Fic: Sit This One Out
Dec. 14th, 2009 12:01 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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lu_ficsTitle : Sit This One Out
Author: Elucreh
Rated: Adult
Pairing: Brendon/Spencer
Summary: In which, Spencer is a superspy and Brendon is his tech expert; also in which, being brave is difficult but worth it, explosions happen (but in a classroom environment) and Chocolate Box is a stupid code name for any operation.
Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
insunshine, who requested AUs and arguments that lead to sex; I hope you enjoy! With thanks to reni_days and sunsetmog for pre-reading and consistently assuring my drug-addled brain that it was a good story, and to harriet_vane because this, like everything I write, is her fault. Title from the Bond film Thunderball, "Do you mind if my friend sits this one out? She’s just dead."
"A school principal, Smith?" Urie says, dubiously. "Sure, I can hack her computer, but..."
"Shut up and start hacking, then." Spencer’s irritable. It’s taken him two months of following the tiny, dirty, often-violent trail of half-accurate information to this target, and he isn't in the mood to try and remember the stuff they make him put on the reports Urie’s allowed to read instead of the truth. "I'm sure. She's it, she's behind it all. She's practically the source of all evil, okay? Just go with it."
Urie gives him a dirty look, but he starts tapping, fingers moving quick and sure over the clacking keys. Spencer shakes himself and looks away from Urie's hands, forcing himself to focus on the photograph of Urie's dogs screensaving one of the seven monitors in Urie's tiny den. It worries him, sometimes, the way he’s growing fond of those dogs, even though he doesn't know their names. Urie's dogs mean Urie's lab, glowing screens reflecting off thick glasses and quicksilver hands flying from one keyboard to another. Urie's dogs are beginning to mean home, in a dangerous way that Spencer's beige apartment has never been allowed to do.
"Huh," Urie said, and Spencer's attention snaps back. He knows that "huh."
"What?" he asks, tense.
Urie frowns and taps a key twice.
"Huh," he says again, and one finger sweeps over to a different key while the other snaps over to an ominous red button on the side of the desk.
"Urie..." Spencer says, watching Urie's button-finger nervously.
"Shit," Urie says, and presses it. All the monitors light up like firecrackers and go dark, even the one with the dogs. Sparks fly off the back of the computer towers, and Urie reaches back and yanks Spencer under the desk just as the sprinklers in the ceiling activate. The water hits the electronics and sets off more sparks, hissing and spitting as Urie drags Spencer closer to himself, trying to get both of them under the table.
The sound effects die down, finally, except for the taptaptap of water on the tabletop. It pools and drips off onto Spencer's ankle, and he shivers. It has nothing to do with Urie's capable fingers still clutching at his back.
Finally, he has to ask. "What was that, Urie?" He’s sort of distantly impressed with how calm his voice is...he hasn't felt this freaked since that incident in Kosovo. Of course, he kept his calm then, too.
"Um," Urie says, in a small voice. His grip loosens on Spencer's shirt, and Spencer fights the urge to pet Urie's head reassuringly.
He can't quite stop his voice from softening, though. "It's totally unlike you to freak out, Urie, that's all. Wanna tell me why?"
"There was someone else in that lady's system," Urie says. He sounds shell-shocked. "They were hacking it too, I mean. And they could tell I was there. They were tracing me. If I hadn't blown the system they would have been able to tell I was in this building, probably, and I'm guessing knowing we're CIA would be bad."
Fuck. "Yeah," Spencer says, and he can hear something of Urie's tone in his own voice. "Pretty bad."
*~*~*~*~*
It’s a solid week later that Spencer finds himself in his supervisor’s office, putting his foot down.
"He isn’t trained, Wentz."
Wentz frowns at him. "Are you telling me you can’t protect one little civilian?"
And, well, Spencer has his pride. "He doesn’t have clearance," he says, instead of answering the question.
"Or keep your story straight?"
Spencer scowls at him, and Wentz gives him his biggest jackass grin. Spencer scowls harder.
Wentz sighs and leans forward. "Look, Smith…I know the tech stuff is beyond you; hell, it’s pretty well beyond me, but Urie’s the best. The best of the best. If they—whoever they are—could not just sense him, but track him, it means they’re serious trouble. Way too serious for you to be going into this without tech backup, and way too serious for remote support. He’s got to be on site. God knows what you’re going to have to hack in a hurry."
"He’s a civilian, sir," Spencer almost-pleads, despite knowing Wentz is right. Spencer still hasn’t figured out how to file his reports electronically, for god’s sake. He could defuse a bomb, but that’s because Walker has a sick sense of humor about their jobs and made him watch Chuck once. "We’ve got techy agents."
"Brendon wants to get out in the field," Wentz says, twitching his hand dismissively. "He can load a gun and tell a lie. It’s not like I’m sending him deep into the drug cartels of South America, Smith, it’s a high school. Let him cut his teeth."
Spencer grinds his own teeth. Nobody seems to be listening. "I keep telling you, sir, Paolora’s dangerous--"
"She’s a high school principal, Smith," Wentz says dryly.
Spencer resists the urge to growl. Wentz didn’t see the bodies in Bulawayo. "Fine." He heaves himself out of the chair and ignores Wentz’s outstretched hand as he heads for the door. "But I swear to God, sir, if I lose her because I have to get between him and a bullet, you’re gonna be hearing about it for the rest of your goddamn haunted life, and into the next."
He shoves the door open and heads down the corridor, hardly even noticing the dark, shock-haired figure he nearly knocks over on his way down the hall.
*~*~*~*~*
Spencer doesn’t actually see Urie until the next day. He’s accepted his cover story with ill grace—what the fuck does he know about chemistry, sometimes he wonders about Saporta’s trains of logic, these kids are all going to fail their standardized tests—and headed off to the incredibly boring meetings that are apparently what happens to new teachers. There was curriculum development and administration (and god, behind his sheepish chemistry teacher exterior, buried deep, he started to get why nobody was taking this seriously, she looked like a perfectly ordinary underpaid inner-city principal, if he hadn’t followed the trails himself, but the crumpled women in Rousillon…) and his tour of the school with the timid little guidance counselor, which ends in—
"—the teachers’ lounge, Mr. James," she says, eyes flitting nervously around the room. There are a few people scattered around, arguing about a ball game, complaining about the broken copiers, and one guy sitting on his own, frowning at the papers spread on the low table in front of him, one leg jittering.
"This is—" the guidance counselor says, and stops to clear her throat. "This is—" she says, a little louder.
Spencer takes pity on her. "Spencer James," he says, projecting, smiling at the teachers in the corner. They nod, friendly enough, but the guy on the couch pops his head up.
It’s Urie, a passable look of startled recognition on his face. "James?"
Spencer pops into his own role. "Boyd?"
A delighted smile washes over Urie’s face, and it takes Spencer a second to remember how to breathe. Urie’s clambering over the coffee table, though, and nobody seems to notice. He wraps an arm around Spencer’s neck and gives him a manly thump on the back. "What are you doing here, man?"
He thumps Urie in return. "They just took me on, chemistry. How long have you been here?"
"Just got here, I’m getting through all the damn paperwork." Urie’s still beaming.
"You two…know each other?" the guidance counselor says, in her faint little voice.
"We were in college together," Spencer says, easily. "Mr. Boyd here was the saving grace of many a pedagogy class."
"Still can’t believe they gave you a license," Urie says, shaking his head in mock confusion. "I know they’re desperate for teachers, but…"
"Shut up." Spencer punches him in the arm.
"Speaking of paperwork," the guidance counselor says, "we need to get you started, Mr. James. Sarah in the office will get you set up."
"Bring it back here," Urie offers. "We can suffer together."
Spencer nods. "Sounds good, B, I’ll see you."
He tries not to draw an obvious breath of relief when he escapes the room. First contact, smooth. Maybe they can pull this off.
*~*~*~*~*
It’s easy enough to settle into his cover routine, setting up the school, occasional coffee with Urie or one of the rotating set of CIA contacts set up for the mission, checking his computer for news, and attending classes at one of the CIA's "cover" gyms where he can beat up people in his own line of work while pretending to learn to balance and kick at the same time. It means he can't hit anybody in the face, but on the other hand, they can't break his nose either. Spencer's fond of his nose; his mom said he got it from her.
There's nothing challenging about it, really, just another cover, up until the first day of school, when he finds himself fighting off a panic attack the likes of which he hasn't seen since his first mission after Ryan. What the fuck, Saporta, he thinks to himself, fussing with the whiteboard markers as he watches the kids file warily into the classroom. Like Spencer knows anything about kids, or chemistry. Sure, he turned in a lesson plan, and one of the consultants took him through the material, but...that's different from teaching. The bell rings, and the kids sit down, still looking at him like they're probing for weaknesses.
"Hi, class," he says, weakly. "I'm Mr. James, and we've got a year together to blow things up."
The clown in the back of the room lets out a whoop, and the others roll their eyes, but Spencer lets himself relax a little. At least he's got their attention.
*~*~*~*~*
"So?" Spencer demands, bursting into Urie's classroom on his lunch break. It's the first time Urie's really had any time alone with the school's network, and Spencer's dying to know what he's found out.
There's a kid standing at Urie's desk, and she looks up, startled. Spencer kicks himself mentally.
"I'll think about it, Carmen, okay?" Urie says, giving her a small smile. "I can see the need, but it'll depend on the principal and some other stuff, okay?"
"Sure," she says, ducking her head and blushing, biting her lip. "Thanks, Mr. B."
"Go get some lunch, then," Urie says, sounding kind and authoritative. Spencer hates him. "I need to talk to Mr. James a second."
"I'll see you tomorrow," she says, and waves a little on her way past Spencer.
"What was that about?" Spencer demands.
"Nothing to do with chocolates, S--Spencer," Urie says dismissively. Chocolate Box, in Spencer's opinion, is a stupid code name, but this is what happens when you let an Agatha Christie nut run your operations. "What did you need?"
Spencer frowns. "Just wondering if you'd had time to poke around the network for the baby."
"Done a little preliminary," Urie says, "but nothing yet. Whoever it is, they're almost certainly involved with the school somehow; they're probably busy working, S--Spencer. I can lay a pit to fall into, if they try when I'm not active on the network myself, but it's going to take time; I need to feel out the network before I start laying tripwires. Best bet is still catching them in the act."
"Tonight?"
"Yeah," Urie says. "I'll give it a go, anyway. Can't make any promises; he, she, or it will have to try, too. Are you sure you don't want me to--"
"Not until we know who we're up against," Spencer says firmly. "I need to know how much we need to cover up; if we're going to need to get the fish out covertly or if we can just show up with cuffs and carry her off. There's no point in getting evidence until there's something we can do about it."
Urie nods. "Sure. Was there anything else? You want to go for lunch?"
Spencer freezes. "I'm gonna see what I can figure out about tomorrow's demonstration," he says. "I still don't know what the hell I'm doing in that classroom."
"Sure." Urie looks like he's trying not to look disappointed, and Spencer swears in the back of his head. What's Urie doing undercover? He can't even hide that he wants--
He doesn't finish the thought. Spencer can't think about having friends.
