All In The Way That You Trip: Part Two

[skoosiepants]

part one

The first words out of Brendon’s mouth when Spencer jerks open the passenger side door and shoves him over into the driver’s seat are, “Where’s Mongo?”

“He’ll be fine,” Spencer growls, “just motherfucking drive.”

Brendon feels like he should say something here, ask what the hell is going on, but Spencer says, “Fucking drive, Brendon,” urgency and something else in his voice, and he just reverses out of the spot and floors it. He hears pinging, making the car jerk, and he’s vaguely aware they’re being shot at. He’s a little numb at this point. He thinks they’re going to have to ditch this car too, though.

Brendon glances sideways at Spencer, says, “Am I—” He pauses, takes a sharp breath. There’s an awful lot of blood covering Spencer. He’s a little ashamed it took him that long to notice. “Oh my god, what—”

“Drive, Brendon,” Spencer says tightly. He’s clutching at his left shoulder.

“But are you—what, is that yours?”

Spencer gives him a pained laugh. “Um, no?”

“You fucking liar, oh my god, you’ve been shot!” Brendon wants to slam on the brakes and flail his arms and then run his hands all over Spencer, checking for bullet holes. He doesn’t, but only because Spencer would probably try to punch him if he did, and that would be bad, what with all the blood loss. Oh god.

“I have,” Spencer says matter-of-factly, just as bullet exploded Spencer’s passenger side mirror. “How are you at evasive driving?”

Brendon swallows, tries to concentrate on keeping up his speed, tries not to think about the black SUV trailing them about ten car lengths away. “I drive a golf cart, Spencer. If you want to find a green, I’m pretty sure I can lose them by the eighteenth hole.”

“Funny.”

It’s Brendon’s turn to choke out a humorless laugh. “Yeah.”

“It’ll be fine,” Spencer says, and Brendon has no idea how he can be so calm. Brendon can feel his heart beating in his throat. “We need to get into traffic.”

“It’s fucking six in the morning,” Brendon says, but they’re closing in on the main drag, and they’re close to the highway, so they’re lucky that other summer travelers are already up and on the their ways.

Spencer has him screech into turns so many times Brendon’s not even sure where they are, but ten minutes later he flicks his gaze up to the rearview mirror and he can’t see the SUV anymore. It had been the longest ten minutes of Brendon’s entire life. His fingers feel like they’re fused with the steering wheel.

“I’m going to throw up,” Brendon says.

“Hey, I’m the one who’s got the gaping bullet wound.”

Brendon gives Spencer an incredulous look and catches the tail end of a smile. “Are you fucking joking about that?”

“Just keep driving, Brendon,” Spencer says.

Brendon watches out of the corner of his eye as Spencer reaches down for Brendon’s bag. He hisses in pain as he jerks the zipper down, roots around inside one-handed, other one still cupped over his shoulder.

“I’m ruining a shirt,” he tells Brendon.

Brendon keeps shooting him little looks. He says, “Not the—”

“Brendon, seriously,” Spencer says, and proceeds to wrap Brendon’s Strictly For My Ninja’s t-shirt under his armpit and up over his shoulder, knotting it awkwardly with one hand, using his teeth to yank it tight.

Brendon winces in sympathy at the sound Spencer makes. “We need to find a hospital.” He has no idea what town they’re in; presumably somewhere still in Oregon, but he doesn’t even really remember stopping the night before.

“No.”

“But—”

“Hospitals are the first places they’re gonna look,” Spencer says. “We keep going. I’ll find a new car once we get out of town.”

“You’ve been shot!” Brendon doesn’t think Spencer gets the enormity of that – he could die.

“I’ve been shot before. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Brendon says vehemently, and he wonders when he started worrying about Spencer, wonders why his chest had squeezed a little when Spencer had said he’d been shot before. Like it’s something he’s used to.

“It’s fine,” Spencer says again, and Brendon hopes that’s false brightness in his voice, because, really, what the fuck. “You’ll learn all about cleaning wounds later, too. It’ll be a fun bonding experience.”

Brendon shakes his head. “You’re crazy.”

Spencer says, “I think I must be,” only it’s so low Brendon isn’t sure he heard him correctly, and he’s doubly sure he wasn’t supposed to.

Brendon flexes his fingers on the wheel. “Where to, then?” he asks quietly.

“Southeast.” He flashes Brendon a tight grin. “We’re going to Vegas.”

“That’ll take all day,” Brendon protests.

“Brendon,” Spencer says through his teeth, “I need you to stop talking now.”

Brendon glances over at him again. He’s got his head back, eyes closed, breathing fast and shallow. He’s too pale. Brendon doesn’t like it. “I don’t like this,” Brendon whispers.

“Brendon. Please.”

Brendon shuts up and presses his lips together, even though he doesn’t like the quiet. It itches under his skin, but he doesn’t want to risk even turning the radio on. He can hear Spencer breathing.

After about an hour of uncomfortable silence, Spencer says, “Pull into that CVS, but park around back.”

“Okay,” Brendon says, and then he dutifully gets out when Spencer tells him to, silently repeating all the items Spencer listed that they’d need in his mind, so he won’t forget anything - gauze, tape, scissors, peroxide, Neosporin, Tylenol. He gulps. Brendon is totally squeamish, and he is so not looking forward to this.

He’s antsy inside, like the clerk can tell he’s getting ready to tidy up a bullet hole and he smiles nervously as she rings him up. She gives him a bland, “Have a nice day,” and Brendon’s hands are shaking as he takes the bag, stuffing the change into his pocket, crumpling the receipt between his fingers. He can’t—he can’t do this. This is fucking insane.

He wonders what’s going on at home, if Greta’s noticed he’s missing yet. Probably not. He’d visited town just the day before Spencer showed up, so Greta probably thinks he’s holed up in his house, painting.

He spots the payphone as he exits the store, and doesn’t even think about; he just fishes out some quarters and dials Greta.

“Lighthouse Gifts, Greta speaking.”

“Greta, hi.” Now that he’s got her on the phone, Brendon isn’t exactly sure how to say: I’ve been kidnapped and someone’s trying to kill me, but no worries, it’s all under control.

“Brendon! Hey, sweetpea, what’s shakin’?”

“I, um. I just wanted to let you know I’ll be out of town for a little while,” Brendon says. He jostles the plastic bag along his thigh.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, last minute trip to see the fam, so—”

“Do you need me to check on Mongo for you?” she asks.

Brendon winces. “I’ve, uh, taken him with me?”

Greta laughs. “You’re not sure about that?”

“No, um. No, seriously, I’ve got him. Just didn’t want to take off without letting you guys know. You know. Just in case.” You stopped by and noticed my entire house is torn apart.

