wip amnesty, continued. #3.
redheadedmenaaaaaaace. January 8 2007. Crossover between Panic! and NML, in which Jack and Nancy are hanging out in a grocery store at midnight for no reason, and end up stealing the boys away to their home off-world for a while. I think this started because rimestock and I were discussing how Brendon was (at the time) basically Jack, with Nancy's coloring. 4603 words.
All he hears is "SPENCER SMITH SAVE ME FROM THE REDHEADED MENACE" and then Brendon is diving behind him, one arm around his waist and the other holding something Spencer can't quite see; the next moment a -- well, the redheaded menace, apparently, comes careening into the aisle, grinning fit to split her face apart, and skids to a stop five inches away from him. She's got an open tub of sprinkles in one hand, half-empty, and Spencer doesn't even want to know.
Although, come to think of it, that's probably what Brendon's got, too.
"I see how it is," the girl says, but her voice makes Spencer wonder if she's not maybe their age, maybe a little older, and she's grinning. "Go find someone tall to hide behind, and I'll just disappear! You're lucky I can't turn people into ferrets, man, you are really lucky," she adds, and the arm around Spencer's waist jiggles as Brendon laughs.
"I dunno, man," says Spencer, "You'd make a really lousy ferret, I don't think you should be laughing like that."
In response Brendon headbutts him gently, draws his arm back and away from Spencer, and it feels like he's going to walk away but instead Spencer feels little particles dropping into his hair and down his shirt. When he spins around Brendon's got a look of almost complete innocence on his face; the only things giving him away are his eyebrows, hiked up pretty much as far as they'll go.
"Dude, you totally just lost your shield," says Spencer, backing away to lean against the food, and he hears the girl crow "Yes!" and then Brendon's taking off down the aisle, throwing sprinkles in his wake, the girl hot on his heels.
In heels, it looks like. Jesus.
"What the fuck," he says to himself, and starts picking sprinkles out of his hair.
A moment later a guy walks into the aisle, a pair of very spangly platformed shoes in one hand, and stops muttering to himself when he sees Spencer. "Uh. Hi. Did you see a small redheaded woman in six-inch heels come through here, by any chance? She had a blue shirt on, kind of a spaghetti strap sort of thing," he adds, as if this supermarket was in the habit of stocking lots of redheaded menaces.
"Yeah, I did," Spencer says, and try as he might he can't keep from grinning. "She went off that way, I think they were headed toward the deli. But I don't know if you'll be able to catch her, she was chasing my friend Brendon and he's pretty fast. Even when he is going slow enough to throw sprinkles behind him."
"... she had sprinkles too, didn't she."
"Sure did."
"Of course she did," the guy says, and smiles back, rolling his eyes. "At least this time it isn't fish," he sighs, moving to lean against the food across from Spencer. "That was disastrous. And she smelled for a week."
"Damn," Spencer says, and grins. "That must've been fun."
"You have no idea, man. And that was with showers every day, too." The guy makes a face, and then suddenly shakes his head. "-- I'm Isaac, by the way."
"Spencer."
"Nice to meet you, Spencer," the guy says, and he opens his mouth like he's about to say something else but is promptly cut off by another shriek, this one decidedly female.
"NANCY SAVE ME I'M BEING ATTACKED," the redheaded menace says, running into the aisle, and somehow manages to sneak herself behind -- the guy, Spencer decides he's going to stay the guy until this name thing gets sorted out -- and clings like her life depends on it. She's still got the container in one hand, though, he notices. That's some kind of skill, right there.
"Oh, bullshit," Brendon says, and his container is empty just like the menace's, and he's rolling his eyes.
"Nancy! Save me! Protect my virtue!"
The guy starts laughing, and it takes him a good minute or two to calm down; meanwhile, Brendon makes his way over so he's standing near Spencer, and leans like it's what he was made to do, a thought that has crossed Spencer's mind once or twice, because honestly, fuck.
"I would be more inclined to do so if, one, you had any virtue, and, two, if I wasn't completely sure that you attacked him." The guy's rolling his eyes, but, words notwithstanding, he's also got a quiet sort of smile on his face, and Spencer thinks oh, can't stop himself from thinking damn.
"Why, Isaac, I'm certain I did no such thing! And anyway," she says, finally moving out from behind him, "if I don't have any virtue it's because of you I blame you entirely for my lack of purity."