*~*~*~*~*
It's difficult to remember that when they're crammed into the tiny space the CIA rented for them, Urie rapping away at the keys in front of the glowing bank of computers, telling Spencer about his first period class. "So then the kid, right, he's telling me that he can kick ass at html--"
He breaks off. "Hmmm..." he stops and switches to another keyboard, swiveling in his chair with a little dance of his hips.
"Hmmmm what?" Spencer asks.
Urie blinks and sits back. "Hmmm I've been beaten to it, I think."
"Beaten to what?" Spencer bends over Urie's shoulder, peering at the lines of code like he'll be able to tell by looking at it himself.
"A bear pit," Urie says, his tone a weird combination of admiration and sulkiness. "I was supposed to fall right into that."
"You didn't, though, right?"
Now his tone is all sulkiness. "Who do you think you're talking to, Smith?" He actually sounds hurt. "No, I didn't fall into the damn trap. He, she, or it is good--I'm better. I can spot a bear trap when I see one."
"Okay, okay, sorry," Spencer says, backing up with his hands in the air. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."
"You could at least have faith in my technical skills, Smith, even if--" Urie breaks off abruptly.
"Even if?" Spencer raises his eyebrows interrogatively.
"Never mind," Urie says, twisting back to the first keyboard with some violence. "I didn't fall in the damn trap, and he, she, or it has no idea I'm here, okay? I might even be able to trace it back to them."
"Yeah?" It's like a weight sliding off his shoulders. He beams at Urie. "That's awesome, Urie, get on that."
"Yeah, yeah," Urie says, irritably, refusing to look at him. "Of course."
*~*~*~*~*
"So--" Spencer says, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "Everybody got your goggles on?"
The teenagers around him nod, only a few rolling their eyes. They've learned that when Spencer talks goggles, there probably will be explosions.
"Okay, then--take your solution of hydrogen peroxide and add the saturated potassium iodide." He waits patiently. "Now comes the fun part--pick up the little squeeze bottle, that's just ordinary dish soap--we can use it to wash the beakers later. Add just...a...little...and--"
He's cut off by the little squeaks of astonishment as yellow bubbles rise up in an enormous, clumpy mess, overflowing the edges of the beakers. He loses his bet when only three of them jump backwards—Penny, Detta, and the little weaselly one whose name is something like Edward, but isn't Edward. He was counting on at least four.
The warning bell sounds off. "Okay, everybody, get cleaned up; your homework is to write up why that happened; you have three days."
The classroom clatters with sticky beakers under the sinks and the splash of chemicals going down the drains as the students bag up their books and leave the classroom chattering about their weekend plans. Spencer sighs and pulls off his lab apron, swiping a hand through the sweaty band where his goggle strap always makes his hair gross.
He heads for the teacher's lounge, stopping at a vending machine for a Coke for himself and an orange soda for Urie, who bet three kids or less would flinch. Maybe they're getting too used to explosions; maybe Spencer should have them work with acid or something for awhile instead.
He drops the can in front of Urie, who's hunched over his lunch with a paperback. "Good morning?"
"I guess," Urie says, not even bothering to look up.
Spencer frowns. "You win," he says, encouragingly. "Only two girls and the little weaselly kid."
"Howard?"
"I think so."
"You could at least learn their names, S-Spencer."
"Why?"
"Well, they are people, you know. Don't you have any high school memories you wish somebody had taken the trouble to make better for you?"
Spencer shrugs. "Not really. I left other people alone and they left me alone. It worked for me."
"Well, some of us had a harder time than that," Urie says, something sharp peering out of his tone. "A good teacher can make all the difference. Give them a shot."
"Were you one of those kids?" Spencer asks, intrigued in spite of himself. "Was there a teacher for you?"
Urie's expression softens. "Yeah...kind of. I mean, he wasn't my teacher, he was the advisor for this club, but--he made the difference."
"Huh."
Urie lets Spencer gnaw on that for awhile, still shoveling noodles into his mouth with his other hand. "That's why I'm doing what I can here."
"What do you mean? I mean, I can tell you're reaching the students--" Spencer's a little jealous, in fact, even though really, it shouldn't matter how good a teacher he is; it's not what he's here for.
"I got the principal to sign off on something." Urie shrugs and reaches to pop open his can of winnings. "I'm going to head up a chapter of GSA."
Spencer freezes. "--what?"
"They didn't have one, can you believe that?" Urie says, oblivious, running his long fingers through his hair. "In this day and age; it's practically discrimination in and of itself. Carmen--Lopez, I think she's in your fourth period?--she asked me about it. I told her I'd be happy to help."
"I...sure, but--" Spencer breaks off, helpless.
"What?" Urie looks up at him, raises his eyebrows expressively.
"I didn't--I didn't know you were gay, that's all."
Urie goes still, too. "I--well, I mean, you don't have to be, to lead a club, it's kind of where the "friends" part comes in, but—I am. More or less. Is that a problem?"
"No," Spencer says, a little more forcefully than he really meant to. "No, not a problem, jeez. I just...I didn't know."
Urie shrugs again, irritable. "Well, now you do," he says, brusque, and shoves another forkful of noodles into his maw.
Spencer tries not to notice how red and full his mouth is, dammit.
*~*~*~*~*
Somehow their "closet" seems smaller, that night. Spencer leans back against the door and tries to pretend that this is normal, somehow, that he wouldn't normally be hovering over Urie's shoulder, barely restraining himself from poking at the keys of the keyboards. Urie's shoulders are hunched a little closer together than usual, but Spencer tries to pretend that this is normal, too.
Urie's fingers are flying over the keyboard, quick, sure, lovely; tapping an easy arpeggio that settles Spencer despite himself. The noise is easy, familiar, solid and reliable, Urie's fingers on the keys, although it's no longer the steady background beat to Urie's talk, flowing merrily from Things My Dogs Did This Weekend to Kids Who Play Solitaire in Class, stopping along the way at Why Raspberry Syrup Is Death To Coffee.
Spencer listens to the rhythm, letting it soothe his nerves, soaking in the blue light of the monitors reflecting in Urie's glasses. He shouldn't let it make him comfortable, but it seems some things are beyond his control after all.
He'll pay for it later.
"Did you ever play piano?" he asks suddenly, breaking the silence that has almost lost its tension. Somehow the question makes the air crackle again.
Urie hesitates, then blows out a long breath, lips pressed together. "I did, actually."
"Do you...not, anymore?"
"I don't have much time." Urie's tone is far from inviting. "Believe it or not, most of my work is urgent and important to the security of the nation and lives of hundreds of people all over the world."
Spencer frowns. "I know that! I just--"
There's cool dismissal in Urie's eyes when he spins the chair to look Spencer in the face. "Just what?"
Spencer flails, frustrated. "It was just a question, okay? I just...I don't know anything about you. I wanted to know."
Urie lets out a short, unamused laugh and spins to face his monitors again. "Since when do you want to? Did my sexuality throw you off that much? I promise neither sucking cock or piano playing will affect my contribution to this mission."
Spencer's having a hard time breathing, between this bitterness being thrown at him from out of nowhere and the sudden sweet picture of Urie on his knees, sucking, eyes closed.
He doesn't know what to say.
The computer on the left dings abruptly. "Ah!" Urie swivels to face it. "I'm in." He bends close to the screen, shoving his glasses up his nose. "...Naomi...Windermeer?"
"What?" Spencer stands up straight. "That can't be right. She can't even connect a laptop to a projector screen."
"That's the computer it's coming from," Urie says definitively. "Registered to her name and connecting to the hub her classroom's closest to. Maybe it isn't her, but it's somebody using her computer."
"Huh." Spencer frowns. A moment later, he realizes Urie is frowning right back at him. "That's...weird, right? I mean, using someone else's computer?"
"Yeah..." Urie says slowly, biting his lower lip in thought. "It's weird. But, I mean...if she's as bad as you say, it's not like she'll notice. I just...for most hackers, a computer's really personal, you know? It's like a horse for a cavalryman, you get to know it. You know its moods and the best way to coax it, and you train it up to do what you want it to. And this guy--or girl, or robot--they're good. Good enough to appreciate the value of that."
Spencer nods slowly. Maybe he's never had that with a computer, but he knows what it's like. He has it with his guns. A stranger's gun, even if it's identical down to the make and model, is never the same thing.
"So...disguise is more important than that, maybe? It shouldn't be. Honestly, I was thinking it was probably just MI6 or Moussad...another government's version of us, you know? If they're more worried about coverup than they are about getting the job done..."
"It's other bad guys, isn't it." Urie's voice is flat. "Well, that's great. And now we're going to have to stake out her damn computer."
"Whoah, time out," Spencer says, hearing his voice go taut and hard. "I will stake out her computer. You will be somewhere far, far away from the computer and the bad guys, out of danger. You got that?"
"Smith, I'm on assignment too--"
"No, Urie. Not if it's somebody who's not on the side of the angels. You stay here and monitor use so I know when the hacking's happening."
"Smith--"
"Not another word." Spencer preempts Urie's defiance of his command--Urie always has another word--by walking out the door.
*~*~*~*~*
Spencer doesn't know what to do with himself the next day. It's lunch, and normally he would go and sit with Urie, talk about their classes and the kids and stupid Chocolate Box--which is still a stupid code name--in code, but he knows Urie is mad at him, even though Spencer made absolutely the right call.
Finally he eases himself up from his desk and goes to the vending machine for a Sprite, as peace offering. He walks slowly toward the office next to the computer lab, steps heavy with hesitation, and stops dead when he sees the neon sign on the door. "GSA: TODAY, A & B LUNCH (further meetings tbd)". He doesn't really know what to do now--is it okay to pop in anyway?
He utilizes his super-special spy skills and eases up to the door, sloooooowly easing it just an inch or two open.
"--a good question," he hears Urie say. "It can be hard, right? Hard to tell whether somebody likes you that way. Hard to tell if they're going to care that you do, whether it will be awkward or scary if they don't."
There are little murmurs of agreement from the kids. Spencer can see them sitting on the tabletops, sprawled on the floor. Urie's perched on his desk, legs crossed like a kindergartener, elbows on his knees and chin resting on his hands. "It's freaky, you know?" Urie says. "But what I think is--you have to try. You have to go for it. If there's even a chance, if you think maybe they might be looking at you in a way you want to be looked at, you have to try.
"Being scared is--being scared. Everybody gets scared. Everybody has a right to feel scared of scary things. But it shouldn't stop you. Living your whole life afraid isn't living." He stops and laughs sheepishly. "I sound like every bad movie ever, right?"
The teenagers laugh, too.
"But clichés become clichés for a reason, you guys. Really. I've tried that way, and I was so miserable. My whole--every minute of every day, I was unhappy. I wanted things that I could never have while I was too scared to try for them. It sucked beyond the telling of it."
"So now you're brave?" one of the ones on the floor asks.
"I try to be," Urie's voice has gone soft and strong. "I don't mean...I don't mean that you should go for everything. If you've got a crush on a homophobic jackass who can kill people with his bare hands, for instance, I don't really recommend you send him flowers. But if staying in a small, dark room is the only way you feel safe, and going out into the world means danger, it's probably worth the risk. I think it is, anyway.