“Okay, hon,” Greta says. “Have fun with your folks, all right? See you when you get back.”

“Yeah, see you,” Brendon says weakly, and then hangs up. He’s still having a little trouble digesting all this. A small part of him expects to wake up back at the beach tomorrow, all set to motor over to Greta’s in Sweet Beulah.

Instead, though, he’s got a hot stranger bleeding out in a stolen car.

Spencer’s not in the car when he turns the corner towards the back of the CVS. He’s leaning against the passenger side and he jerks his head towards the gas station next door. “We’re gonna go over there and get cleaned up.”

“You’re just—I mean,” Brendon waves a hand, “you’re covered in blood.”

“No one’ll notice,” Spencer says. “And if they do, they won’t say anything.” He’s still way pale and his eyes look strained and Brendon’s worried that he’s going to collapse or something.

Brendon sidles up next to him and cautiously wraps an arm around his waist. Spencer doesn’t say anything, just lets Brendon take some of his weight as they start off across the parking lot.

In the gas station bathroom, Brendon cuts off Spencer’s shirt and tries not to pass out from all the blood. He swallows hard.

“Check the back,” Spencer says. His jaw is clenched, and he’s leaning heavily on the sink.

The back looks even worse from the front, flesh torn where it punched through the outside of his shoulder. A graze almost, maybe, but deeper. Brendon sucks in a breath and says, “Spence—”

“Exit wounds are messy.”

“The whole thing—” Brendon cuts himself off with a semi-hysterical laugh.

“Just clean it up,” Spencer says calmly. He’s looking down and over, chin tucked in, trying to see where the bullet entered. “This is fucking A-Team shit.”

“What? No one ever got shot on the A-Team.”

Spencer laughs a little. “BA, dude. But my point—” He hisses as Brendon douses the back of his shoulder in peroxide, and Brendon says, “Sorry, sorry.”

“My point’s that it’s always a shoulder wound,” Spencer goes on. “Fleshy, non-vital. It’s a fucking graze. I’m, like, a walking one-hour eighties action show.”

Brendon thinks maybe Spencer’s getting delirious. “And you’re complaining about that?” Not that Brendon agrees. Getting shot is getting fucking shot, no matter how you look at it.

Spencer doesn’t say anything, and Brendon glances at his face. He’s got his eyes closed, and Brendon thinks he’s holding his breath.

“One sec,” Brendon says softly. He’s still one hundred percent sure Spencer needs a doctor. The bleeding’s slowed almost to a stop, but there’s no way his back doesn’t need stitches. He presses thick pads of gauze onto both ends of the wound. Spencer gropes one hand up and presses down on the front for him and Brendon digs around one-handed for the tape.

He’d gotten an ace bandage, too – it’s better than ruining another one of his shirts – and once the holes are clean and dry, he starts unrolling it over Spencer’s shoulder.

Spencer catches his wrist. “Wait. Use some strips of gauze for that. We need to immobilize my arm.”

“We need to go to the fucking hospital,” Brendon grumbles, but he switches out the bandage for the flimsy gauze and ties it as tight as he can around the wound. He helps Spencer very carefully tug on another t-shirt, stretching out the armhole so he doesn’t have to move his arm that much and pressing on the bandage to try and stop it from bleeding again. Then Spencer holds his arm still over his stomach, and Brendon leans into him, passing the bandage between his hands around his back over and over again until he runs out of length and tucks it into itself at the small of Spencer’s back. “There.”

Spencer takes a shaky breath. “Thanks.”

Brendon blinks up at him. “Um. You’re welcome.”

“Ready to go?”

Not really, Brendon thinks, but he nods. “Yeah, let’s go.”

*

Spencer is seriously tempted to shoot Brendon. Brendon’s driving him crazy. They’re maybe five hours outside of Vegas, and Brendon won’t stop singing Newsies songs, fingers tapping on the steering wheel. Spencer would call him on it, but he doesn’t feel like owning up to the fact that he does, indeed, recognize the musical.

In desperation, Spencer punches on the radio again, even though they haven’t been able to find a decent channel for miles.

“Oh, hey, am I—” Brendon glances over at him, sucks his lower lip into his mouth. “Sorry, I’ll. I’ll shut up.”

Spencer glares at him. He fishes out the bottle of maximum strength Tylenol and swallows three dry. Closing his eyes, he tips his head back on the seat and tries to find a comfortable position, one that doesn’t make stabbing pain pulse through his arm. He’s not really successful.

And then Brendon starts humming along with whatever shit is pouring out of the stereo and Spencer is getting ever closer to homicide for real. Brendon thinks he was trying to kill him before? Yeah, right.

“Brendon,” he growls.

“Spencer, seriously, I’m going—this is—how much longer?” he asks.

“Hours,” Spencer says. “And if you don’t shut up I’m going to punch you in the throat.”

Brendon snorts. “Yeah, okay. Can you even move?”

Spencer cracks open an eye and turns his head towards Brendon, catching his grinning profile. “Wanna try me?”

“Um.” Brendon’s smile falls and he throws Spencer a wary look. “No?”

“Good answer,” Spencer says, then settles back again. The radio’s basically giving them white noise now, and it’s almost soothing. He finds himself nodding off, despite the throb in his shoulder.

When he wakes up, it’s dead silent. No radio, no humming or singing. “Brendon?” he asks, voice thick, before he even has his eyes fully open. He feels a little like he’s been beaten by a baseball bat. And then he realizes they’re not moving anymore, and that Brendon’s not in the car. “What the fuck?”

The door pops open and Spencer gropes under the seat for his gun, but he’s fucking slow from sleep and getting shot, so Brendon’s already settled back behind the wheel by the time he even grasps the handle.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Brendon says. He waves a snack cake at him. “HoHo?”

Spencer blinks at him. “No. Thanks.”

Brendon shrugs. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit.” Spencer straightens up as best he can without jostling his arm. The sun is down, and the digital clock on the dash reads just after eight. “Why are we stopped?”

“Well, see,” Brendon says, ripping open a package of HoHos and stuffing one into his mouth, “we’re in Vegas.”

At least, that’s what Spencer thinks he says, considering he’s talking around a delicious cake of chocolate and cream. Spencer kind of wishes he’d said yes. “We’re in Vegas,” Spencer echoes, just to make sure.

Brendon nods, licks his lips. “Yeah, so. I could’ve taken you to my mom’s, but somehow I didn’t think you’d appreciate that.”

“Okay, um.” Spencer rubs a hand over his face, tries to get his bearings. When he looks up again, Brendon’s got a hand out, three white pills in the middle of his palm. Spencer takes them gratefully, swallows them dry again.

