stop. He has, in fact, taken Brendon clothes shopping. It’s not the way Jon and Ryan are trying to make it sound, though, swallowing their giggles. Brendon was a broke college graduate, with no decent work clothes, and Spencer needed him to be presentable for business meetings. He took Brendon out and told the woman at the store to find him “whatever,” and then sat around in the dressing room while Brendon bought jackets and ties and shirts.
Spencer realizes, suddenly, that there had been quite a lot of Spencer futzing with Brendon’s ties, and straightening his collar. He recalls, with terrifying clarity, how the saleswoman had cooed at Brendon, all dressed up, and agreed with Spencer that pink was a great color for him, how it brought out his eyes.
Spencer can’t remember having much of an opinion on Brendon’s pants. He can’t believe, in retrospect, that he missed how… How… How boyfriendy that afternoon was.
Why hadn’t Brendon said anything?
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Spencer asks grumpily.
“When?” Ryan asks. “When you were dressing him up? Or when your mom called me and asked if she needed to set up the guest room down the hall for him, or if he was just going to stay in your room?”
Spencer must look honestly bewildered, because Jon and Ryan both burst into laughter. It’s loud, and obnoxious, and Spencer takes back every nice thing he’s ever said about Jon Walker.
“We’re just glad you finally joined the party,” says Ryan, and then he laughs again, and he and Jon go into the kitchen.
Spencer sulks for a good five minutes, and then takes his phone out of his pocket. He calls home. “Sweetheart!” says his mom. “How are you?”
“Brendon’s my secretary, not my boyfriend,” Spencer says grumpily.
“Oh, have you two had a fight?” his mom asks, sounding sympathetic.
Spencer throws the phone across the room, and hides his face under a pillow.
--
He spends three days sulking at Ryan’s house, wishing Jon would stop giving him sympathetic looks. Brendon texts him once, njoyin ur vay k? and Spencer texts back a sharp, y, so don’t text me. Brendon doesn’t. Spencer’s a little disappointed.
He worries that if he goes home he’ll spend too much time thinking about Brendon, and what to do. But he spends every minute Jon and Ryan aren’t around doing the same thing, so it’s probably pointless.
The problem is that there’s nothing to be done; Spencer can’t function as a professional without Brendon. But he’s not sure he can behave like a professional around Brendon.
Spencer’s never been afraid of confrontation, not when it actually matters. Nothing rattles him that badly. So on the fourth day he gets up before Ryan - some days Ryan doesn’t open the antique store until two - and drives to Brendon’s house.
Spencer’s never been to Brendon’s house, but he knows where it is. It turns out to be a rickety townhouse with a porch in front, and a long driveway, and Spencer feels a little absurd knocking on the door.
It’s answered by someone who isn’t Brendon. He’s tall and skinny, with crazy dark hair that sticks up everywhere, and no shirt. Spencer’s a little surprised that his first response to that is overwhelming, choking anger, and then he remembers Brendon mentioning a roommate.
“Shane?” Spencer asks, as politely as he can manage.
“Yeah,” says Shane. “Uh. Spencer, right?”
Spencer isn’t sure he wants to know how Shane knows that. “Is Brendon around?”
“Yeah, come on in, I’ll go get him.” Shane wanders into the house and Spencer follows him. His heart is beating a little faster, now; he really could have thought out what he was going to say before he decided to drive over.
Shane goes upstairs, and after a minute comes down again with Brendon in tow. Brendon looks rested, although Spencer can’t help but wish he was wearing a bigger t-shirt or jeans that were a little less painted on.
“You look shitty,” says Brendon. “What kind of vacation are you taking?”
“It hasn’t been very relaxing,” Spencer concedes.
Brendon rolls his eyes. “I’m gonna make some coffee. You want some?”
One of the things Spencer likes best about Brendon is the way he makes coffee. Spencer reminds himself firmly that there are lots of things he dislikes about Brendon, too. He is loud in the morning, he makes fun of Spencer’s beard, he dresses like a fourteen year old girl. Spencer can concentrate on those until the others go away.
He sits at a stool in the kitchen, and Shane, looking puzzled, sits down on the couch with the newspaper. It’s the perfect distance for not-too-subtle eavesdropping. Brendon hands them both coffee and then leans his elbow on the counter, chin on his hand. “So?” he says. “What’s up with the impromptu vacation? Did something happen?”