"And you, Letitia--seriously. Heidi's a good person. And you would be a really cute couple. Give it a shot."
The rest of the rooms shouts with laughter, and Letitia's head drops down to hide her blush.
"How'd you know?" she asks, a pained whine to her voice.
"It's pretty obvious, if you're looking," Urie says, grinning. "My eyes work and everything."
Spencer lets the door swing shut again, and closes his eyes for a minute, tilting his head back against the wall. Whatever. He still isn’t letting Urie near that computer.
*~*~*~*~*
"...control..." Spencer mutters, finding it on the keyboard and pressing down hard, "...F12..."
"Oh my god, no," Urie sputters through the radio in Spencer's ear. "Control-Fn-F3--are you sure you passed basic hacking?"
"This isn't basic, Urie, it's--"
"It really, really is."
"You do it, then," Spencer snaps, before he can think, and then, hurriedly, "I didn't mean--"
"You really, really did," Urie says, sounding smug. "Now we can go on like this for the next four hundred years, if you like, because clearly you don't know a USB port from a hole in the ground, or you can give in with as much grace as is left to you at this point and let me come poke the computer."
Spencer does so know a USB port from a hole in the ground. Knowing it from another hole in the computer, on the other hand...
"Fine," he says, giving in, although without the grace Urie offered him. "Don't get shot."
"Puh-lease," Urie says, and then, "Urie out."
Spencer sits and stares at the glowing computer monitor for ten minutes until Urie appears in the doorway, not even trying to hide how unbelievably happy he is about this turn of events. Anybody would think he wanted to get shot.
"Get out of my chair, Smith," he commands airily. "Go stand watch or take a piss or something."
Spencer resists the urge to stick his tongue out and goes to watch the hallway. He doesn't need to stand over Urie's shoulder the whole time his fingers dance over the keys, after all, that would just be stupid.
He's so very busy telling himself this, in fact, that the faint cry behind him takes him totally by surprise.
He whips around and back into the classroom, gun steady in his hand, and finds the window open, blowing in muggy September air, and Urie sitting very still at Windermeer's desk, sharp metal gleaming at his throat. Behind him is--
"Windermeer?"
Urie's eyes go wide. "You said--"
"I know what I said," Spencer hisses. "Shut up. Don't you know not to talk when there's a knife at your throat?"
To his credit, Urie shuts up.
"So you're after her, too," Windermeer says softly, the computer's light flickering over her wrinkled face, cool uncaring competence aging her another ten years. "Who are you? Are you Bentley's? Morrello?"
"CIA," Spencer says shortly, watching the blade, relieved to see it falter for just a split second before it comes back up against Urie's skin. Good. She's more scared of killing a cop than a rival. She might be negotiated with.
Windermeer's eyes narrow. "What does the CIA want with Paolora?"
"Sixteen bodies," Spencer says softly. "Sixteen bodies in Sarajevo, and five in Rousillon, and twelve crying orphans in Toronto. I'm not getting into the bombs in Bulawayo, or the whining mutts in Guam. What do you want with her?"
Teeth flash blue in the computer light. "She has something that belongs to my boss."
Spencer resettles his weight, shifts the gun just a fraction of an inch, from her ear to her forehead. "And who might that be?"
She tilts Urie's chin up, so Spencer can see the blade just begin to sink into flesh. "Like I'm going to tell you."
"Fair enough," he agrees, and fires.
The shot rings around the room, bouncing off whiteboards and chairs, echoing hard in Spencer's ears as he watches the knifehand drop away from Urie's white neck, skimming a chunk of flesh from his shoulder as it falls.
She's dead, of course.
Urie draws in a shaky breath. "Wow."
Suddenly Spencer's so furious he can hardly speak.
"Get her laptop," he says, voice rasping in his throat. "I'll call for a cleanup crew."
"Smith--"
Spencer cuts him off with a violent gesture. "We still need to know what she was after. Get the computer. I'll meet you at base in fifteen."
"Okay," Urie says, watching him warily. "Okay."
*~*~*~*~*
Spencer gives the cleanup team their basic need-to-know and stomps off, leaving them to deal with it. There'll be paperwork later, of course, but at least Spencer doesn't have to dispose of the body.
It isn't until he catches DeLeon staring at his hands that he realizes they're shaking. Shaking like they haven't done since...
Since...
Spencer isn't going to think about that, not now, maybe not ever, so he walks deliberately and with purpose all the way to the little closet that is their base of operations, where Urie is sitting with his head in his hands. He looks up when Spencer bursts into the room, flooding it with yellow light.
"Smith," Urie says, with a shaky laugh, "you--"
"Shut up," Spencer says, with no small amount of violence. "Just--shut up. You could have been killed, do you understand that?"
Urie draws in a rattling breath. "Yeah, I--yes, I understand that, what the fuck, Smith--"
"Because I really, I don't think you do," Spencer says, as though Urie hasn't said anything at all. "I don't think you understand that there was a mercenary with her knife at your throat less than twenty minutes ago, that you were nearly dead."
"Hey," Urie says, standing up, slowly, giving Spencer plenty of warning, plenty of time to see him coming. "Hey, it's okay. I'm fine."
"You are not fine," Spencer hurls at him. "You were almost dead, dead is not fine, Urie, it is the very least fine that anyone has ever been, and--"
Urie lays a hand on Spencer's arm, another on his collarbone; slides that one up into his hair and tilts Spencer's head down to look him in the eyes. Spencer goes quiet, looking at him, watching Urie's eyes move and his mouth part slightly to let his breath escape. He's not dead, no, but he nearly was.
Nearly sprawled across that crappy old chair, his head tilted way too far back, his throat gaping open and spilling red flow down his shirt, his fingers twitching uselessly until they stilled.
Spencer can feel those fingers on his arm, in his hair, and suddenly it is very important that Spencer feel them move with purpose. Slowly, as slowly as Urie approached him, he cups Urie's elbow and slides his hand up to Urie's hand on Spencer's arm, laces their fingers together. He watches Urie's eyes watching him.
He watches Urie's mouth shape itself as though it's waiting for a kiss. Watches Urie's chin tip up, exposing the red, raw flesh where the knife penetrated.
He growls and yanks at Urie's hand, pulling him close enough to bite. He starts with Urie's chin and jawline, comes back to nip at his lower lip and slick his tongue past Urie's teeth, pulling a raw, deep moan from Urie's chest as he licks back enthusiastically.
The long fingers in Spencer hair tighten as Urie pulls himself closer, almost climbing up Spencer's body. He growls and drops Urie's hand to grab Urie’s ass and heft him up instead, holding his wiggly little hips up against Spencer's own. Urie doesn't stay still, doesn't let Spencer claim him and hold him, just keeps moving, just keeps pushing back. Spencer lets out a frustrated grunt and bites at Urie's neck, mirroring the knife-mark on the other side. Urie goes still for just a moment, shuddering against him.
"Spencer," he whispers, warm breath hissing against the shell of Spencer’s ear. "Spencer, please," and Spencer can feel his own tremors rattling through his body. He fumbles for Brendon’s fly, for his own; he lets Brendon paw their jeans and underwear down until they’re cock to cock, bare and hard and rubbing. Brendon is babbling, tongue loose, only making sense about half the time. He’s definitely saying Spencer’s name. His hand scrabbles up Spencer’s back and down again to his ass, clenching around one cheek, one finger grazing Spencer’s hole, and Spencer loses himself in a shout as he comes against Brendon’s thigh.
Brendon laughs half-hysterically and comes, too,
For a moment they just stand there, Brendon leaning against Spencer who is supporting them both against the door jamb. Brendon’s head is pillowed against Spencer’s chest, his hair tickling Spencer’s chin. Spencer clutches at Brendon’s back and tries to make the world stop spinning.
After a few minutes, Brendon lets out an absurd little purring noise and laps at Spencer’s chest with a soft, sweet tongue. Spencer’s hand unclenches. "Okay, wow," Brendon says, looking up at Spencer with sex-hazed eyes, a dreamy smile smeared across his swollen mouth. "I wasn’t expecting that.
Spencer looks down at him, happy and familiar and suddenly unbearably dear. "So, yeah, you’re going to have to go home," he says, abruptly.
Brendon’s mouth shuts with a click, and he pushes himself upright. "Excuse me?" he demands, crossing his arms across his chest as though he’s totally unaware how ridiculous that looks with his dick still hanging out.
"You’ll have to," Spencer says calmly, reaching down to pull up his shorts. "You’re too much of a liability, Brendon; you can’t go back in there."
"Excuse me?" Brendon repeats, his voice going high with incredulity.
"You don’t know what you’re doing and you’re going to get killed," Spencer explains, still in a totally reasonable tone of voice, zipping his fly. "You’re not going back into that school and risking the whole mission, Urie. You can’t."
Brendon’s mouth is hanging open. Spencer reaches over and lays a comforting hand on his bicep. "I’ll talk to Wentz in the morning," he says kindly. "Get some sleep."
And he’s gone, out the door, before Brendon can say another word.
*~*~*~*~*
Spencer takes the coward's way out, and calls in sick to the school the next morning. He goes to a drugstore instead and pays cash for a burn phone, his hands still shaking just the tiniest bit.
He calls the number he has memorized, the number he hasn't written down in years.
"Hello?" a brisk voice says, on the other end of the line, and Spencer draws in a long, long breath.
"Hi, Mom."
He can hear a faint clatter as she drops something--a spoon, maybe. "Spencer?"
"Yeah, Mom."
She breathes in her own quick breath, almost a sob. "Hi, baby."
"Hey."
He doesn't call home much--at Christmastime, or as close to it as he can manage; for each family member's birthday. And a drunk-dial once a year, on the anniversary. That's all. He can't call more than that.
He doesn't dare.
"Are you all right, Spencer?"
The words trip on their way out of his mouth; he should have said that first. "Yeah, Mom. Yeah, I'm--I'm fine. Fit as a fiddle, really. You don't need to worry about me."
"I don't need to breathe, either," she says wryly. "You're really all right?"
"I'm fine, Mom. Not even a blister. I promise."
"All right."
The silence stretches a moment.
"I--" Spencer doesn't know what to say.
"What is it, baby?"
"I screwed up, Mama. I really fucking screwed up." Spencer tilts his head back against the wall and lets the tears start to leak out.
"Oh, honey. Hey. Hey. It's okay," she says, almost crooning. "It's okay. We'll make it better. It's okay."
He doesn't believe her for a minute, but just for now, he lets himself sink into the sound of the words, and not think about anything. Just for now.
*~*~*~*~*
"He almost died, Mom, he almost died and it was my fault--"
"Spencer James Smith," her voice has gone sharp, and he stops immediately, stops dead, like being caught walking with muddy boots inside the house. "You stop that this instant, do you hear me?"
"I--but Mom--"
"No, stop it, Spencer. Stop and listen to me. It was not your fault, do you understand? Do you hear me? This boy of yours, he took on the job and he understood the risks and it was not your fault."
Spencer gulps a couple of deep, painful breaths.
"And honey--"
"Mom, don't--"
"Spencer, Ryan wasn't your fault either."