"Oh my god you are so full of shit."
"That's exactly what someone who steals virtue would say, don't you think?" This last is directed, apparently, at Spencer and Brendon, with appropriate batting of eyelashes. Spencer, for his part, nods and tries very hard not to snicker; it seems like Brendon's doing the same.
"Oh, fuck you," the guy says mildly, and one arm snakes around her waist.
"Not in public!"
"What do you call that time in the library, then?"
"Losing you your job! Just like you wanted, silly."
"Yeah, fine, except that my boss looked just like Juilliard. I couldn't look at him without blushing for weeks, I hope you know that."
"Well, that's hardly my problem, now is it?"
"Shut up, Brendon, you know you two are totally related. Fuck bloodlines, man."
"Oh, I don't know," says Isaac, grinning. "They're pretty much the same person, really. All that's left is for you to be sleeping with your best friend and you're set, man."
Brendon doesn't say anything, and Spencer just grins.
"Oh, Nancy, look, he blushes just like you!"
"Does it count if it's my three best friends?" Brendon asks, and Spencer moves so their arms are touching, so their fingers can twine together for a moment or five before falling apart, the only proof it ever happened a little warmth on Spencer's fingers that wasn't there before, a little warmth in Spencer's inside that'd died down just a bit.
"Oh my god Jack I didn't mean to break him I'm so sorry I don't know what I did we were just baking and he got all floury so I was just joking and I got my voice all deep and I told him he looked good like that, man, and I'm sorry I flirt with your husband but he's flirtable, or whatever, and then he accidentally cut himself on one of the knives on the counter, and then his eyes got all sad and he finished the cookies and then went and curled up on the couch and he hasn't moved since and I am so sorry, I didn't know what to do and I think I broke him and --"
"You didn't break him, someone else did, so do me a favor and shut up and go eat your cookies or flirt with your boyfriends or something," she says, leaving her jacket where it falls on the floor and walking over to the couch. When she gets there she murmurs something; all Brendon can hear is the tone, soft and soothing, and it doesn't do anything, he's still not moving, but apparently it wasn't supposed to do anything because a second later she shucks off her shoes and curls around him on the couch.
"Hey, what's -- what's wrong?" The half-smile that'd been on Spencer's face fades, replaced by worry, and his voice drops. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, I just fucking broke Nancy, that's all, he hasn't moved in, like, almost an hour, and I don't know what I said or if he was mad I was flirting with him or what but he didn't even put a band-aid on, or anything, and I don't --"
Ryan's on his other side, the next moment, one arm up around his back to rub slow circles
"So how'd you guys meet, anyway? You guys seem ..." Brendon trails off, looking vaguely uncertain, and Isaac bites his lip; the expression looks nothing so much as alien on Brendon's face.
"Yeah, I know," he says instead, grinning, stretching out on the couch a bit. "We worked together. We were -- oh, fuck it. We were secret agents. Interdimensional peacekeeping secret agents, even, and try telling that to your mother when she thinks you're going to go off and be a librarian."
"My wife's living used to be lying, Brendon," Nancy says, the half-smile on his face looking kind of out-of-place, and tilts his head a little, gesturing to the other seat at the table. "Sit. I promise I won't bite."
Brendon laughs, sits in the other chair and grins. "She'd kill you, huh."
"Oh yes. She's very intent I'm the only one she bites, you know."
Brendon's not quite sure what to say to that; he settles for nothing, looking out the window instead.
"So what's up?"
"Oh, I, um." He looks back at Nancy for a second, then down at the table. "Just. Wanted to apologize, for the other day. She said, she said I didn't break you, that someone else did, but I still feel like -- I'm sorry, I really am."
For almost a full minute Nancy's quiet, just looking at him, and Brendon is almost terrified. Then, almost as frightening, he laughs, has a sip of his coffee and looks out the window again. "She was right, you know. But thank you." There's a pause, and it looks to Brendon like Nancy's watching a memory play back in his mind. "I'm sorry I scared you, on my part."
"Oh, dude, no, don't worry about it. I thought I like, I don't know, regressed you to infancy, or shattered your mind into a thousand pieces, something like that."