Brendon starts the car, and Spencer takes a moment to look around. Luckily, they’re actually not too far from Jon’s. He directs Brendon back into traffic, and five minutes later Brendon parks out front of Jon’s building.

Spencer lets out a slow breath of relief. So far so good. He manages to get out of the car under his own steam. He feels stiff more than anything else, and he waits for Brendon to round the front of the car before walking slowly towards the dimly lit doorway. He leans a thumb on the intercom.

“Yes?”

Brendon tenses up all of a sudden, and Spencer gropes for his wrist. He doesn’t feel like dealing with Brendon taking off again. “Let us up, Jon,” Spencer says tiredly. He tightens his hold on Brendon when he tries to squirm away.

“Spence. You made—really crappy time,” Jon says, and then a buzzer sounds as the door lock is released.

Spencer lets go of Brendon and waves ahead of them. “After you.”

Brendon scowls and rubs at his wrist. “I wasn’t—”

“Inside, Brendon. I’d kind of like to make it upstairs before I pass out.”

Brendon’s eyes widen and he steps into Spencer’s space, wrapping an arm around his waist as he reaches for the door. Spencer bemusedly lets him maneuver him inside. Spencer had been exaggerating – he’s a long way from fainting. His shoulder hurts like a bitch, and he certainly feels the pull of exhaustion, but he’s had much, much worse. It’s kind of nice to lean on Brendon anyway.

Thankfully, there’s an elevator, and Jon’s door is propped open when they step out onto the fourth floor. Jon’s hanging in the doorway, and he takes one look at them and his affable smile disappears.

“Jesus Christ, Spence, what the hell happened?” he asks, moving aside to let them into the apartment.

“Ran into some trouble on the way here,” Spencer says. He drops down onto Jon’s couch with a sigh.

Jon stretches a hand out towards Brendon and says, “Hey, I’m Jon Walker.”

Spencer watches as Brendon tentatively takes hold and shakes Jon’s hand. He smiles a little in response to Jon’s own mouth curling up and says, “Brendon. Hi. I’m, uh, Spencer’s hostage? Prisoner? I’m not really sure how to categorize this, since he’s kind of saved my life a few times.”

Jon turns to Spencer and waggles his eyebrows. “Prisoner?” Spencer knows exactly what Jon’s thinking, because Jon is a pervert.

Spencer ignores him and says, “We need to use your laptop.”

“Um, Spencer, shouldn’t we check your gaping wound?” Brendon asks.

“It’s not a gaping wound,” Spencer says. He wants to snatch the computer out of Jon’s hands when he stops in front of the couch, but he doesn’t think he can handle it. Instead, he waits for Jon to set it up on the low coffee table.

“Maybe he’s right,” Jon says, eyeing him up. “You’re sort of bleeding through.”

“After, okay? This is important.” Spencer opens Firefox and surfs to the Flickr site. He says, “Give me your account information, Brendon.”

Brendon rattles out the address and says, “They’d be in the June or July folder,” fingers twisting together anxiously.

“What are we looking for?” Jon asks, settling down next to Spencer on the couch.

Spencer mouses over a few photos of Mongo before he gets a clear shot of the yacht, the dog blurry in the foreground. “That,” he says. It’s the Tricky Wind, according to the name etched on the bow. Spencer had been right about Wentz being involved, then. He clicks on the next thumbnail and sucks in a breath. “Holy shit.”

“Is that—that’s Suarez,” Jon says.

“Call Way and tell him to get Ryan the fuck out of there,” Spencer says, quickly moving onto the next photo. Another clear shot of Suarez and Wentz’s right-hand man, Stump. “This is what they want.” He lifts his gaze to Brendon, but Brendon’s just staring at them blankly.

Jon’s still looking at the laptop screen, mouth gaping. “Fuck, Spence,” he says. “Saporta isn’t going to like this.”

“No shit. Fuck.” The Cobra is bad news, and evidence linking Saporta to Wentz? Even worse. Bad shit is going to go down. If Wentz can’t destroy this, Saporta’s gonna destroy Wentz, and Ryan’ll go right down with them. He clicks on the next photo and it’s the most damning – Suarez, turned towards the camera, hand halfway up. Any hope that Suarez hadn’t known he’d been spotted was pretty much down the fucking toilet.

“Who did you say was shooting at you?” Jon asks him.

Spencer says, “I didn’t.”

*

Brendon likes Jon. Jon’s pretty cool and he has great hair and he smiles at Brendon a lot, and Brendon doesn’t feel quite so lost. Plus, he’s got two super awesome cats. Brendon spent twenty minutes playing fetch with one while the other one curled up in his lap.

Dr. Adam shows up at the same time as the pizza Jon ordered, so he’s got a pizza box in one hand and one of those cool black doctor’s bags in the other. He has a prominent chin and lashes that curl up and a big, big smile, even though he’s there to sew several layers of Spencer’s flesh back together.

Brendon still thinks they should take Spencer to the hospital – germs! Infections! Gaping wounds! – but he doesn’t say anything. Just curls his lips in over his teeth and holds his tongue.

Dr. Adam pumps Spencer full of antibiotics and painkillers – as many as Spencer will let him give him, which isn’t all that many – and after he leaves, Spencer passes out in Jon’s spare bedroom.

Jon tells Brendon to get comfortable. They watch TV and eat pizza and Jon doesn’t ask him about the past few days at all. It’s nice.

Too bad Brendon can’t seem to shut his brain off. He licks his lips. “George is Ryan, right?” Brendon asks softly.

“Huh?”

“I mean, um, Ryan.” Brendon worries the hem of his t-shirt. “He was pretending to be my friend George.”

Jon shrugs. “I guess so?”

“But why—”

“Look, Brendon, the less you know the better, okay?” Jon pats his shoulder. “For now, you’re safe, so just relax. No one knows you’re here, they can’t trace you to me or vice versa. You’ve gotta unwind, dude.”

“Oh, but.” Brendon widens his eyes and something like panic flutters in his stomach, which is ridiculous, because Jon’s right. No one important knows where he is. But— “I wouldn’t say no one.”

Jon’s eyebrows shoot up. “You want to tell me what you mean by that?”

“Not really.”

“Brendon.”

Brendon hadn’t really thought of Jon as dangerous before, but Jon’s doing an awfully good Spencer-impression right now. He swallows. “I might have told this, uh,” he scratches the back of his head, “girl back home that I was visiting my parents.”

“And your parents live?” Jon prompts.

“Summerlin.”

Jon curses under his breath. He jabs a finger at Brendon and says, “You’re telling Spencer.”