Something in his chest constricts, tight and painful. "Mom, it was--"
"Hush, now. Ryan was not your fault. You were both of you in the wrong place at the wrong time, but it was not your fault."
Spencer knows that, in his head, but they've had this conversation so many times before. If he hadn't taken the job with the CIA, if Ryan hadn't insisted on knowing where Spencer was, if--
"I am prepared to say that as many times as it takes, Spencer," his mother's voice has gentled. "I don't doubt it hasn't taken this time either. But it wasn't your fault. And Brendon is not Ryan."
Spencer flinches. "I didn't say--"
"I may not have seen you in six years, Spencer James Smith the fifth, but I raised you for the twenty-three before that, and I know how you think. You're trying everything you can to keep him at a distance, aren't you? Still only calling us six times a year, still crying your eyes out every May fourteenth, still trying not to be human, just so you can't experience human loss. Well, I have news for you, Spencer Smith: you're not a robot, and it's time you gave up trying to be one."
"Moooooooom," and Spencer can hear the petulance in his own voice; it's deeply embarrassing.
"No." It's her no-backtalk voice. "I have put up with this for six years, Spencer; I've watched you push away your sisters and your friends and me, but this young man of yours, this Brendon, he got through, and I am not going to let you push him away too. You go to him and you apologize for being an asshole--"
"Mom!"
"I'll swear if I want to--and I expect the both of you for Christmas, or near to it."
"Mom, I can't--I can't risk you--"
"I am sick and tired of this, Spencer, of flinching every time the phone rings. You could be lying dead in a ditch every time I turn around, and I'm proud of you, but I'm tired of seeing you risk your life so other people can be happy."
Spencer does a little flinching himself. It's hard on her, he knows.
"Christmas, Spencer, boyfriend in hand, and that's final."
"Yes, ma'am," he says, automatically.
"Now say I love you," she says, and he says it back, instinctive as breathing, real as air. "Good boy," she says softly, and hangs up.
*~*~*~*~*
He doesn’t call Wentz, obviously. There’s nobody like his mother for making him deeply ashamed of himself, and the last thing he needs at this point is to actually do what she made him ashamed of. It wasn’t fair, to say that about Brendon; it wasn’t Brendon’s fault. It shouldn’t keep Brendon from doing what he wants to do.
He’s still trying to find the words for that apology when he knocks softly on the door of their little closet. There’s no answer. He frowns, and knocks again, but it’s silent as the grave in there. He’s still uncertain of his footing, still doesn’t want to walk in where he has no right to stand, but he pushes the door open gently.
Brendon isn’t there. There’s a black spot on the biggest blue screen, a note with a big Smith scrawled across the top.
Smith--
Presuming you have yet to call Pete, or that he has the sense to call you the asshole you are, I have continued hacking into Paolora’s system and I think I found the location and codes for whatever the hell you’re looking for that I’m not allowed to know about. It should be in the music room, in a locked box behind the instruments in the closet. Gone to get it.
Urie
P.S. Go to hell, seriously.
Well, shit.
Spencer crumples the note slowly, deep in thought. He should probably let Brendon do this on his own; complete the mission, get the credit. God knows he deserves it.
Something in his deepest instincts is twitching against that, though. Brendon was mad, he probably wasn’t as careful as he should have been; maybe he’d set off a tripwire or…
Spencer takes a deep breath, and starts to run. He sprints down the hallway, takes off for the stairs rather than wait for the elevator, dodges a taxi on his way across the street, and bolts for the music room doors—wide, to allow the entrance and exits of tubas. His hand is on the door handle when he hears the crack of a shot.
He wrenches the door open and sees Paolora standing there with a pretty little pistol in one hand, backing toward the door, the other hand clenched close to her body.
"I don’t know how you found me," she’s saying, eyes on a vague form across the half-lit room, "but I’m going to make damn sure you never find me again."
"Brendon?" Spencer calls, straining to see, and he nearly faints with relief when Brendon answers.
"She missed," he says. "Get her, Smith."
Paolora makes a break for it, and Spencer follows, thankful for a clean chase; no grey areas, no tricky technology, she shot at his partner and she’s gonna regret it. He tackles her before she’s gone three blocks, despite all the fancy dodging she tries to pull, and he cuffs her to a window grate and calls for a cleanup team.
It’s Pope’s team’s night, apparently, and she pops her gum as she strolls up to the nice respectable middle-aged lady in her suit. "Nother dangerous criminal, Smith?"
It’s tempting to let her pull her whole act, because Pope in her ski cap being dismissive of perps is usually hilarious, but—Paolora’s wiggly as a snake.
"Actually dangerous," he says, in a low voice. "As in, do not give her a quarter of a tenth of an inch, Pope. Two people on her at all times. Got it?"
Pope raises her eyebrows and pops her gum again. "Got it. Jersey, keep an eye on milady while I redo the cuffs."
"Thanks," Spencer says, and offers her a low five. He reaches over and pries open Paolora’s hand, lifting out the tiny thumb drive that’s been the cause of so much trouble. "I’ve got to get this to my partner," he explains to Pope. "I’m trusting you."
"Sure," she says, twirling a black bit of hair as though she isn’t eying Paolora like a piece of red meat. "Tell Urie hey for me."
He jogs back to the school, too elated to walk. They got her, and they got the goods, and somewhere in Nepal is a group of families that aren’t gonna die next month. He bursts into the music room, shouting, "Brendon! Brendon, I got her, she’s—"
And finds the words choke his breath away when he sees Brendon lying on the concrete floor, blood seeping from his shoulder. Shit.
Spencer fumbles for his cell phone, dials 911. "What is your emergency?"
"I’m at P.S. 637 and there’s a cop here, he’s been shot."
"We’ll dispatch an ambulance immediately, sir—"
Spencer hangs up because that’s the important part. He drops to his knees, presses shaking fingers to Brendon’s throat, where his pulse is slow but steady. The hole is in an awkward place, might have gone straight through, might have nicked a vein or a lung on the way, and Spencer doesn’t dare turn him over, press something to stop him bleeding against the floor. He shucks his own shirt and does what he can with the entrance wound, pressing tight against it, his own breath loud and ragged in his ears.
"C’mon, Brendon, c’mon, don’t do this to me, c’mon—"
Spencer’s forehead is clammy; he doesn’t dare take a hand to wipe the sweat away. "I didn’t mean it, oh god, Brendon, I didn’t—"
In the distance he can hear sirens whooping their way toward the school. He swears under his breath. "Just a few minutes, B, hang on, okay? Just keep breathing. I swear to god, you can’t leave me now. My mother will kill me. I promised I’d bring you home for Christmas, Brendon, you can’t just—"
Like an echo in the fog, he can hear himself saying, "if I lose her because I have to get between him and a bullet—", hears in his own voice, "You’re not going back into that school and risking the whole mission, Urie." Oh god. This time it really will be his fault.
"Goddamn you, Brendon, who the fuck lies about getting shot? Breathe, damn you!"
The dim room lights up with a revolving red light, frightening in its brightness. The ambulance technicians burst through the door, rattling a stretcher along.
"This the victim, sir?" one of them asks, crouching down beside Spencer. "How long has it been?"
"I—maybe twenty minutes?" Spencer says helplessly, watching the techs do their jobs. "I’m not sure, he told me he was fine—"
"Are you family, sir?"
"I’m his partner," Spencer says, faintly, then repeats himself, firm. "We’re CIA, he’s my partner."
"We’ll do the best we can for him, sir," the tech assures him, patting his arm. "Are you injured?"
"No, no, I’m—I’m fine. Help him."
"We’re doing everything we can, sir." The tech turns to watch the rest of his team for a minute as they heft Brendon onto the stretcher. "Looks like they missed anything major, sir; should just be his shoulder."
Spencer almost collapses with relief. "I want to ride with him," he says, urgent, and the tech pats his arm again.
"Come on, then." They climb into the ambulance and somebody shoves Spencer down next to Brendon’s stretcher as they close the doors and take off. Brendon is white and still, and Spencer lets his head drop to the side of the bed.
"Don’t die on me, oh God, Brendon, please don’t die on me. I don’t even know the names of your dogs, you can’t die on me now, those dogs are home--"
"Sir?" A different tech, the curly-haired one, lays a hand on his shoulder. "I need to get in there," she says, smiling apologetically.
"Right—of course," he replies, flustered.
"No, just—sit up, sir," she says, reaching around him to attach a clip to Brendon’s finger, start a slow IV drip. "We’re gonna ask you some questions in just a minute here—do you know his blood type?"
Spencer shakes his head slowly. "I—I never asked him anything like that."
"Well, no matter," she says, cheerily. "You’ll have lots of opportunity to ask him in the future."
"Really?" Spencer hopes he isn’t coming across as pathetic as he feels.
"Really." She smiles down at him.
Spencer takes a deep breath and blows it out again, concentrating on the whup-whup-whup of the siren, the revolving red lights casting shadows on Brendon’s face. They’ll have lots of time.
Epilogue
Brendon wakes up in a cold, clear light, sore in ways he’s never been sore before. The sheets beneath him are crisp, and cool; and there’s a heavy weight on one side of the bed—Spencer, slumped from his chair, fast asleep.
For a moment, he lets his eyes trace Spencer’s greasy hair, the round unhappy shape of his shoulders. Finally, he lifts up one hand and pokes Spencer in the shoulder. "Hey," he says, poking harder. "Spencer. Wake up."
Spencer blinks blearily up at him. "Urie?"
Brendon smiles crookedly. "That’s me."
Suddenly Spencer sits bolt upright. "Brendon!"
Brendon beams. "That’s it." He pats Spencer’s shoulder with his good hand. "You got it right!"
Spencer has the decency to look sheepish. "I, uh—"
"Don’t worry about it," Brendon assures him. "I have a long, long list of the ways you’re going to make it up to me. Starting with a soda."
Spencer smiles faintly and heaves himself to his feet. "Sure. Orange or grape?"
"Whatever." Brendon watches him leave for a second. "Hey, Spencer?"
"Yeah?"
"Their names are Bogart and Dylan. My dogs. They’d love to meet you."
A/N: Please note I totally stole the chemistry experiment from Big Bang Theory and the foreign intelligence agencies from Chuck and NCIS, as well as making up the computer commands and sort of handwaving the plot; sorry about that.
Author: Elucreh
Rated: Adult
Pairing: Brendon/Spencer
Summary: In which, Spencer is a superspy and Brendon is his tech expert; also in which, being brave is difficult but worth it, explosions happen (but in a classroom environment) and Chocolate Box is a stupid code name for any operation.
Notes: For
insunshine, who requested AUs and arguments that lead to sex; I hope you enjoy! With thanks to reni_days and sunsetmog for pre-reading and consistently assuring my drug-addled brain that it was a good story, and to harriet_vane because this, like everything I write, is her fault. Title from the Bond film Thunderball, "Do you mind if my friend sits this one out? She’s just dead.""A school principal, Smith?" Urie says, dubiously. "Sure, I can hack her computer, but..."
