twentysomething

Fandom: Bandom

Pairing: Brendon/Spencer

Length: 1450 wordsish.

Warnings: There's a lot of drinking- one is a bartender!au, the other is a Prohibition!au. So.

Notes: Like, I am still trapped in a glass case of emotion, you guys. But now I am done with the books so I can get back to sobbing in peace. Time to play Adele's Someone Like You. But yeah, these are actually both done, just, obviously were short and possibly filled with tense issues and I always felt too "eh" about them to ever post them. TIL NOW WHEN I DECIDED NOT TO GIVE A CRAP.




Fic the First:

Spencer hates going to bars.

It's loud, smoky and he's really tired of getting hit up for free drinks- especially because the women eying him speculatively, wondering how solvent Spencer is in terms of Malibu and Coke, are clearly thinking that Spencer is a sad, lonely SOB. Spencer's not really sure if it would be better if Ryan was prone to showing up on time, because then men ask him for Ryan's number while Ryan's hooking up with women in the bathrooms.

Spencer has had to turn down so many actor/model/waiters he feels like he's in the casting room for Queer As Folk.

He really just wants to tell Ryan to find another wingman, because he's tired to begin with, before they even get to the bar, but it's the sort of thing people his age are supposed to do, isn't it? Go to shitty, too-hip clubs and drink things they don't actually like, since it sounds better to order scotch and soda and it looks better with his suit than a beer.

"Wow, you look like you'd rather be- I don't even think "anywhere but here" covers it," the bartender says, leaning over the counter to slide a fresh drink over. "You look like you could use it. On the house."

It's probably rude, but it slips out of Spencer's mouth anyway- "I'd rather have a beer." The bartender's eyebrows go up, but there's a sly quirk to his lips as he pulls the glass back and smoothly replaces it with a Heineken.

"Better?" the guy asks, amused and Spencer notices he has dark brown eyes and a lot of eyelashes.

Oh, great.

He's checking out bartenders.

His life has officially become a lonely bastard cliche.

Which is, of course, the moment his cellphone buzzes in his pocket.

hey cant make it something came up @ work Spencer can't find it in himself to be either surprised or irritated.

"Thanks," Spencer adds belatedly, taking a long pull of the perfectly ice cold beer.

"Bad news?" the bartender asks, assembling something fruity and noxious looking. Spencer rolls his eyes.

"Just got stood up," Spencer says, almost cheerfully, because now he can go home and put on some sweatpants and kill some Nazis on the Xbox. The stupidly good looking bartender still looks amused, but a little puzzled.

"Is that a good thing?" he asks, adding a fruit garnish that has at least seven tiny plastic swords in it. Spencer shrugs.

"Means I get to go home and play Call of Duty," Spencer explains, pulling his credit card out to settle his bill, handing it to the bartender.

"Well," the bartender flicks his eyes down to the card. "Well, Spencer Smith, here's to Allied victory." The bartender swipes Spencer's card with a flourish.

~~~

About a week later, Spencer finds himself back at the bar (which is named something like stupid like Degree or Celsius or something else that could be either a deodorant or scientific term) waiting for Ryan.

"So, did we beat the Nazis?" His bartender appears behind the bar, waggling his eyebrows and passing over a beer. Spencer's startled into a laugh.

"Yeah, well, we're not speaking German now, are we?" Spencer asks, weirdly pleased that the guy remembered. It's a Friday, Spencer feels entitled to a little good humor.

"All thanks to you," the bartender agrees. "You gonna get stood up again tonight?" Spencer grins.

"I never know," he admits. "I guess Ryan likes it here, though." The bartender raises his eyebrows. His face is ridiculously expressive and just as absurdly good-looking as Spencer remembers.

"Your boyfriend?" he asks and Spencer rolls his eyes.

"Best friend," Spencer corrects, although it's not like it's an uncommon mistake. "Anyway, I'm Spencer." The bartender smiles, which makes him look fucking adorable.

"Brendon," he offers. "So, Spencer, who is waiting for the elusive Ryan, let me wow you with my skills learned from watching Cocktail, like, twenty times." Spencer can't help but laugh again.

"You think I'm joking, but that's how you get a bartending license," Brendon says, all cute furrowed brows and amused eyes and of course, that's when Ryan pops up at his elbow, pronouncing the scene "totally dead." He tugs at Spencer's sleeve like a four year old, insisting they go down the street. Spencer barely has time to slap down some cash and a quick "See you, man," before they're out the door.

Spencer feels weirdly disappointed.