"No, no. Well --" There's another pause, and Nancy looks at him briefly, a quick flash of color that's gone as soon as it comes, has another sip of coffee. "Did you guys have to read Macbeth for English, at all? Or did you get the Almighty Prince I-Hate-My-Life Of Danes?"
Brendon laughs, nods. "Both, actually. I liked Macbeth better, though."
Nancy nods. "It was like that, in a way. The world I was on. We were secret agents, did either of us ever say? Interdimensional peacekeeping agents, really, diplomats to a point, but really we were secret agents and that's all there was to it. Everyone was Scottish, and my accent was just barely passable but nobody doubted me. Comes in handy sometimes," he adds, and Brendon wonders just what it is that comes in handy. But then: "There were pirates, on a lot of worlds, and some of us were double agents. I found out, much later, that someone else, a guy named Christopher, was on the world as well, as one of them. And I'm trustable but he can read minds, and shit, I can't even compare, can I."
And honestly, Brendon doesn't really have an answer for that. He doesn't have any idea what's going on, if he's being completely honest, so he does what he thinks is best: keeps his mouth shut, for once in his life, and just watches, just listens.
"And it all started to go to hell, you know, like those things do, and my food didn't taste weird so how was I to know that they were drugging me? Not like I'd had experience, or anything. So before I knew it, I'd been locked up in a room, maybe a six-by-six cube? With shackles, and I couldn't remember if I was claustrophobic, couldn't remember anything. I thought I was a vampire for a minute or two, can you believe it?" And holy shit, he almost sounds like he's laughing.
"And this guy, he had an awesome accent for a faker, he came in and muttered -- muttered something, I can't remember," Nancy amends, and Brendon thinks I call bullshit. "So you could say it was a knife-fight, maybe, but I don't know if it counts if one of the parties is shackled and one of the parties has a candle to heat the knife up, does it."
There's really no answer to that, Brendon decides.
"So by the end of it he'd ended up taking me out of the cell, which was nice, I guess, only we ended up in his rooms which meant we ended up on his bed, how fucking creepy is that. And then some time later another one of the agents stormed in, I think, got me out of there --" and Brendon thinks I call bullshit again, wonders just how it is Nancy manages to keep those memories, because he just knows there's more to it than that. "Healed me, got me back to headquarters, I got healed some more. Had a nasty fit when I saw the guy who'd been cutting me, though. -- wasn't him, but I fell off my bed anyway.
"So." Nancy drains his coffee cup, looks out the window once more before looking at Brendon again, and he's even got half a smile on his face, Brendon honestly doesn't know if he's crazy or not but he's sure as hell not asking. "Like I said. Not your fault. We've all got our demons, right? Some of them just happen to be Scottish and have a penchant for candles and knives and crosses."
"RYAN. Ryan fucking Ross, get your ass in here," Brendon shouts from the depths of the closet, trying to scowl and still not managing it.
"I was busy," Ryan says, a minute and a half or so later, and he can really nail the scowl when he wants to. Brendon can't really decide whether the flush of his cheeks and the puffiness of his lips help or hurt, but either way he still, Brendon concludes, looks pretty hot.
"You should've brought him with you," Brendon says, turning back to the hangers in front of him, "everyone needs to see this, man, I thought up the theme for our next tour."
"... in this closet."
"Yeah, totally," and where did it go? He had it in his hands, like. Two minutes ago. Three, tops. Where the -- "Here it is," he says, and, grinning, brings the now-found article of clothing forward to show off.
Ryan isn't even close to as appreciative as he ought to be. This is the find of the fucking century, it's crazy, and he's not even glad. What the hell. "It's, um."
"It's fucking awesome is what it is, don't even pretend you don't think so too."
"It's, um. It's tweed, Brendon, it has leather patches on the elbows."
"I know. It's amazing," he says, and in a fit of inspiration shrugs the jacket on. It fits him perfectly. Man oh man is this going to rule.
An hour and a half later, Brendon still has the fucking jacket on, but he's also curled up with Ryan and Jon on the couch, so Ryan supposes it's okay. They're watching some movie in a foreign language; he wishes that could explain everything about the movie, but there are some things a language barrier just doesn't excuse.
Like -- "Did that unicorn just turn into a robot?"
"It totally did, dude, this movie fucking rocks." And it figures that Brendon's loving it. Ryan looks over at Jon, who just shakes his head and smiles, burrows a little closer to Ryan, one hand on his hip.