Spencer almost chokes on coffee. He refuses to stutter like an embarrassed child. “Not with work,” he says.
“Huh,” says Brendon, frowning. That’s another thing Spencer can dislike. The way Brendon’s face shows everything he’s thinking.
Spencer takes a deliberate sip of coffee and then says, in a stuffy voice, “I got drunk in that meeting.”
“With Mr. Wu? You sure did,” Brendon agrees, laughing a little. “I had to carry you back to the hotel room.”
Spencer is glad about the beard, because it makes turning red less of a problem. “I just wanted to apologize for my behavior,” he says stiffly.
Brendon looks puzzled. “What, getting drunk? That’s kind of the custom, I was expecting it.”
Spencer shakes his head. “No,” he says, “It was inappropriate, and I want to apologize if I said or did anything that made you… Uncomfortable.”
Brendon’s eyes go wide. He looks at Shane, who is looking over his shoulder at them, and immediately pretends to go back to the newspaper. “You didn’t,” says Brendon slowly, but he’d say that anyway. He’s very polite.
“I was jet lagged and exhausted and drunk, and I shouldn’t have…” Spencer doesn’t want to just say talked about your ass in case he didn’t, but he doesn’t want to not say it, in case he did. “I shouldn’t have barged into your hotel room when you were in your pajamas,” he says instead. It sounds lame.
“Your pajamas, actually, Shane,” says Brendon cheerfully.
Shane makes a face. “He sleeps naked. Or he used to. That’s a hell of a thing to wake up to, wandering the apartment. I told him it was pretty inappropriate for a business trip.”
Spencer had been sure his brain was as derailed as it could have been, but it turns out he was wrong. Everything goes white for a second, and then when he feels himself back in the room Shane and Brendon are bickering happily about whether pajamas can be part of your work uniform or not. “You,” Spencer starts, and they both stop. “I shouldn’t have barged in, and I shouldn’t have gotten that drunk, and if I said anything about your… About… I’m sorry.”
“About my what?” Brendon frowns. “Did I screw something up?”
“About…” Spencer starts, but he can’t finish the sentence because he’s sure this falls under HR’s definition of harassment. He gestures vaguely, and Brendon looks even more confused. “I think I remember making a joke about your ass,” says Spencer finally, painfully.
Brendon’s face goes shocked, and Shane hides a guffaw very badly behind the newspaper. “You didn’t,” Brendon says, in a choked voice. “You called me a dumbass, but-“
Spencer remembers that. “No,” he says quickly, “I meant me, not you. For getting so drunk.”
“It was fine-“ Brendon assures him.
“It wasn’t,” says Spencer firmly. “I just wanted to let you know that it won’t happen again. I value our professional working relationship too much. I really am sorry.”
He stares at Brendon and wills him to understand and accept the apology, but Brendon looks baffled and a little horrified. “You really didn’t say anything about my… Nothing you said or did bothered me, honestly,” Brendon says. “I guess I accept your apology if it means that much to you, but-“
“It does.”
“Okay. Sure, then.”
Shane puts down the paper. “I want to hear what you said about Brendon’s ass,” he interrupts.
“Shut up,” Brendon orders, throwing a piece of paper at Shane’s head.
Spencer feels like this is a fair request. “Just that… I noticed it. And I didn’t mean to. But then when I was drunk it was hard not to notice -“ Shane giggles. “If I’m making you uncomfortable you can switch partners, but I hope you don’t.”
Brendon looks… Spencer has trouble figuring out how Brendon looks, actually, which is a rare occurrence. His eyes are wide, and his mouth is a little open - his mouth might be another problem, Spencer realizes ruefully- but the look on his face isn’t harassed or upset. It’s surprised and almost… If Spencer didn’t know better, he’d think it fell somewhere between ‘delighted’ and ‘hopeful.’ “Don’t worry about it,” says Brendon.
“Okay,” says Spencer, because he’s apologized as much as he can. “I’ll see you in the office tomorrow?”
“What happened to ‘don’t come back before Monday?’” Brendon asks, rolling his eyes.
“There’s tons of work to be done, don’t be ridiculous,” says Spencer, and stands up. “Nice to meet you, Shane.”
“Oh my god, the pleasure was all mine,” says Shane, badly hiding another laugh.
Spencer ignores him. Everything is all fixed now, and they can go back to work. Thank god.
part two