~~~

"I thought you said this place was totally dead," Spencer points out as Ryan drags him back into Fahrenheit (exactly) four days later, but for no good reason, he makes sure his tie is straight and runs a hand through his hair.

"It was." Ryan agrees easily. "Go get us some drinks, you owe me." Spencer knows that's a lie, but he just rolls his eyes and heads to the bar with a stupid, stupid feeling of excitement in the pit of his stomach.

"You're practically a regular," Brendon greets him with, putting a lime in something.

"I can't wait until I'm old enough that this isn't cool anymore," Spencer groans, and tries not to feel gratified by Brendon remembering when he comes in. Brendon grins and yeah, it's still really attractive.

"Sorry about your wild and carefree youth," he says, mock-solemn and Spencer sighs.

"I'd seriously rather be at home. I'd rather be at my grandparents' home." Spencer admits. Brendon looks at him, inscrutable, pursing his stupidly full mouth.

"So let's get out of here." Brendon finally says. "I'll take you to the all-night diner down the street and buy you the blue plate special. I'm sure if we ask really nicely, we can find a station playing Wheel of Fortune. It'll be just like your grandparents'." Spencer spends maybe a full ten seconds staring mutely at Brendon, before he realizes he's doing it, and he would be an idiot to say no.

"Can you- I've- Ryan," Spencer blurts out in a jumbled mess of concerns and self-cockblocking.

"He owes you one," Brendon reminds Spencer and grins. "Besides, Matlock."

Spencer laughs and texts Ryan from the diner.






Fic the Second:

Spencer didn't intend to become a private detective.

He just instinctively hated a lot of people, and felt sort of satisfied to find out they were a bunch of slimy dirtbags. So that had been that.

Although, he reluctantly admired Jimmy Walker, he had to admit. Not a lot of guys had a Broadway actress for a mistress- no, more than that, not a lot had Broadway actresses for mistresses who were worried enough that they'd hire a PI to make sure he wasn't cheating on the mistress with another mistress.

Which is how he found himself outside Fronton in the cold slush of a New York winter, watching Zachary shake his head at him.

"Zachary, I thought we were friends," Spencer said accusingly. Zachary crosses his arms.

"Mr. Smith, you cause a lot of trouble," Zachary pointed out- fairly enough. The last time Spencer had been in Fronton, three marriages had ended in divorce and Spencer had found himself hiding from what used to be the Hudson Dusters for three days. Bill stuck his head out the door.

"He's got a real pretty smile, Zachary, let him in. Plus he settles his tab, which I can't complain about," Bill said cheerfully. Spencer grinned at him. Zachary just sighed.

"Of course, Mr. Beckett," Zachary said, moving just enough to the side to let Spencer by.

"Good to see you, Smith," Bill said, slapping a companionable arm around Spencer's shoulder. "New shoes?" Spencer smiled slightly.

"My only vice," he offered, and Bill laughed.

"I hope not. Get your ass to the bar." Bill drifted back toward the door.

Fronton had vices in abundance, but when Spencer glanced over the room, sure enough, there was Jimmy, but- to Betty's delight, Spencer was sure- the table was full of half of Tammany Hall, not aspiring starlets.

Tonight's work being more or less done- Jimmy didn't look like he was going anywhere fast- the least he could do was get a drink. Spencer was obscurely pleased to find Ryan behind the bar- Ryan had gone to college with Jack's baby brother Pete and had been working at Fronton when it had been the Red Head. Ross was sort of a bitch, but Spencer liked him.

"Scotch on the rocks," he directed Ryan. Ross just stared at him impassively before passing him a glass. Watching someone slip an alderman a bribe, Spencer took a sip, before he nearly choked.

"Whatever this is, I hate you," Spencer muttered, because it was sweet and terrible and, looking at the glass, vaguely pinkish.

"Mhmm," Ryan hummed, pleased with himself, finally sliding over an actual scotch. Spencer just sighed.

"I was right about what's her name, wasn't I?" Spencer sighed. Ryan noncommittally polished a glass.

"I warned you," Spencer pointed out, because what kind of name was Keltie, anyway.

"Mhmm," Ryan hummed again. Spencer rolled his eyes, and glanced out into the crowd again, which was when he got... distracted.

"Who is that?" he demanded of Ryan. Ryan raised his eyebrows.

"You're the detective, shouldn't you be telling me?" Ryan suggested and Spencer- not for the first time- thought about strangling him.