Brendon shakes his head, but Jon just says, “The minute he wakes up, buddy. Actually, I think I’ll just go wake him up now.”

“No,” Brendon says, trying to catch Jon’s sleeve as he sweeps past him. “Please, Jon, he’ll kill me.”

Jon rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay.”

Brendon has a split-second of yay, reprieve! before his sarcasm registers. Jon starts back towards the bedroom again, and Brendon has to jog to catch up. “This is a bad idea,” Brendon says, huddling behind Jon as he pushes the door open. “And I’ve known Greta for years. It’s not like—”

“Why are you talking?” Spencer’s voice is thick with sleep. “Why am I awake?”

“Brendon here has something he wants to tell you,” Jon says, rocking back on his heels.

Brendon scowls at him. Jon is a mean, spiteful son of a bitch. He’s maybe only known him about three hours, but Brendon is absolutely sure this is true.

“Is that so?”

“No,” Brendon says. “Jon’s just mean and wanted to wake you up.”

Jon punches Brendon in the arm.

“Ow, dude, not cool.” Brendon shakes his head.

“What. The fuck,” Spencer says. In the dim light spilling in from the hallway, Brendon can see Spencer sprawled out on the bed on his back.

Jon pushes Brendon forward – Brendon stumbles and catches himself on the edge of the mattress - then spins around, sneaks out and shuts the door behind him. Bastard.

Spencer sighs. He struggles up into a sitting position, propped up against the pillows, then snaps on the bedside lamp. He points to the end of the bed and says, “Sit.”

Brendon sits. He folds his hands in his lap and tries to make his eyes as big as possible. “How’s your arm?”

“It’s fine.” Spencer stares at him. Stares at him some more. He’s really awesome at that. It’s like his eyes are calmly threatening death, and the scruffy beard just adds to the effect.

Finally, Brendon cracks and says, “So I kind of told Greta that I was going to be in Vegas.”

Spencer’s left eye twitches. “Kind of?”

Brendon waves a hand. “Um, so I’m actually from here, right? And I mentioned that I was visiting my folks, so.”

“And she knows they live here.”

Brendon nods, risks a smile. Spencer’s really taking this well. He’s not lunging for Brendon or anything. Seriously, he doesn’t know why it’s such a big deal. Greta’s a sweetheart. There is absolutely no reason to worry about her knowing where he is.

“Brendon,” Spencer says. His hands are knotted in the sheets; Brendon can see a flash of white knuckles. “How many people knew you took those pictures?”

“Um.” Brendon scrunches up his face. “George. And Greta—Oh, shit.” Brendon is totally not dumb, okay, but it’s Greta. Greta’s been a fixture in town ever since he’d moved in four years ago. It doesn’t make any sense. “But, but. They totally saw me,” Brendon says desperately. “They saw me on the beach. You said that Suarez guy pointed me out, right?”

Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose. “There’s no way they could have known exactly who you were, Brendon. Either Ryan gave you up,” the no way is implied by his tone, “or your lovely friend Greta told Wentz where to find you.”

Brendon suddenly feels all nauseous. He takes a shaky breath and presses a hand over his mouth, and his stupid itchy eyes start to tear up, and swear to god he isn’t normally this weepy, but fuck.

“Hey, hey, no crying,” Spencer says, voice strained.

“I’m totally not crying,” Brendon says. He digs his palms into his eye sockets and lets out a sob.

“Oh, come on.”

Brendon feels the bed shift, and then there’re fingers around his arm, tugging his hand away from his face.

“It’s not that bad,” Spencer says, and Brendon knows he’s lying.

“Yeah, okay, not that bad.” Brendon snorts. “My parents—fuck, my parents. Spencer, what about—”

“Everyone decent?” Jon asks as he opens the door and pokes his head through, grinning. He’s got a cell phone pressed up to his ear and says into it, “No, I know,” then to Brendon, “So what’s your parents’ address, buddy?”

Brendon sniffles and wipes his nose and tells him. He’d maybe be more embarrassed about the tears if his parents weren’t in mortal danger.

Jon keeps his grin. “We’re on it, dude, no worries, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Brendon says, even though it’s impossible not to worry. It’s his mom. And it’s all his fault.

When Jon flips the cell shut, he says, “Okay, so they’re sending in the Alexes for Ryan.”

“Their extraction team is The Cab?” Spencer says with a groan.

“No, just the Alexes. According to Gerard, they’re super excited.” Jon shifts his gaze from Spencer to Brendon and back again. “So I’m just gonna go grab some sleep. Way on the other side of the apartment. I’ll probably have my iPod on real loud.”

Brendon blinks at him. He can hear a growl from Spencer, but doesn’t turn to look at him. “Okay?”

Jon’s whistling as he shuts the door again, and Brendon really has no idea how he can be so cheerful in the middle of this complete shit-storm.

“Brendon,” Spencer says, low.

Brendon stares down at his lap. “So, uh. How’s your shoulder?” He’s pretty sure he’s already asked that, but man is this awkward.

“Fine,” Spencer says. “Brendon. Come here.”

“Um. No?” He’s not entirely certain Spencer isn’t going to strangle him for his stupidity.

“Brendon, I will haul your ass up this bed if you don’t come over here right now. Do you want me to reopen my gaping wound?”

When Brendon looks at Spencer again, his eyes are dark and soft. “No, I.” Brendon stands up and shuffles closer to the head of the bed, crosses his arms over his chest defensively. “What?”

Spencer says, “Take off your shoes.”

Brendon frowns. “What—seriously?”

Spencer arches an eyebrow, and Brendon toes off his sneakers, then shifts awkwardly in his sock-feet.

“Brendon.” Spencer reaches out with his good arm and curls his fingers around Brendon’s wrist and tugs.

Brendon lurches off balance and his knee hits the mattress, and Spencer just keeps pulling at him until Brendon’s hunched uncomfortably on the edge, biting his lip. “Spencer, you’re not—” Brendon tries to twist his wrist out of Spencer’s grip, but Spencer just tightens his hold and tugs Brendon closer, and Brendon’s bent so awkwardly that he finally just gives in and stretches his legs out, body long against Spencer’s. “How much pain medication did Dr. Adam give you?”

“Enough,” Spencer says. He’s got a little grin on his face. It’s disconcerting. Brendon has no idea what’s going on, because Spencer’s mouth is awfully close to Brendon’s, but Brendon is sure Spencer doesn’t even like him very much.

“You don’t even like me,” Brendon says. He sounds kind of breathless, and oh god, how embarrassing is that?

“I like you just fine.”

Brendon shakes his head. “You really don’t.”