A few minutes later the robot has turned into a centaur that thinks it's a ballerina. Ryan's almost about to get up -- because as comfortable as he is right now, Jon molded to one side of him with a hand on his hip and Brendon on the other with an arm around his waist (he can feel Brendon rubbing Jon's side absently), there is only so much fucking insane he can take in one day and he's fairly sure that the tweed jacket occupied about three quarters of today's quota -- when he hears the door open and shut, and settles back down.
"You guys better not be watching porn without me," Jack's voice says, drawing closer. "That would just be all kinds of unfair, honestly."
"Robots," Jon says with a straight face.
"Um," says Spencer, settling himself on the other side of Brendon. "That's a centaur. That thinks it's a ballerina."
"That used to be a robot."
"And before that it was a unicorn." Brendon's practically glowing. Ryan thinks, not for the first time, that there is something very wrong with him, but then Brendon laughs and he thinks oh, what the hell.
Jack drapes herself over the armchair, grinning. "Nice jacket, Brendon."
"-- oh, uh, Nancy said I could look through his closet if I wanted, take anything that fit me, was this yours?"
"No, no, no worries. Tweed looks good on you."
"Oh, okay." Brendon breathes, curling away from Ryan so he can curl into Spencer a little more.
"-- I mean, Nancy had sex in it, but whatever, right?"
Three minutes and a lot of spastic movement later, Brendon's facing Ryan and Jon and Spencer, pouting. Ryan can't tell if it's because he's lost his jacket, because they closed the gap he left (and filled up the couch at the same time) after about three seconds, or because he's missing the movie, but mostly he doesn't care because this is hilarious. He intends to hold out as long as he can.
Spencer, apparently, has different plans, sliding over and holding a hand out, so Brendon stops pouting and squeezes back onto the couch, leaning his head on Spencer's shoulder. And rubbing Ryan's side absently, now, apparently, and really he can't complain.
Five minutes later, the centaur has found a mate in the form of a giant squirrel done up like a dandy, and they're doing what might be the can-can. Or the Macarena. Ryan's not really sure.
"-- actually, we had sex on that couch too. This morning," Jack says, and at the faces they all make she laughs and laughs.
"... well, you're new," Ryan hears from over his shoulder, and blinks.
"I'm twenty, actually, so not really that new," he says, finger in his book so he can close it and look around from his spot on the couch to find the source of the voice -- over there, he sees, it's a man with half a smirk on his face. "Why?"
"Oh, no reason," the man says, coming out of the doorway and into the living room, shrugging. "If I had know such wonders existed in this house I would certainly visit more often, though."
Ryan restrains the urge to roll his eyes, instead focusing on the fact that the man's accent is having an identity crisis, or something. It sort of sounds French. Or English. Or Irish. Or Portuguese. It probably, he thinks, wouldn't be as rude as he's used to thinking it is to ask where the man is from, considering the fact that the first thing he did was hit on him, but still.
And he doesn't really know how to respond, so he doesn't. He does sit up a little straighter, bend his legs and pull them close, because it looks like the man's going for the couch and he is definitely not one of the people Ryan would be comfortable having on his legs.
In any kind of way.
Instead of sitting, though, the man leans on the back of the couch, crossing his arms and bending at the waist a little, presumably so that his head is closer to Ryan's. Which, uh, Ryan is hoping that Jack or Nancy will show up sometime and introduce this guy. Or kick him out.
Or Spencer could come down the stairs, rubbing at his nose and sniffling, and shuffle toward the couch with his eyes barely open. "I swear to god I am going to break into Brendon's account when he's asleep and beat that fucking level for him," he mumbles, dropping onto the couch.
Ryan hides a grin -- that sounds pretty accurate, and is also why he's downstairs reading -- and shifts on the couch, one arm around Spencer so he can lean. "I don't think you're gonna be awake that long, Spence," he says, and Spencer scowls; Ryan smiles into Spencer's hair and squeezes him gently.
"This house is the eighth wonder of the world," the man says, and thank god, he's moved a little further away. "Are there more of you?"
"Don't have any twins," Spencer says, and sneezes. "If I did maybe he'd be the one allergic to whatever the hell plant it is on this world. That would be nice."