"Shut up and start hacking, then." Spencer’s irritable. It’s taken him two months of following the tiny, dirty, often-violent trail of half-accurate information to this target, and he isn't in the mood to try and remember the stuff they make him put on the reports Urie’s allowed to read instead of the truth. "I'm sure. She's it, she's behind it all. She's practically the source of all evil, okay? Just go with it."
Urie gives him a dirty look, but he starts tapping, fingers moving quick and sure over the clacking keys. Spencer shakes himself and looks away from Urie's hands, forcing himself to focus on the photograph of Urie's dogs screensaving one of the seven monitors in Urie's tiny den. It worries him, sometimes, the way he’s growing fond of those dogs, even though he doesn't know their names. Urie's dogs mean Urie's lab, glowing screens reflecting off thick glasses and quicksilver hands flying from one keyboard to another. Urie's dogs are beginning to mean home, in a dangerous way that Spencer's beige apartment has never been allowed to do.
"Huh," Urie said, and Spencer's attention snaps back. He knows that "huh."
"What?" he asks, tense.
Urie frowns and taps a key twice.
"Huh," he says again, and one finger sweeps over to a different key while the other snaps over to an ominous red button on the side of the desk.
"Urie..." Spencer says, watching Urie's button-finger nervously.
"Shit," Urie says, and presses it. All the monitors light up like firecrackers and go dark, even the one with the dogs. Sparks fly off the back of the computer towers, and Urie reaches back and yanks Spencer under the desk just as the sprinklers in the ceiling activate. The water hits the electronics and sets off more sparks, hissing and spitting as Urie drags Spencer closer to himself, trying to get both of them under the table.
The sound effects die down, finally, except for the taptaptap of water on the tabletop. It pools and drips off onto Spencer's ankle, and he shivers. It has nothing to do with Urie's capable fingers still clutching at his back.
Finally, he has to ask. "What was that, Urie?" He’s sort of distantly impressed with how calm his voice is...he hasn't felt this freaked since that incident in Kosovo. Of course, he kept his calm then, too.
"Um," Urie says, in a small voice. His grip loosens on Spencer's shirt, and Spencer fights the urge to pet Urie's head reassuringly.
He can't quite stop his voice from softening, though. "It's totally unlike you to freak out, Urie, that's all. Wanna tell me why?"
"There was someone else in that lady's system," Urie says. He sounds shell-shocked. "They were hacking it too, I mean. And they could tell I was there. They were tracing me. If I hadn't blown the system they would have been able to tell I was in this building, probably, and I'm guessing knowing we're CIA would be bad."
Fuck. "Yeah," Spencer says, and he can hear something of Urie's tone in his own voice. "Pretty bad."
*~*~*~*~*
It’s a solid week later that Spencer finds himself in his supervisor’s office, putting his foot down.
"He isn’t trained, Wentz."
Wentz frowns at him. "Are you telling me you can’t protect one little civilian?"
And, well, Spencer has his pride. "He doesn’t have clearance," he says, instead of answering the question.
"Or keep your story straight?"
Spencer scowls at him, and Wentz gives him his biggest jackass grin. Spencer scowls harder.
Wentz sighs and leans forward. "Look, Smith…I know the tech stuff is beyond you; hell, it’s pretty well beyond me, but Urie’s the best. The best of the best. If they—whoever they are—could not just sense him, but track him, it means they’re serious trouble. Way too serious for you to be going into this without tech backup, and way too serious for remote support. He’s got to be on site. God knows what you’re going to have to hack in a hurry."
"He’s a civilian, sir," Spencer almost-pleads, despite knowing Wentz is right. Spencer still hasn’t figured out how to file his reports electronically, for god’s sake. He could defuse a bomb, but that’s because Walker has a sick sense of humor about their jobs and made him watch Chuck once. "We’ve got techy agents."
"Brendon wants to get out in the field," Wentz says, twitching his hand dismissively. "He can load a gun and tell a lie. It’s not like I’m sending him deep into the drug cartels of South America, Smith, it’s a high school. Let him cut his teeth."
Spencer grinds his own teeth. Nobody seems to be listening. "I keep telling you, sir, Paolora’s dangerous--"
"She’s a high school principal, Smith," Wentz says dryly.
Spencer resists the urge to growl. Wentz didn’t see the bodies in Bulawayo. "Fine." He heaves himself out of the chair and ignores Wentz’s outstretched hand as he heads for the door. "But I swear to God, sir, if I lose her because I have to get between him and a bullet, you’re gonna be hearing about it for the rest of your goddamn haunted life, and into the next."
He shoves the door open and heads down the corridor, hardly even noticing the dark, shock-haired figure he nearly knocks over on his way down the hall.
*~*~*~*~*
Spencer doesn’t actually see Urie until the next day. He’s accepted his cover story with ill grace—what the fuck does he know about chemistry, sometimes he wonders about Saporta’s trains of logic, these kids are all going to fail their standardized tests—and headed off to the incredibly boring meetings that are apparently what happens to new teachers. There was curriculum development and administration (and god, behind his sheepish chemistry teacher exterior, buried deep, he started to get why nobody was taking this seriously, she looked like a perfectly ordinary underpaid inner-city principal, if he hadn’t followed the trails himself, but the crumpled women in Rousillon…) and his tour of the school with the timid little guidance counselor, which ends in—
"—the teachers’ lounge, Mr. James," she says, eyes flitting nervously around the room. There are a few people scattered around, arguing about a ball game, complaining about the broken copiers, and one guy sitting on his own, frowning at the papers spread on the low table in front of him, one leg jittering.
"This is—" the guidance counselor says, and stops to clear her throat. "This is—" she says, a little louder.
Spencer takes pity on her. "Spencer James," he says, projecting, smiling at the teachers in the corner. They nod, friendly enough, but the guy on the couch pops his head up.
It’s Urie, a passable look of startled recognition on his face. "James?"
Spencer pops into his own role. "Boyd?"
A delighted smile washes over Urie’s face, and it takes Spencer a second to remember how to breathe. Urie’s clambering over the coffee table, though, and nobody seems to notice. He wraps an arm around Spencer’s neck and gives him a manly thump on the back. "What are you doing here, man?"
He thumps Urie in return. "They just took me on, chemistry. How long have you been here?"
"Just got here, I’m getting through all the damn paperwork." Urie’s still beaming.
"You two…know each other?" the guidance counselor says, in her faint little voice.
"We were in college together," Spencer says, easily. "Mr. Boyd here was the saving grace of many a pedagogy class."
"Still can’t believe they gave you a license," Urie says, shaking his head in mock confusion. "I know they’re desperate for teachers, but…"
"Shut up." Spencer punches him in the arm.
"Speaking of paperwork," the guidance counselor says, "we need to get you started, Mr. James. Sarah in the office will get you set up."
"Bring it back here," Urie offers. "We can suffer together."
Spencer nods. "Sounds good, B, I’ll see you."
He tries not to draw an obvious breath of relief when he escapes the room. First contact, smooth. Maybe they can pull this off.
*~*~*~*~*
It’s easy enough to settle into his cover routine, setting up the school, occasional coffee with Urie or one of the rotating set of CIA contacts set up for the mission, checking his computer for news, and attending classes at one of the CIA's "cover" gyms where he can beat up people in his own line of work while pretending to learn to balance and kick at the same time. It means he can't hit anybody in the face, but on the other hand, they can't break his nose either. Spencer's fond of his nose; his mom said he got it from her.
There's nothing challenging about it, really, just another cover, up until the first day of school, when he finds himself fighting off a panic attack the likes of which he hasn't seen since his first mission after Ryan. What the fuck, Saporta, he thinks to himself, fussing with the whiteboard markers as he watches the kids file warily into the classroom. Like Spencer knows anything about kids, or chemistry. Sure, he turned in a lesson plan, and one of the consultants took him through the material, but...that's different from teaching. The bell rings, and the kids sit down, still looking at him like they're probing for weaknesses.
"Hi, class," he says, weakly. "I'm Mr. James, and we've got a year together to blow things up."
The clown in the back of the room lets out a whoop, and the others roll their eyes, but Spencer lets himself relax a little. At least he's got their attention.
*~*~*~*~*
"So?" Spencer demands, bursting into Urie's classroom on his lunch break. It's the first time Urie's really had any time alone with the school's network, and Spencer's dying to know what he's found out.
There's a kid standing at Urie's desk, and she looks up, startled. Spencer kicks himself mentally.
"I'll think about it, Carmen, okay?" Urie says, giving her a small smile. "I can see the need, but it'll depend on the principal and some other stuff, okay?"
"Sure," she says, ducking her head and blushing, biting her lip. "Thanks, Mr. B."
"Go get some lunch, then," Urie says, sounding kind and authoritative. Spencer hates him. "I need to talk to Mr. James a second."
"I'll see you tomorrow," she says, and waves a little on her way past Spencer.
"What was that about?" Spencer demands.
"Nothing to do with chocolates, S--Spencer," Urie says dismissively. Chocolate Box, in Spencer's opinion, is a stupid code name, but this is what happens when you let an Agatha Christie nut run your operations. "What did you need?"
Spencer frowns. "Just wondering if you'd had time to poke around the network for the baby."
"Done a little preliminary," Urie says, "but nothing yet. Whoever it is, they're almost certainly involved with the school somehow; they're probably busy working, S--Spencer. I can lay a pit to fall into, if they try when I'm not active on the network myself, but it's going to take time; I need to feel out the network before I start laying tripwires. Best bet is still catching them in the act."
"Tonight?"
"Yeah," Urie says. "I'll give it a go, anyway. Can't make any promises; he, she, or it will have to try, too. Are you sure you don't want me to--"
"Not until we know who we're up against," Spencer says firmly. "I need to know how much we need to cover up; if we're going to need to get the fish out covertly or if we can just show up with cuffs and carry her off. There's no point in getting evidence until there's something we can do about it."
Urie nods. "Sure. Was there anything else? You want to go for lunch?"
Spencer freezes. "I'm gonna see what I can figure out about tomorrow's demonstration," he says. "I still don't know what the hell I'm doing in that classroom."
"Sure." Urie looks like he's trying not to look disappointed, and Spencer swears in the back of his head. What's Urie doing undercover? He can't even hide that he wants--
He doesn't finish the thought. Spencer can't think about having friends.
*~*~*~*~*
It's difficult to remember that when they're crammed into the tiny space the CIA rented for them, Urie rapping away at the keys in front of the glowing bank of computers, telling Spencer about his first period class. "So then the kid, right, he's telling me that he can kick ass at html--"
He breaks off. "Hmmm..." he stops and switches to another keyboard, swiveling in his chair with a little dance of his hips.
"Hmmmm what?" Spencer asks.
Urie blinks and sits back. "Hmmm I've been beaten to it, I think."
"Beaten to what?" Spencer bends over Urie's shoulder, peering at the lines of code like he'll be able to tell by looking at it himself.
"A bear pit," Urie says, his tone a weird combination of admiration and sulkiness. "I was supposed to fall right into that."
"You didn't, though, right?"
Now his tone is all sulkiness. "Who do you think you're talking to, Smith?" He actually sounds hurt. "No, I didn't fall into the damn trap. He, she, or it is good--I'm better. I can spot a bear trap when I see one."