“Brendon,” Spencer says warningly. His fingers flex around Brendon’s wrist.

“Um.” Brendon sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth. Up close, Spencer looks tired and soft around the edges from the drugs, but his eyes zero in on Brendon’s mouth with an amazing amount of focus. He’s not so surprised, then, when Spencer kisses him.

“Open up,” Spencer whispers.

Brendon may not be the most obedient captive, but he’s kind of okay with where this is going. He smiles against Spencer’s mouth.

Spencer’s grip loosens on his wrist, travels up to palm the side of Brendon’s face, fingers curling into the ends of his hair and giving a sharp tug. “Open up,” he says. He licks a little to get his point across.

Brendon opens up.

Later, with Brendon’s clothes an undignified but triumphant heap on the floor at the foot of the bed, Brendon tries very hard not to jostle Spencer’s shoulder and cuddle at the same time.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Brendon, here.” Spencer wraps his good arm around him and pulls over so that Brendon’s half on top of him, leg flung across his thighs, head tucked into Spencer’s neck. Spencer hisses a little, shifts minutely on the mattress, but keeps his grasp firm on Brendon.

Brendon tilts his head up and yawns against Spencer’s jaw. “Your beard feels weird against my beard,” Brendon says sleepily.

“You don’t have a beard,” Spencer says.

Brendon thinks Spencer might be laughing at him, but he’s too tired to care.

*

Spencer wakes up some time mid-morning groggy, dry-mouthed and wooly-eyed and with a pounding headache. Finding himself alone in the bed only serves to make it worse.

What makes it even worse is stumbling out into the living room to find Jon sitting on the edge of the couch, one hand covering half his face, elbow propped up on his knee, other hand pressing a cell phone up to his ear, mouth scowling.

Jon hardly ever scowls, even when situations warrant it. He’s always cheery as fuck and annoyingly optimistic.

“What do you mean you couldn’t get to him?” Jon says, and Spencer’s stomach bottoms out. “Well, fucking—all right, okay, I’ll tell Spencer.” He catches Spencer’s eyes and widens his own, and Jon isn’t panicking, exactly, but it’s a close thing.

“Where’s Brendon?” Spencer asks.

Jon flips his cell closed and holds up a hand. “Look, for the record, this is not my fault.”

Spencer clenches his hands into fists, even though it makes his shoulder burn like a motherfucker. “Jon. What happened?”

“I let him call his parents,” Jon says sheepishly.

“You—okay.” Spencer nods. He takes a slow, calming breath, relaxes his hands. “So he freaked out and went to visit his parents, who are being watched. This is fucking typical of Brendon and I’m going to kick his ass when I get my hands on him, but he should be relatively easy to catch.”

“They can’t find him,” Jon cuts in. “He never made it to the house.”

Spencer is not going to hurt Jon. He likes Jon. Jon’s one of his best friends, he’d partnered with him in the Agency for nearly three years. He maybe just wants to kill him a little for losing Brendon. “This is your fault,” Spencer says.

“No.” Jon shakes his head. “No, remember the part where I said this is not my fault? Brendon’s got the common sense of a fucking four-year-old, Spence. A really adorable four-year-old that disarms you with hugs and pleas for hot chocolate, but—”

“He snuck out while you were making him cocoa?” Spencer asks, incredulous. Jon is a trained assassin, what the fuck.

Jon bites his lip. “He gave me soulful puppy eyes?”

“Okay.” Spencer rubs the muscles of his upper arm, trying to work out the kinks that had knotted up while he’d been asleep. When he has full use of both his arms again he’s going to beat Jon with his fists. “Okay, so where did they send the Alexes?”

“There is no way they’re going to let you go in for Brendon,” Jon says, but he’s already getting to his feet, opening his cell and dialing. He wanders off into the kitchen and Spencer logs into Jon’s laptop.

He’d already taken Brendon’s photos down off his Flickr account and saved them to Jon’s hard drive. Spencer quickly copies the folder onto two flashdrives and deletes it from the computer, emptying the recycle bin. They aren’t cops, aren’t even officially part of the government. Spencer couldn’t fucking care less if Wentz and Saporta are teaming up. It’d give the Agency a tidy sum if they could prove it, but Spencer isn’t willing to risk Brendon for something that just accidentally fell into their laps – he wonders idly if their alliance had anything to do with Ryan’s involvement, but it doesn’t sway his decision. It’s nice not having any loyalties towards the Agency anymore. Even before Brendon had disappeared he’d been strongly considering just destroying the evidence, getting word to Wentz to call off his goons. It’s really not anything he has to think all that hard about.

“What are you doing?” Jon asks, slouching in the kitchen doorway. He’s got a slip of paper folded between his fingers.

“Making a deal. Have they gotten Ryan out yet?”

Jon straightens up and holds out the paper to Spencer. “No word from the Alexes.”

There aren’t any words written down, just two lines of numbers. Spencer nods. “I’m going to establish contact. If I’m not—”

“Oh, hell no, Spence,” Jon says. “You think I’m letting you go alone?”

Spencer smiles a little. “Well, I’d kind of hoped not.”

“Come on, lets get that hole in your arm redressed,” Jon says, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.

Spencer lets Jon maneuver him into the bathroom and impatiently jitters his legs while he cleans the wounds exactly how Sisky had showed him, face creased in concentration. It’s not like he’s never done this for Spencer before, though. Spencer hadn’t been lying to Brendon; he’s had worse, and Jon’s been there to witness it.

Afterwards, Jon wraps his shoulder tightly up again. Spencer rotates his arm and winces. He isn’t getting much movement from it, but it’s better than nothing.

He steals one of Jon’s t-shirts and gingerly tugs it on while Jon gets dressed: dark cargo pants, dark long-sleeved shirt, shoulder holster. He tosses Spencer a navy windbreaker, and Spencer tucks his gun into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back, covering it with the loose-fitting jacket.

“I can’t guarantee Gerard won’t send someone else,” Jon says as he checks his sidearm, slides it into place.

Spencer snorts. “Bryar?”

“Maybe.” Jon shrugs. “You’re not the only one worried, Spence. You know how Gerard is about civilians.”

“Just so long as they don’t get in my way,” Spencer says. They can send the whole fucking division and Spencer won’t give a damn unless one of them screws up and compromises Ryan or Brendon.

Jon punches the numbers from the slip of paper into his GPS as they take the stairs two at a time down into the front vestibule. “Got it,” he says.

“Where to?”

“An address in San Fran. That’s where the Alexes were sent.”