The person in question was of average height, with dark hair and dark eyes, and a sort of disheveled twist to his hair that suggested he worked here, rather than patronized the club- even though he was sitting with Edna Millay, his laugh was a raucous, unpolished cackle that smacked of a blue collar. Spencer also wanted to take him out back and sneak past the omnipresent, depressed Revenue agent who somehow never managed to bust Jack and Charlie, and do a couple of things that would break a lot of laws.

"Vincent, you tease," Spencer could just hear over the faint din of the place, the man gracefully blowing a kiss at Edna before getting up from the table, heading over to the piano. So, he'd been right- the guy was entertainment- no argument from Spencer's quarter on that- but that also meant rather than dealing with Ryan, he could just ask Bill.

Or he would've, if the guy hadn't started to play.

"This isn't the Meatpacking District, stop looking like you want to eat the merchandise," Ryan muttered, just low enough so that Spencer heard it.

"I swear on my mother's grave, Ryan, I'll let you date the next chorus girl that walks into the joint with absolutely no regard for your welfare, but who is that." Spencer demanded, but fast, because the man had started to sing, too, and Spencer wasn't going to miss that. Ryan rolled his eyes.

"His name's Brendon, Bill brought him in tonight." Ryan finally volunteered. "As you may have noticed, he plays the piano." Spencer would have given Ryan a dirty look, but he was busy- well- staring. About halfway through the set, Jon, one of the regular waiters, brought Brendon a glass of something, and headed back to the bar.

"One of what ever he's having," Jon said, with a nod toward Spencer. Ryan raised his eyebrows again, but poured the scotch reluctantly. Jon smiled brightly, and pushed the glass over toward to Spencer.

"That would be from Brendon, for- I quote, "blue eyes at the bar"." Jon said smugly, as Spencer choked on his original drink. "Oh, good, so you have been watching him." Spencer couldn't stop himself from sneaking a look at Brendon, who-

Who was wagging his brows at Spencer.

Spencer hadn't blushed since he walked in on the burlesque dancers and the bishop, but he did now.

He was going to do something- he wasn't sure what exactly, walk out of the bar, walk closer to Brendon, drink the entire scotch in a gulp- scratch that, the scotch was a good idea, he drank that. But he was then gearing up to actually do something when Brendon's face stilled, grimaced and grinned in less than 15 seconds.

"Please leave all overcoats, canes and top hats, this is not a drill, we're being raided. If you'll head towards the watercloset, Mr. Beckett will show you the way out." Brendon said loudly, and Spencer whipped his head around to see Zachary frantically gesturing from the door,
Bill already over by the back hallway. Ryan and Jon were doing god knows what with something behind the bar, and Spencer hasn't seen bottles disappear that quickly since New Year's.

Spencer was frozen between a weird impulse to help Ryan and Jon versus doing the sane thing and leaving, and he was about to ask whether he should go when he realized Brendon was right in front of him.

"Hello, Blue Eyes, this is when we leave," Brendon chirped at him, like they weren't all possibly about to be arrested. Brendon actually took Spencer by the elbow and drew him over toward the stage, which was pretty much opposite of leaving, but behind the drum kit there's actually a door set in almost seamlessly into the wall.

"Where-" Spencer started, but Brendon was dragging him down a steep flight of stairs and it took all of his concentration not to miss a step and send them both tumbling. He trailed after Brendon through a series of increasingly dark and damp tunnels until there were stairs again- they headed up and when Brendon opened the door, they were maybe a block away, watching the cops troop slowly back out of Fronton's door, tucked safely in an alcove.

"Now, that doesn't look so bad," Brendon grinned, too close for propriety's tastes, and not close enough for Spencer's. "And neither do you."

Brendon kissed him.

Spencer was aware that he should probably have pushed Brendon off, and found out where Jimmy'd come out and get back to work, but it seemed remarkably unimportant in light of the way Brendon was biting at Spencer's lower lip.

"Come on," Brendon said, as he pulled Spencer along the street, hand still tucked in the crook of his elbow. "We can go lie low at my place." Spencer found himself raising his eyebrows.

"You already trying to get me home? I'm not that kind of a girl," Spencer teased and Brendon smiled, low and dirty.

"What? I already bought you a drink." Brendon pointed out. "And I had to promise Jon I'd fill in for him so he'd tell me your name, Spencer Smith." Spencer found himself smiling back reluctantly.

"You're not gonna waste all my hard work, are you?" Brendon asked, and tugged Spencer just close enough to insinuate one finger into his waistband. Spencer laughed.

"You're going to be bad for business," Spencer complained, but he was already letting Brendon direct him North, toward Waverly Place. Brendon snorted.

"It's Prohibition," Brendon said sweetly. "Bad business is booming."