"Okay, okay, sorry," Spencer says, backing up with his hands in the air. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."
"You could at least have faith in my technical skills, Smith, even if--" Urie breaks off abruptly.
"Even if?" Spencer raises his eyebrows interrogatively.
"Never mind," Urie says, twisting back to the first keyboard with some violence. "I didn't fall in the damn trap, and he, she, or it has no idea I'm here, okay? I might even be able to trace it back to them."
"Yeah?" It's like a weight sliding off his shoulders. He beams at Urie. "That's awesome, Urie, get on that."
"Yeah, yeah," Urie says, irritably, refusing to look at him. "Of course."
*~*~*~*~*
"So--" Spencer says, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "Everybody got your goggles on?"
The teenagers around him nod, only a few rolling their eyes. They've learned that when Spencer talks goggles, there probably will be explosions.
"Okay, then--take your solution of hydrogen peroxide and add the saturated potassium iodide." He waits patiently. "Now comes the fun part--pick up the little squeeze bottle, that's just ordinary dish soap--we can use it to wash the beakers later. Add just...a...little...and--"
He's cut off by the little squeaks of astonishment as yellow bubbles rise up in an enormous, clumpy mess, overflowing the edges of the beakers. He loses his bet when only three of them jump backwards—Penny, Detta, and the little weaselly one whose name is something like Edward, but isn't Edward. He was counting on at least four.
The warning bell sounds off. "Okay, everybody, get cleaned up; your homework is to write up why that happened; you have three days."
The classroom clatters with sticky beakers under the sinks and the splash of chemicals going down the drains as the students bag up their books and leave the classroom chattering about their weekend plans. Spencer sighs and pulls off his lab apron, swiping a hand through the sweaty band where his goggle strap always makes his hair gross.
He heads for the teacher's lounge, stopping at a vending machine for a Coke for himself and an orange soda for Urie, who bet three kids or less would flinch. Maybe they're getting too used to explosions; maybe Spencer should have them work with acid or something for awhile instead.
He drops the can in front of Urie, who's hunched over his lunch with a paperback. "Good morning?"
"I guess," Urie says, not even bothering to look up.
Spencer frowns. "You win," he says, encouragingly. "Only two girls and the little weaselly kid."
"Howard?"
"I think so."
"You could at least learn their names, S-Spencer."
"Why?"
"Well, they are people, you know. Don't you have any high school memories you wish somebody had taken the trouble to make better for you?"
Spencer shrugs. "Not really. I left other people alone and they left me alone. It worked for me."
"Well, some of us had a harder time than that," Urie says, something sharp peering out of his tone. "A good teacher can make all the difference. Give them a shot."
"Were you one of those kids?" Spencer asks, intrigued in spite of himself. "Was there a teacher for you?"
Urie's expression softens. "Yeah...kind of. I mean, he wasn't my teacher, he was the advisor for this club, but--he made the difference."
"Huh."
Urie lets Spencer gnaw on that for awhile, still shoveling noodles into his mouth with his other hand. "That's why I'm doing what I can here."
"What do you mean? I mean, I can tell you're reaching the students--" Spencer's a little jealous, in fact, even though really, it shouldn't matter how good a teacher he is; it's not what he's here for.
"I got the principal to sign off on something." Urie shrugs and reaches to pop open his can of winnings. "I'm going to head up a chapter of GSA."
Spencer freezes. "--what?"
"They didn't have one, can you believe that?" Urie says, oblivious, running his long fingers through his hair. "In this day and age; it's practically discrimination in and of itself. Carmen--Lopez, I think she's in your fourth period?--she asked me about it. I told her I'd be happy to help."
"I...sure, but--" Spencer breaks off, helpless.
"What?" Urie looks up at him, raises his eyebrows expressively.
"I didn't--I didn't know you were gay, that's all."
Urie goes still, too. "I--well, I mean, you don't have to be, to lead a club, it's kind of where the "friends" part comes in, but—I am. More or less. Is that a problem?"
"No," Spencer says, a little more forcefully than he really meant to. "No, not a problem, jeez. I just...I didn't know."
Urie shrugs again, irritable. "Well, now you do," he says, brusque, and shoves another forkful of noodles into his maw.
Spencer tries not to notice how red and full his mouth is, dammit.
*~*~*~*~*
Somehow their "closet" seems smaller, that night. Spencer leans back against the door and tries to pretend that this is normal, somehow, that he wouldn't normally be hovering over Urie's shoulder, barely restraining himself from poking at the keys of the keyboards. Urie's shoulders are hunched a little closer together than usual, but Spencer tries to pretend that this is normal, too.
Urie's fingers are flying over the keyboard, quick, sure, lovely; tapping an easy arpeggio that settles Spencer despite himself. The noise is easy, familiar, solid and reliable, Urie's fingers on the keys, although it's no longer the steady background beat to Urie's talk, flowing merrily from Things My Dogs Did This Weekend to Kids Who Play Solitaire in Class, stopping along the way at Why Raspberry Syrup Is Death To Coffee.
Spencer listens to the rhythm, letting it soothe his nerves, soaking in the blue light of the monitors reflecting in Urie's glasses. He shouldn't let it make him comfortable, but it seems some things are beyond his control after all.
He'll pay for it later.
"Did you ever play piano?" he asks suddenly, breaking the silence that has almost lost its tension. Somehow the question makes the air crackle again.
Urie hesitates, then blows out a long breath, lips pressed together. "I did, actually."
"Do you...not, anymore?"
"I don't have much time." Urie's tone is far from inviting. "Believe it or not, most of my work is urgent and important to the security of the nation and lives of hundreds of people all over the world."
Spencer frowns. "I know that! I just--"
There's cool dismissal in Urie's eyes when he spins the chair to look Spencer in the face. "Just what?"
Spencer flails, frustrated. "It was just a question, okay? I just...I don't know anything about you. I wanted to know."
Urie lets out a short, unamused laugh and spins to face his monitors again. "Since when do you want to? Did my sexuality throw you off that much? I promise neither sucking cock or piano playing will affect my contribution to this mission."
Spencer's having a hard time breathing, between this bitterness being thrown at him from out of nowhere and the sudden sweet picture of Urie on his knees, sucking, eyes closed.
He doesn't know what to say.
The computer on the left dings abruptly. "Ah!" Urie swivels to face it. "I'm in." He bends close to the screen, shoving his glasses up his nose. "...Naomi...Windermeer?"
"What?" Spencer stands up straight. "That can't be right. She can't even connect a laptop to a projector screen."
"That's the computer it's coming from," Urie says definitively. "Registered to her name and connecting to the hub her classroom's closest to. Maybe it isn't her, but it's somebody using her computer."
"Huh." Spencer frowns. A moment later, he realizes Urie is frowning right back at him. "That's...weird, right? I mean, using someone else's computer?"
"Yeah..." Urie says slowly, biting his lower lip in thought. "It's weird. But, I mean...if she's as bad as you say, it's not like she'll notice. I just...for most hackers, a computer's really personal, you know? It's like a horse for a cavalryman, you get to know it. You know its moods and the best way to coax it, and you train it up to do what you want it to. And this guy--or girl, or robot--they're good. Good enough to appreciate the value of that."
Spencer nods slowly. Maybe he's never had that with a computer, but he knows what it's like. He has it with his guns. A stranger's gun, even if it's identical down to the make and model, is never the same thing.
"So...disguise is more important than that, maybe? It shouldn't be. Honestly, I was thinking it was probably just MI6 or Moussad...another government's version of us, you know? If they're more worried about coverup than they are about getting the job done..."
"It's other bad guys, isn't it." Urie's voice is flat. "Well, that's great. And now we're going to have to stake out her damn computer."
"Whoah, time out," Spencer says, hearing his voice go taut and hard. "I will stake out her computer. You will be somewhere far, far away from the computer and the bad guys, out of danger. You got that?"
"Smith, I'm on assignment too--"
"No, Urie. Not if it's somebody who's not on the side of the angels. You stay here and monitor use so I know when the hacking's happening."
"Smith--"
"Not another word." Spencer preempts Urie's defiance of his command--Urie always has another word--by walking out the door.
*~*~*~*~*
Spencer doesn't know what to do with himself the next day. It's lunch, and normally he would go and sit with Urie, talk about their classes and the kids and stupid Chocolate Box--which is still a stupid code name--in code, but he knows Urie is mad at him, even though Spencer made absolutely the right call.
Finally he eases himself up from his desk and goes to the vending machine for a Sprite, as peace offering. He walks slowly toward the office next to the computer lab, steps heavy with hesitation, and stops dead when he sees the neon sign on the door. "GSA: TODAY, A & B LUNCH (further meetings tbd)". He doesn't really know what to do now--is it okay to pop in anyway?
He utilizes his super-special spy skills and eases up to the door, sloooooowly easing it just an inch or two open.
"--a good question," he hears Urie say. "It can be hard, right? Hard to tell whether somebody likes you that way. Hard to tell if they're going to care that you do, whether it will be awkward or scary if they don't."
There are little murmurs of agreement from the kids. Spencer can see them sitting on the tabletops, sprawled on the floor. Urie's perched on his desk, legs crossed like a kindergartener, elbows on his knees and chin resting on his hands. "It's freaky, you know?" Urie says. "But what I think is--you have to try. You have to go for it. If there's even a chance, if you think maybe they might be looking at you in a way you want to be looked at, you have to try.
"Being scared is--being scared. Everybody gets scared. Everybody has a right to feel scared of scary things. But it shouldn't stop you. Living your whole life afraid isn't living." He stops and laughs sheepishly. "I sound like every bad movie ever, right?"
The teenagers laugh, too.
"But clichés become clichés for a reason, you guys. Really. I've tried that way, and I was so miserable. My whole--every minute of every day, I was unhappy. I wanted things that I could never have while I was too scared to try for them. It sucked beyond the telling of it."
"So now you're brave?" one of the ones on the floor asks.
"I try to be," Urie's voice has gone soft and strong. "I don't mean...I don't mean that you should go for everything. If you've got a crush on a homophobic jackass who can kill people with his bare hands, for instance, I don't really recommend you send him flowers. But if staying in a small, dark room is the only way you feel safe, and going out into the world means danger, it's probably worth the risk. I think it is, anyway.
"And you, Letitia--seriously. Heidi's a good person. And you would be a really cute couple. Give it a shot."
The rest of the rooms shouts with laughter, and Letitia's head drops down to hide her blush.
"How'd you know?" she asks, a pained whine to her voice.
"It's pretty obvious, if you're looking," Urie says, grinning. "My eyes work and everything."
Spencer lets the door swing shut again, and closes his eyes for a minute, tilting his head back against the wall. Whatever. He still isn’t letting Urie near that computer.
*~*~*~*~*
"...control..." Spencer mutters, finding it on the keyboard and pressing down hard, "...F12..."
"Oh my god, no," Urie sputters through the radio in Spencer's ear. "Control-Fn-F3--are you sure you passed basic hacking?"
"This isn't basic, Urie, it's--"
"It really, really is."