Jon drives a forest green Dodge Ram because it’s, “Badass,” and because it pisses Ryan off. Jon actually hasn’t admitted that part out loud, but Spencer sees the gleeful twinkle in his eyes whenever Ryan goes into a rant about how much gas it guzzles – even though Jon swears it’s not that bad – and how much of a douche Jon looks like, tooling around town in a fucking lifted truck that’s so shiny he can see himself in the paint. Jon just gives him lazy smiles and leans up against Ryan, arm oh-so-casually draped over his shoulders, and calls him, “Sugar,” and asks him to go off-roading with him sometime. This is why Ryan doesn’t particularly like Jon all that much. Which is stupid. Because it’s just Jon’s retarded way of flirting, and anyone with eyes and a functioning social compass can see it. Too bad Ryan’s always been awkward.

Spencer hefts himself up into the passenger seat of Jon’s truck and slams the door shut. When Jon climbs up the other side, he arches an eyebrow at him. “If this fucks up the job for good, the Agency isn’t going to like it,” Spencer says.

“Let Gerard worry about that,” Jon says. He smiles, boyish, belying the sharpness of his eyes. “I’m kind of hoping to maim a few people myself.”

*

Brendon is a really good liar. Brendon is a fantastic liar, apparently, even though he’s never had much opportunity to actually lie before.

And this is why he’s bound up in the back of a van, on his way to god knows where.

He should have told Jon, but he’d panicked, and Brendon really epically sucks under pressure. Brendon easily freaks out, and he’s practically an idiot in tense situations; this has been proven many times over in the past two days.

His mom’s voice had been off. Brendon isn’t exactly close with his family – the lack of support over the years is pretty damning – but he loves them a lot anyway, and he knows his mom, and his mom never sounds that clipped and short with him. She always acts as if the intervening years, the years since they’d kicked him out at eighteen, had never happened. She always acts like a doting mother on the phone, even if Brendon never even gets Birthday cards from her anymore. So he’d sent Jon into the kitchen for snacks and slipped out the front door.

It was very stupid of him, he sees that now.

The good news, though, is that he isn’t dead yet. There’s some small comfort in that, even if he’s got his hands tied behind his back and a blindfold on.

He has no idea how long he’s been in there. At one point, he’d even managed to nod off, but his arms are practically numb and the jar of the road underneath him makes the rest of his body just as uncomfortable. It seems like forever before the rumble of the engine shuts off. There’s a hollow echo as the van doors slam open, and Brendon flinches involuntarily.

No one speaks to him, but he feels hands gripping his upper-arms and he’s pulled to his feet, dragged from the van and dropped unceremoniously on the ground before he’s hauled up yet again, this time by the wrists. He kind of can’t help the howl of pain, even if he immediately cuts it off, teeth biting into his lower lip so hard he tastes blood.

It’s like. Okay, it’s so dumb, right, but he feels like he needs to hold himself together for Spencer. He just has to man-up and survive this and use all his wily wiles to get out of there alive, and Spencer will totally be proud of him.

Surprisingly, his legs still work, and he manages to keep his feet as he’s dragged along, a hand around one of his arms. He hears someone says, “Is that him?” and it sounds unnaturally loud after all that silence. More words are mumbled, quieter, and Brendon doesn’t bother to strain very hard to hear what they’re saying. He doesn’t want to know if they’re planning on killing him right away or something. That would suck.

Rough hands on his back push him forward again and he stumbles to his knees. No one bothers to jerk him up, though, so he figures, wherever he is, he’s staying there for a while.

There’s a soft curse, and then the blindfold is tugged off his face.

The first thing he sees is George—Ryan crouched in front of him. And then he sees Mongo, and relief wells up in his chest. Mongo is sitting hunched in the corner. He doesn’t seem happy to see him at all, which is kind of awesome and comforting. It would’ve freaked him out if Mongo had been traumatized enough to, like, pad over and ask for pats. This is normal. This is good.

“Brendon?”

Brendon turns away from Mongo and blinks at Ryan. “Um, Ryan?”

Ryan visibly jerks. “How did you—?”

“Spencer. He sort of, um, saved my life.” He’s not sure if that’s an understatement or a kind exaggeration, considering how they met.

“Okay.” Ryan nods. “Okay, that makes sense.”

Brendon has no idea why that makes sense, but he just shrugs. Which calls his attention to the burn in his arms again, pulled awkwardly behind his back. He says, “So do you think maybe you could untie my hands?”

Ryan maneuvers behind him, and Brendon feels his fingers on his wrists. Ryan says, almost absently, “This is gonna fucking suck, getting out of here.”

“Jon said they’re sending in the Alexes for you.” Brendon doesn’t know exactly what that means, but he figures Ryan will.

“Yeah, I know. They’re being held across the hall,” Ryan says wryly. “Fucking Pete Wentz. Mongo bit him, you know, but luckily he just thought it was funny. Here’s what we’re going to do.” The ropes around Brendon’s wrists tighten painfully for a second before slipping loose. “We’re gonna sit tight until Spencer gets here.”

Brendon brings his hands around and rubs at the reddened marks, shifts so he’s sitting on his ass instead of his knees. He doesn’t particularly like that plan, if only because he thinks maybe he’ll go stir crazy just waiting. The room they’re in isn’t very interesting – plain gray concrete walls, no windows, a single bare light bulb dangling from the ceiling. Plus, okay, Spencer’s been shot. He doesn’t know if Spencer’ll be up for a daring rescue with a gaping hole in his shoulder. “Spencer sort of got shot,” Brendon says.

One of Ryan’s eyebrows goes up. It’s his you-better-be-kidding eyebrow. “Sort of?”

“He said he’s had worse?”

“Yeah, well, Spencer’s been declared dead before, so that isn’t saying very much,” Ryan says sourly. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Brendon says.

“Fuck,” Ryan says again, and then, “You know that’s not actually going to stop him, right?”

Brendon cocks his head, thinks on all he’s learned about Spencer in the past few days. He guesses that’s a fair assessment. “Okay, yeah, maybe.”

Ryan settles down next to him on the dirty floor, legs bent, skinny arms resting limply on top of his raised knees. Brendon doesn’t know exactly what Ryan and Jon and Spencer do for a living, but there seems to be an awful lot of violence involved. Ryan doesn’t look the type. Ryan looks like maybe he’d break if you touched him too hard. Brendon isn’t going to actually tell him that, though, because he suspects Ryan can do some damage with maybe just his pinky toe.

“So, uh, Greta,” Brendon says eventually, and Ryan snorts.

“Wentz pays her for information. Wish I’d known that before all this shit went down,” Ryan says. “She ratted you out and blew my cover.”

Brendon stares down at his hands, rubs his thumb along the inside of a wrist. “I really liked her.”