"You do it, then," Spencer snaps, before he can think, and then, hurriedly, "I didn't mean--"
"You really, really did," Urie says, sounding smug. "Now we can go on like this for the next four hundred years, if you like, because clearly you don't know a USB port from a hole in the ground, or you can give in with as much grace as is left to you at this point and let me come poke the computer."
Spencer does so know a USB port from a hole in the ground. Knowing it from another hole in the computer, on the other hand...
"Fine," he says, giving in, although without the grace Urie offered him. "Don't get shot."
"Puh-lease," Urie says, and then, "Urie out."
Spencer sits and stares at the glowing computer monitor for ten minutes until Urie appears in the doorway, not even trying to hide how unbelievably happy he is about this turn of events. Anybody would think he wanted to get shot.
"Get out of my chair, Smith," he commands airily. "Go stand watch or take a piss or something."
Spencer resists the urge to stick his tongue out and goes to watch the hallway. He doesn't need to stand over Urie's shoulder the whole time his fingers dance over the keys, after all, that would just be stupid.
He's so very busy telling himself this, in fact, that the faint cry behind him takes him totally by surprise.
He whips around and back into the classroom, gun steady in his hand, and finds the window open, blowing in muggy September air, and Urie sitting very still at Windermeer's desk, sharp metal gleaming at his throat. Behind him is--
"Windermeer?"
Urie's eyes go wide. "You said--"
"I know what I said," Spencer hisses. "Shut up. Don't you know not to talk when there's a knife at your throat?"
To his credit, Urie shuts up.
"So you're after her, too," Windermeer says softly, the computer's light flickering over her wrinkled face, cool uncaring competence aging her another ten years. "Who are you? Are you Bentley's? Morrello?"
"CIA," Spencer says shortly, watching the blade, relieved to see it falter for just a split second before it comes back up against Urie's skin. Good. She's more scared of killing a cop than a rival. She might be negotiated with.
Windermeer's eyes narrow. "What does the CIA want with Paolora?"
"Sixteen bodies," Spencer says softly. "Sixteen bodies in Sarajevo, and five in Rousillon, and twelve crying orphans in Toronto. I'm not getting into the bombs in Bulawayo, or the whining mutts in Guam. What do you want with her?"
Teeth flash blue in the computer light. "She has something that belongs to my boss."
Spencer resettles his weight, shifts the gun just a fraction of an inch, from her ear to her forehead. "And who might that be?"
She tilts Urie's chin up, so Spencer can see the blade just begin to sink into flesh. "Like I'm going to tell you."
"Fair enough," he agrees, and fires.
The shot rings around the room, bouncing off whiteboards and chairs, echoing hard in Spencer's ears as he watches the knifehand drop away from Urie's white neck, skimming a chunk of flesh from his shoulder as it falls.
She's dead, of course.
Urie draws in a shaky breath. "Wow."
Suddenly Spencer's so furious he can hardly speak.
"Get her laptop," he says, voice rasping in his throat. "I'll call for a cleanup crew."
"Smith--"
Spencer cuts him off with a violent gesture. "We still need to know what she was after. Get the computer. I'll meet you at base in fifteen."
"Okay," Urie says, watching him warily. "Okay."
*~*~*~*~*
Spencer gives the cleanup team their basic need-to-know and stomps off, leaving them to deal with it. There'll be paperwork later, of course, but at least Spencer doesn't have to dispose of the body.
It isn't until he catches DeLeon staring at his hands that he realizes they're shaking. Shaking like they haven't done since...
Since...
Spencer isn't going to think about that, not now, maybe not ever, so he walks deliberately and with purpose all the way to the little closet that is their base of operations, where Urie is sitting with his head in his hands. He looks up when Spencer bursts into the room, flooding it with yellow light.
"Smith," Urie says, with a shaky laugh, "you--"
"Shut up," Spencer says, with no small amount of violence. "Just--shut up. You could have been killed, do you understand that?"
Urie draws in a rattling breath. "Yeah, I--yes, I understand that, what the fuck, Smith--"
"Because I really, I don't think you do," Spencer says, as though Urie hasn't said anything at all. "I don't think you understand that there was a mercenary with her knife at your throat less than twenty minutes ago, that you were nearly dead."
"Hey," Urie says, standing up, slowly, giving Spencer plenty of warning, plenty of time to see him coming. "Hey, it's okay. I'm fine."
"You are not fine," Spencer hurls at him. "You were almost dead, dead is not fine, Urie, it is the very least fine that anyone has ever been, and--"
Urie lays a hand on Spencer's arm, another on his collarbone; slides that one up into his hair and tilts Spencer's head down to look him in the eyes. Spencer goes quiet, looking at him, watching Urie's eyes move and his mouth part slightly to let his breath escape. He's not dead, no, but he nearly was.
Nearly sprawled across that crappy old chair, his head tilted way too far back, his throat gaping open and spilling red flow down his shirt, his fingers twitching uselessly until they stilled.
Spencer can feel those fingers on his arm, in his hair, and suddenly it is very important that Spencer feel them move with purpose. Slowly, as slowly as Urie approached him, he cups Urie's elbow and slides his hand up to Urie's hand on Spencer's arm, laces their fingers together. He watches Urie's eyes watching him.
He watches Urie's mouth shape itself as though it's waiting for a kiss. Watches Urie's chin tip up, exposing the red, raw flesh where the knife penetrated.
He growls and yanks at Urie's hand, pulling him close enough to bite. He starts with Urie's chin and jawline, comes back to nip at his lower lip and slick his tongue past Urie's teeth, pulling a raw, deep moan from Urie's chest as he licks back enthusiastically.
The long fingers in Spencer hair tighten as Urie pulls himself closer, almost climbing up Spencer's body. He growls and drops Urie's hand to grab Urie’s ass and heft him up instead, holding his wiggly little hips up against Spencer's own. Urie doesn't stay still, doesn't let Spencer claim him and hold him, just keeps moving, just keeps pushing back. Spencer lets out a frustrated grunt and bites at Urie's neck, mirroring the knife-mark on the other side. Urie goes still for just a moment, shuddering against him.
"Spencer," he whispers, warm breath hissing against the shell of Spencer’s ear. "Spencer, please," and Spencer can feel his own tremors rattling through his body. He fumbles for Brendon’s fly, for his own; he lets Brendon paw their jeans and underwear down until they’re cock to cock, bare and hard and rubbing. Brendon is babbling, tongue loose, only making sense about half the time. He’s definitely saying Spencer’s name. His hand scrabbles up Spencer’s back and down again to his ass, clenching around one cheek, one finger grazing Spencer’s hole, and Spencer loses himself in a shout as he comes against Brendon’s thigh.
Brendon laughs half-hysterically and comes, too,
For a moment they just stand there, Brendon leaning against Spencer who is supporting them both against the door jamb. Brendon’s head is pillowed against Spencer’s chest, his hair tickling Spencer’s chin. Spencer clutches at Brendon’s back and tries to make the world stop spinning.
After a few minutes, Brendon lets out an absurd little purring noise and laps at Spencer’s chest with a soft, sweet tongue. Spencer’s hand unclenches. "Okay, wow," Brendon says, looking up at Spencer with sex-hazed eyes, a dreamy smile smeared across his swollen mouth. "I wasn’t expecting that.
Spencer looks down at him, happy and familiar and suddenly unbearably dear. "So, yeah, you’re going to have to go home," he says, abruptly.
Brendon’s mouth shuts with a click, and he pushes himself upright. "Excuse me?" he demands, crossing his arms across his chest as though he’s totally unaware how ridiculous that looks with his dick still hanging out.
"You’ll have to," Spencer says calmly, reaching down to pull up his shorts. "You’re too much of a liability, Brendon; you can’t go back in there."
"Excuse me?" Brendon repeats, his voice going high with incredulity.
"You don’t know what you’re doing and you’re going to get killed," Spencer explains, still in a totally reasonable tone of voice, zipping his fly. "You’re not going back into that school and risking the whole mission, Urie. You can’t."
Brendon’s mouth is hanging open. Spencer reaches over and lays a comforting hand on his bicep. "I’ll talk to Wentz in the morning," he says kindly. "Get some sleep."
And he’s gone, out the door, before Brendon can say another word.
*~*~*~*~*
Spencer takes the coward's way out, and calls in sick to the school the next morning. He goes to a drugstore instead and pays cash for a burn phone, his hands still shaking just the tiniest bit.
He calls the number he has memorized, the number he hasn't written down in years.
"Hello?" a brisk voice says, on the other end of the line, and Spencer draws in a long, long breath.
"Hi, Mom."
He can hear a faint clatter as she drops something--a spoon, maybe. "Spencer?"
"Yeah, Mom."
She breathes in her own quick breath, almost a sob. "Hi, baby."
"Hey."
He doesn't call home much--at Christmastime, or as close to it as he can manage; for each family member's birthday. And a drunk-dial once a year, on the anniversary. That's all. He can't call more than that.
He doesn't dare.
"Are you all right, Spencer?"
The words trip on their way out of his mouth; he should have said that first. "Yeah, Mom. Yeah, I'm--I'm fine. Fit as a fiddle, really. You don't need to worry about me."
"I don't need to breathe, either," she says wryly. "You're really all right?"
"I'm fine, Mom. Not even a blister. I promise."
"All right."
The silence stretches a moment.
"I--" Spencer doesn't know what to say.
"What is it, baby?"
"I screwed up, Mama. I really fucking screwed up." Spencer tilts his head back against the wall and lets the tears start to leak out.
"Oh, honey. Hey. Hey. It's okay," she says, almost crooning. "It's okay. We'll make it better. It's okay."
He doesn't believe her for a minute, but just for now, he lets himself sink into the sound of the words, and not think about anything. Just for now.
*~*~*~*~*
"He almost died, Mom, he almost died and it was my fault--"
"Spencer James Smith," her voice has gone sharp, and he stops immediately, stops dead, like being caught walking with muddy boots inside the house. "You stop that this instant, do you hear me?"
"I--but Mom--"
"No, stop it, Spencer. Stop and listen to me. It was not your fault, do you understand? Do you hear me? This boy of yours, he took on the job and he understood the risks and it was not your fault."
Spencer gulps a couple of deep, painful breaths.
"And honey--"
"Mom, don't--"
"Spencer, Ryan wasn't your fault either."
Something in his chest constricts, tight and painful. "Mom, it was--"
"Hush, now. Ryan was not your fault. You were both of you in the wrong place at the wrong time, but it was not your fault."
Spencer knows that, in his head, but they've had this conversation so many times before. If he hadn't taken the job with the CIA, if Ryan hadn't insisted on knowing where Spencer was, if--
"I am prepared to say that as many times as it takes, Spencer," his mother's voice has gentled. "I don't doubt it hasn't taken this time either. But it wasn't your fault. And Brendon is not Ryan."
Spencer flinches. "I didn't say--"
"I may not have seen you in six years, Spencer James Smith the fifth, but I raised you for the twenty-three before that, and I know how you think. You're trying everything you can to keep him at a distance, aren't you? Still only calling us six times a year, still crying your eyes out every May fourteenth, still trying not to be human, just so you can't experience human loss. Well, I have news for you, Spencer Smith: you're not a robot, and it's time you gave up trying to be one."
"Moooooooom," and Spencer can hear the petulance in his own voice; it's deeply embarrassing.
"No." It's her no-backtalk voice. "I have put up with this for six years, Spencer; I've watched you push away your sisters and your friends and me, but this young man of yours, this Brendon, he got through, and I am not going to let you push him away too. You go to him and you apologize for being an asshole--"
"Mom!"
"I'll swear if I want to--and I expect the both of you for Christmas, or near to it."
"Mom, I can't--I can't risk you--"
"I am sick and tired of this, Spencer, of flinching every time the phone rings. You could be lying dead in a ditch every time I turn around, and I'm proud of you, but I'm tired of seeing you risk your life so other people can be happy."
Spencer does a little flinching himself. It's hard on her, he knows.
"Christmas, Spencer, boyfriend in hand, and that's final."
"Yes, ma'am," he says, automatically.
"Now say I love you," she says, and he says it back, instinctive as breathing, real as air. "Good boy," she says softly, and hangs up.
*~*~*~*~*
He doesn’t call Wentz, obviously. There’s nobody like his mother for making him deeply ashamed of himself, and the last thing he needs at this point is to actually do what she made him ashamed of. It wasn’t fair, to say that about Brendon; it wasn’t Brendon’s fault. It shouldn’t keep Brendon from doing what he wants to do.
He’s still trying to find the words for that apology when he knocks softly on the door of their little closet. There’s no answer. He frowns, and knocks again, but it’s silent as the grave in there. He’s still uncertain of his footing, still doesn’t want to walk in where he has no right to stand, but he pushes the door open gently.
Brendon isn’t there. There’s a black spot on the biggest blue screen, a note with a big Smith scrawled across the top.
Smith--
Presuming you have yet to call Pete, or that he has the sense to call you the asshole you are, I have continued hacking into Paolora’s system and I think I found the location and codes for whatever the hell you’re looking for that I’m not allowed to know about. It should be in the music room, in a locked box behind the instruments in the closet. Gone to get it.
Urie
P.S. Go to hell, seriously.
Well, shit.
Spencer crumples the note slowly, deep in thought. He should probably let Brendon do this on his own; complete the mission, get the credit. God knows he deserves it.
Something in his deepest instincts is twitching against that, though. Brendon was mad, he probably wasn’t as careful as he should have been; maybe he’d set off a tripwire or…
Spencer takes a deep breath, and starts to run. He sprints down the hallway, takes off for the stairs rather than wait for the elevator, dodges a taxi on his way across the street, and bolts for the music room doors—wide, to allow the entrance and exits of tubas. His hand is on the door handle when he hears the crack of a shot.
He wrenches the door open and sees Paolora standing there with a pretty little pistol in one hand, backing toward the door, the other hand clenched close to her body.
"I don’t know how you found me," she’s saying, eyes on a vague form across the half-lit room, "but I’m going to make damn sure you never find me again."
"Brendon?" Spencer calls, straining to see, and he nearly faints with relief when Brendon answers.
"She missed," he says. "Get her, Smith."
Paolora makes a break for it, and Spencer follows, thankful for a clean chase; no grey areas, no tricky technology, she shot at his partner and she’s gonna regret it. He tackles her before she’s gone three blocks, despite all the fancy dodging she tries to pull, and he cuffs her to a window grate and calls for a cleanup team.
It’s Pope’s team’s night, apparently, and she pops her gum as she strolls up to the nice respectable middle-aged lady in her suit. "Nother dangerous criminal, Smith?"
It’s tempting to let her pull her whole act, because Pope in her ski cap being dismissive of perps is usually hilarious, but—Paolora’s wiggly as a snake.
"Actually dangerous," he says, in a low voice. "As in, do not give her a quarter of a tenth of an inch, Pope. Two people on her at all times. Got it?"
Pope raises her eyebrows and pops her gum again. "Got it. Jersey, keep an eye on milady while I redo the cuffs."
"Thanks," Spencer says, and offers her a low five. He reaches over and pries open Paolora’s hand, lifting out the tiny thumb drive that’s been the cause of so much trouble. "I’ve got to get this to my partner," he explains to Pope. "I’m trusting you."
"Sure," she says, twirling a black bit of hair as though she isn’t eying Paolora like a piece of red meat. "Tell Urie hey for me."
He jogs back to the school, too elated to walk. They got her, and they got the goods, and somewhere in Nepal is a group of families that aren’t gonna die next month. He bursts into the music room, shouting, "Brendon! Brendon, I got her, she’s—"
And finds the words choke his breath away when he sees Brendon lying on the concrete floor, blood seeping from his shoulder. Shit.
Spencer fumbles for his cell phone, dials 911. "What is your emergency?"
"I’m at P.S. 637 and there’s a cop here, he’s been shot."
"We’ll dispatch an ambulance immediately, sir—"
Spencer hangs up because that’s the important part. He drops to his knees, presses shaking fingers to Brendon’s throat, where his pulse is slow but steady. The hole is in an awkward place, might have gone straight through, might have nicked a vein or a lung on the way, and Spencer doesn’t dare turn him over, press something to stop him bleeding against the floor. He shucks his own shirt and does what he can with the entrance wound, pressing tight against it, his own breath loud and ragged in his ears.
"C’mon, Brendon, c’mon, don’t do this to me, c’mon—"
Spencer’s forehead is clammy; he doesn’t dare take a hand to wipe the sweat away. "I didn’t mean it, oh god, Brendon, I didn’t—"
In the distance he can hear sirens whooping their way toward the school. He swears under his breath. "Just a few minutes, B, hang on, okay? Just keep breathing. I swear to god, you can’t leave me now. My mother will kill me. I promised I’d bring you home for Christmas, Brendon, you can’t just—"
Like an echo in the fog, he can hear himself saying, "if I lose her because I have to get between him and a bullet—", hears in his own voice, "You’re not going back into that school and risking the whole mission, Urie." Oh god. This time it really will be his fault.
"Goddamn you, Brendon, who the fuck lies about getting shot? Breathe, damn you!"
The dim room lights up with a revolving red light, frightening in its brightness. The ambulance technicians burst through the door, rattling a stretcher along.
"This the victim, sir?" one of them asks, crouching down beside Spencer. "How long has it been?"
"I—maybe twenty minutes?" Spencer says helplessly, watching the techs do their jobs. "I’m not sure, he told me he was fine—"
"Are you family, sir?"
"I’m his partner," Spencer says, faintly, then repeats himself, firm. "We’re CIA, he’s my partner."
"We’ll do the best we can for him, sir," the tech assures him, patting his arm. "Are you injured?"
"No, no, I’m—I’m fine. Help him."
"We’re doing everything we can, sir." The tech turns to watch the rest of his team for a minute as they heft Brendon onto the stretcher. "Looks like they missed anything major, sir; should just be his shoulder."
Spencer almost collapses with relief. "I want to ride with him," he says, urgent, and the tech pats his arm again.
"Come on, then." They climb into the ambulance and somebody shoves Spencer down next to Brendon’s stretcher as they close the doors and take off. Brendon is white and still, and Spencer lets his head drop to the side of the bed.
"Don’t die on me, oh God, Brendon, please don’t die on me. I don’t even know the names of your dogs, you can’t die on me now, those dogs are home--"
"Sir?" A different tech, the curly-haired one, lays a hand on his shoulder. "I need to get in there," she says, smiling apologetically.
"Right—of course," he replies, flustered.
"No, just—sit up, sir," she says, reaching around him to attach a clip to Brendon’s finger, start a slow IV drip. "We’re gonna ask you some questions in just a minute here—do you know his blood type?"
Spencer shakes his head slowly. "I—I never asked him anything like that."
"Well, no matter," she says, cheerily. "You’ll have lots of opportunity to ask him in the future."
"Really?" Spencer hopes he isn’t coming across as pathetic as he feels.
"Really." She smiles down at him.
Spencer takes a deep breath and blows it out again, concentrating on the whup-whup-whup of the siren, the revolving red lights casting shadows on Brendon’s face. They’ll have lots of time.
Epilogue
Brendon wakes up in a cold, clear light, sore in ways he’s never been sore before. The sheets beneath him are crisp, and cool; and there’s a heavy weight on one side of the bed—Spencer, slumped from his chair, fast asleep.
For a moment, he lets his eyes trace Spencer’s greasy hair, the round unhappy shape of his shoulders. Finally, he lifts up one hand and pokes Spencer in the shoulder. "Hey," he says, poking harder. "Spencer. Wake up."
Spencer blinks blearily up at him. "Urie?"
Brendon smiles crookedly. "That’s me."
Suddenly Spencer sits bolt upright. "Brendon!"
Brendon beams. "That’s it." He pats Spencer’s shoulder with his good hand. "You got it right!"
Spencer has the decency to look sheepish. "I, uh—"
"Don’t worry about it," Brendon assures him. "I have a long, long list of the ways you’re going to make it up to me. Starting with a soda."
Spencer smiles faintly and heaves himself to his feet. "Sure. Orange or grape?"
"Whatever." Brendon watches him leave for a second. "Hey, Spencer?"
"Yeah?"
"Their names are Bogart and Dylan. My dogs. They’d love to meet you."
A/N: Please note I totally stole the chemistry experiment from Big Bang Theory and the foreign intelligence agencies from Chuck and NCIS, as well as making up the computer commands and sort of handwaving the plot; sorry about that.
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Date: 2009-12-14 08:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-14 09:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-16 06:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-14 10:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-14 11:15 am (UTC)Thanks so much for sharing. <3
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Date: 2009-12-14 11:59 am (UTC)And if those two would like to break into my school, well. The principal has refused to give us a copy of the budget for 5 months running. I must assume something nefarious is going on.
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Date: 2009-12-14 12:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-14 01:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-14 02:02 pm (UTC)I will be requesting cookies in this universe for the rest of time. Thank you, that is all.
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Date: 2009-12-14 03:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-14 08:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-14 10:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-14 10:55 pm (UTC)&gingersmith;
they live happily ever after, right? and continue to get the bad guys while brendon is unexpectedly good at all kinds of stuff? and spencer Learns To Love Again? :D?
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Date: 2009-12-14 11:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-15 01:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-15 02:25 am (UTC)<- AM THINKING MY ICON IS FITTING HERE \0/
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Date: 2009-12-15 02:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-15 07:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-16 03:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-16 05:13 pm (UTC)That your Brendon is brave and restless is pleasingly par for the course, but that he is cool under pressure is a less-explored direction that I'd like to see more of in fic. That Brendon is a dork and a spazz is something I hate to identify with but. Yeah. So anything that makes it less painful to self-identify with that gets gold stars and brownies. Gluten-free ones. With rainbow sprinkles. :)
Also, AWWWW! I have an internet crush!
"And you, Letitia--seriously. Heidi's a good person. And you would be a really cute couple. Give it a shot."
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Date: 2009-12-16 09:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-17 07:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-17 10:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-17 11:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-18 09:27 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2009-12-18 09:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-18 12:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-22 02:12 am (UTC)This was lovely, thank you. <3
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Date: 2009-12-27 11:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-31 10:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-12 06:33 pm (UTC)