Ryan sighs and briefly presses their shoulders together, but doesn’t say anything.

Across the room, Mongo growls, low and soft.

Finally, Ryan says, “Okay, you know what, fuck this,” and gets to his feet. He stalks over the door and bangs on the heavy metal, shouts, “Hey, hey, I want to talk to Pete.”

Brendon watches him, wide-eyed. It takes a good five minutes of Ryan banging before the door is jerked open and a short guy with a huge fro says, “What the fuck, dude—”

Ryan punches him in the throat. It’s kind of the best thing Brendon’s ever seen.

The guy clutches at his neck and sinks to his knees, and Ryan snags both his guns from the holster around his back.

“You know how to use this?” Ryan asks Brendon, and what the fuck, is he serious?

Brendon just looks at him.

“Right.” Ryan flips something on the underside of the gun and holds it out, handle first towards Brendon. “Safety’s off. Try not to shoot me.”

“Wow, this is a horrible idea,” Brendon says, standing up, but he still gingerly takes the sidearm from him. “Worse than that time you made me pee on your foot.”

“I got stung by a jellyfish,” Ryan says, voice kind of strangled.

“Yeah, no, I told you, the water’s too cold for jellyfish. I think you got attacked by seaweed and freaked out.” Brendon had basically done it just to stop his yelling. Plus, it was kind of hilarious.

Ryan’s face is red, and he looks like he wants to shout at him or something. But then the entire building rocks with an explosion and Ryan just grabs his wrist and says, “Run.”

*

Bob Bryar is a solid guy. Spencer’s only had the pleasure of working with him once before, but they’d had no problems with each other. Spencer is revising his initial opinion, though.

“You want to fucking move or you want to argue about this some more?” Bryar says, glaring at him.

The explosion Bryar set up blew out a third of the building’s upper floor. He’d gotten there maybe fifteen minutes before Spencer and Jon – there’s no way he could have figured out where Brendon was being kept before rigging the C4 as a diversion. Spencer’s gonna concede the point that, typically, prisoners are kept on the lower levels, but that doesn’t make the move any less risky.

Jon says, “Hey, Spence, Bryar’s got a point here. How about you yell at him later, once we’ve got everyone out?” He’s grinning, but Spencer can see the strain around his eyes.

There’s a shatter of glass and then Iero’s dropping down to the ground in between Bryar and Spencer, a manic gleam in his eyes. “This is gonna be a bitch to explain to the cops if we hang around too long,” he says, and that gets Spencer moving, because there’s nothing more annoying than when the police get involved before they’ve had a chance to disappear. The Agency sort of frowns on getting arrested.

The lack of panic surrounding the building leads Spencer to believe that not a lot of people are home. This proves to be kind of false when he follows Iero through the broken window and comes face to face with a creepily calm Andrew Hurley. Good news is that rumor has it Hurley’s a pacifist. Bad news is that Asher’s leveling a gun at them over Hurley’s shoulder.

“Son of a bitch,” Iero swears, and then he sweeps Hurley’s feet out from under him.

Asher manages to squeeze out a round before Bryar has her arm twisted behind her back. Bryar’s bleeding, face a grimace, but he waves them on. “Get the fuck out of here. We’ll keep them quiet.”

Spencer doesn’t waste any time moving past them, and he knows Jon’s hurrying after him. The power had been cut with the explosion, and the light filtering in through the dirty windows is twilight dim, sky darkening earlier than usual with clouds threatening rain. This is mainly to their advantage, despite the unfamiliar building.

Spencer hears the voices before he sees them. Saporta, slick and confident. “Come on now,” he says, almost soothingly. “You’re not really going to use that.”

“Brendon, shoot him.” Ryan. So it’s Ryan and Brendon and Saporta and—

“Dude, do you even know how to use that? You’re, like, holding it—use both hands, man—”

“Shut the fuck up, Pete,” Saporta says, still in that calm tone. It makes Spencer’s skin crawl.

“Brendon,” Ryan says, louder now, and Ryan never ever sounds panicky, but he’s getting pretty damn close. A prickle of unease trips down Spencer’s spine, combining with the flare of relief at finding Ryan and Brendon both alive and apparently relatively unhurt – for now.

Spencer creeps slowly and quietly up the steps, his shoulder throbbing in time with his heartbeat, keeping to the inside of the stairwell, on the opposite side of the single doorway Spencer can see ahead of him.

“Let him go,” Brendon says shakily. He sounds a little farther away than the others. Spencer hopes that means Wentz and Saporta have their back to the door.

When Spencer finally makes it to the landing seconds later, he peeks cautiously around the jamb for a quick cursory look, and nearly smiles when he sees the back of Saporta’s head, Brendon up against the window, gun up and inexpertly shoved out at arms length with one hand, the other clutching at the fur on Mongo’s neck. The dog has his hackles up, and it looks like Brendon’s holding him back. Spencer’s pretty sure it’s because Wentz has an arm around Ryan’s neck and a knife pricking the hollow of his throat.

Wentz is half-turned towards Spencer, but he isn’t paying attention to anything but Brendon, and the sidearm he has haphazardly aimed at him.

“Put the gun down,” Saporta says. He’s got his hands in his pockets, and Spencer can just imagine the smirking grin on his face.

Spencer hears the click of a hammer right before someone says, “Drop your weapon,” and he feels cold metal touch his temple. He freezes, well and fucking caught – by Stump, he’s pretty sure, he recognizes his voice from some of Wentz’s more legitimate, public endeavors - but before he can crouch down to place his gun on the floorboards, there’s another click behind him, and Jon says, “You drop your weapon.”

Spencer’s got half an ear on Stump and Jon – Stump says, “So we’re at an impasse,” and Jon says, “Seems so,” and the pressure of the gun barrel leaves his temple, even though Spencer can tell it’s still hovering close by - but he’s watching Brendon and Saporta. They both seem oblivious to their presence in the corridor.

“Brendon, just fucking—” Ryan starts, and then Brendon squeezes the trigger.

Brendon’s entire body jerks with the kick-back. His eyes are wide and shocky, but he’s still got a good grip on the sidearm, doesn’t let it fall.

“You shot my foot, you motherfucker,” Wentz yelps, dropping the knife and Ryan in favor of hopping around.

Spencer lets Jon deal with Stump and finally steps into the room, strolling right up behind Saporta and pressing his sidearm to the base of his skull. “So this is interesting,” Spencer says.

Saporta stiffens and makes like he’s going to spin around.

“Don’t,” Spencer says.

Ryan’s got a hold of Wentz’s knife now and he grins at Spencer.

The problem is, Spencer knows, that they’re not prepared to bring Wentz and Saporta down – hell, that isn’t even their job. Spencer has no idea who Ryan had been sent in to smoke, but that has nothing to do with this. But if they don’t rub Wentz and Saporta out of existence, neither organization is going to stop until Brendon is dead, until the evidence is buried, no matter the outcome of today. Which is where Spencer’s flashdrive comes in.

“I’m getting the feeling,” Spencer says, “that you two don’t want to be linked to each other. And I happen to have in my possession some very damning photos.”

“You also have an eye witness,” Saporta says. “I’m kind of keen on getting rid of him.” He doesn’t say he’s keen on getting rid of all of them, but it’s implied in his tone.

“Motherfucker,” Wentz whines, curled up on the floor. He’s glaring daggers at Brendon, but Ryan’s standing over him menacingly.

“Yeah, I figured,” Spencer says. He’d figured, which is why he’d had Jon take a short detour to the First National Bank. He’d take care of the details later, but Saporta doesn’t have to know that. “So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to give you the photos. The only other copies are in a safe deposit box with instructions for it to be sent directly to the Feds should anything happen to Brendon. Then we’re going to leave each other alone.”

Saporta cocks his head, despite the presence of Spencer’s gun. “I don’t know if I like that plan.”

“Or I could just shoot you.” Spencer shrugs. He doesn’t really want to, but he will.

“You drive a hard bargain, my friend,” Saporta says.

“I’d shake on it, but I’d rather not give you a chance to kill me.”

Saporta nods. “Understood.”

Spencer keeps the sidearm steady, ignoring the burning pain in his shoulder as he digs in his pocket for the flashdrive. He tosses it out into the middle of the floor. “We good?” he asks.

“We’re good,” Saporta says. “Unless I hear one word about these photos even existing. Then I can’t guarantee you won’t be dead.”

Spencer catches Ryan’s eye and jerks his head to the side. Ryan nods, then walks over to Brendon and Mongo, catching Brendon’s elbow.

“Come on, Bren. Out the door,” Ryan says.

Brendon’s eyes are still huge, but he looks a little more collected, and even manages a small smile for Spencer as he passes by. Spencer doesn’t smile back, and Brendon’s smile wavers and disappears, but Spencer can’t do anything about that at the moment. He’s having some problems processing the fact that Brendon just shot Wentz in the foot. He’s having some problems processing the fact that Brendon had been in the position where he had to shoot Wentz in the foot. He might kill Ryan later. What the fuck had he been thinking, letting Brendon have a gun?

Stump backs into the room just as Ryan gets Brendon out of it, gun trained on Jon.

Jon quirks a grin at Spencer from the doorway, his own sidearm still level. “We done?”

“Just about. Anyone seen the Alexes?” he asks, and then the ceiling above them crashes in and takes down Stump, gun skittering across the floor to butt up against Jon’s sneaker.

“Holy fucking shit,” DeLeon says, shaking plaster out of his hair. “Remind me to never do that again.”

Spencer looks up at the hole in the ceiling where a vent used to be and sees Johnson and Marshall peering down at them.

“Did we miss all the fun?” Marshall asks, grinning.

DeLeon says, “Seriously, oh my god, I think I broke my arm,” rolling off Stump to sprawl on the ground.

Johnson slips out of the hole and drops gracefully to his feet next to him. He reaches out a hand to pull DeLeon up.

Stump groans. “Jesus Christ,” he says, struggling into a sitting position. His hat’s knocked off, and he looks kind of strange without it. Less dangerous, but more angry. “I hate you, Pete.”

“I’m the one that got shot in the foot,” Wentz says, hobbling over to him.

Marshall says, “Hey. Hey, guys, wanna help me down?”

“Jump,” Saporta says, cool and amused and just this side of creepy, “I’ll catch you.”

“We can get Bryar to catch you,” Jon says.

Marshall blanches. Marshall’s got a well-known fear of Bryar that’s mainly baseless. Unless you count the time Bryar cold-cocked him. Spencer’s pretty sure that had been an accident, though. Seventy percent sure. Marshall’s like a floppy-eared puppy most of the time, and Bryar honestly can’t be that hard-hearted.

“Yeah, I’m just gonna.” Marshall manages to climb out and drop down without hurting himself too badly. He rubs his elbow absently and mouths a soundless ow, but doesn’t complain.

Spencer thinks this whole situation is getting a little ridiculous, and he just wants to get the hell out of there already. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder and says to the Alexes, “Move.” Once everyone but Wentz, Stump and Saporta are out of the room, he closes and flips the lock. It won’t hold for very long, but it’ll buy them some time. Just because they made a deal doesn’t mean Saporta won’t test the limits of it. He’d rather not get shot again.

The Alexes disappear once they reach the outside, Johnson giving them a silent salute before he melts into the now dark night.

Bryar and Iero are leaning up against their ride, smoking. They nod at them, then climb into the van and take off.

Ryan stands with his hands on his hips, nose wrinkling as he stares at Jon’s truck in disgust. “What the fuck, Walker,” he says.

Jon claps him on the shoulder. “I knew that extended cab would come in handy one day.”

“What the fuck.”

Spencer rolls his eyes. He kind of wants to lock them in a closet for a couple hours, but he’s too afraid of Ryan’s retaliation. Ryan’s skinny but devious, and he tends to hold a grudge.

Brendon’s quiet and still holding tight to Mongo, posture stiff. Spencer walks over to him and curls a hand over his upper arm. “It’s over,” he says, for lack of anything else. He’s always been kind of bad at the comforting thing.

Brendon blinks at him, deflates a little. “Yeah,” he says softly. And then he sort of lunges at Spencer, arms wrapped around his neck, body pressed firmly against him, face buried into Spencer’s throat.

Spencer brings his good arm up to hug him back, fingers clutching the material of Brendon’s shirt. He catches Ryan’s watchful gaze over Brendon’s shoulder, and something lurches sideways in his chest. He’s not sure he likes it very much. He’s not sure he likes it at all.

part three

Comments

[trippypeas.livejournal.com]

Ryan’s face is red, and he looks like he wants to shout at him or something. But then the entire building rocks with an explosion and Ryan just grabs his wrist and says, “Run.”

Ohhh..Very Doctor Who..*grins and goes back to reading*

[sporks-dominate.livejournal.com]

Even though Pete is an evil jackass... I still kind of love him. No matter what story he is, and who wrote it... he always tends to be hilarious, and you can't help but love him.

As for the rest... <3

[beachsidebingo.livejournal.com]

Oh my CabBabies.
Brendon peeing on Ryan's foot!
Incredible laughter in this part.

[skoosiepants.livejournal.com]

thank you!