"No, no," Ryan says, laughing, "if there were two of you, the other one would be upstairs strangling Brendon or something. And then where would we be?"
"Jon can sing for us," Spencer says, eyes shutting as he apparently loses the ability to remain upright, starting to slide down Ryan; the way he's headed he's going to fall off the couch, so Ryan does some maneuvering so the arm of the couch is at his back and Spencer's leaned against his chest. "I remember what it was like to be able to think," he adds as an afterthought. "It was nice."
"I know." Ryan wraps an arm around Spencer's waist as a bonus anti-falling device, and looks up at the man, who's mostly just standing there, being vaguely unnerving. "Are you, like, did you want something?"
"Oh, my dear, I want a great many things, even right now," he says, and there's a peculiar slant of his eyebrows that makes Ryan think is he hitting on me with Spencer in my lap? but then the guy shrugs a little. "I was actually looking for Isaac or Songe, as it happens. Are either of them here?"
"I ... don't know anyone by that name, sorry."
"No, no, see, back when we were in the supermarket, Nancy said he was Isaac. I remember. And then there was a thing ..." Spencer trails off, and Ryan kisses the back of his head. He grins, a second later, because he's fairly sure he just saw someone familiar in the window; a moment later he's proven right, because Jon is coming through the door and kicking off his flip-flops. "See I told you he could sing for us. Right on cue."
"Shit, Spence, you still ..."
"Yeah," Ryan says, and sighs. "He's also entertaining thoughts of breaking into Brendon's account and beating the level he's on, if that says anything about his state of mind."
Jon grins. "Says a lot, actually." He leans over and kisses Ryan upside-down over Spencer's outraged hey! -- as much outrage as he can muster, anyway -- and then leans a little further and kisses Spencer's forehead. "Sorry, man, I'm not kissing you if it might not be allergies."
"Ryan kisses me," Spencer says, scowling.
"That's because I've already had all your cooties, Spence."
"Hey, Ry?" Jon's straightened back up, but he hasn't moved; Ryan looks up at him, craning his neck, and thinks that the beard looks really fucking bizarre from this angle.
"Yeah?"
"Why is there a guy standing in the corner of the room watching us silently?"
"I like unnerving good-looking men," the man says, and Ryan can't tell if he's being serious or not. Part of it's the accent -- which is still bugging him -- but part of it is also the completely unreadable tone. "Also yes, Isaac often goes by Nancy, mostly when Songe is involved, and --"
"And you know, you're one of the few people she lets call me Isaac anymore," Nancy says, wandering into the room. "Although that's probably because I'm not busy calling her Jack. She said if they were going to call me Isaac then she had to be called something completely different, so I just sort of went with it." He shrugs, and then smiles. "Haven't seen you in a while, Juilliard. What's up?"
"My darling Isaac, how I've missed you." Nancy laughs as the man -- Juilliard, Ryan guesses that means the accent's French, although he still thinks it's weird -- pulls him into a waltz for a few steps. "Did you know that when someone pulls you into a dance you follow instead of leading?"
"Blame my wife," Nancy says, and everyone in the room grins.
"I was actually looking for that charming redhead, as it happens. Although," Juilliard says, pausing and looking over the three of them on the couch, and Ryan might be imagining it but he swears the guy looks at him longer than he does Spencer or Jon, "if you'd told me you were hiding such lovely people in your house I would have come a good deal sooner."
"No hitting on the houseguests, Juilliard," Nancy says, rolling his eyes. He's still grinning, though, and Ryan wonders how long he's known him. "We've told you more than once. It's in bad taste. And they're all spoken for. And besides that, what would Meligot think?"
"She'd ask me why I let such a chance pass me by, my dear, you know that."
Nancy just shakes his head. "I think Jack's out in the garden. She said she was going out to plant something or ... weed ... something ... I have no idea, honestly, c'mon, we might as well try out there."
"The idea of Songe in a garden is, quite frankly, terrifying; I hope you know this." But Juilliard's following Nancy out anyway. Thank goodness. "-- goodbye, my beautiful boys," he says, at the doorway, and Ryan resists the urge to scowl or roll his eyes or something. "And I do hope you get better soon. Allergies ought to know better than to bother the pretty people of the world." And now he's gone.
"Okay, what the fuck was that?" Jon's looking at the door with an expression Ryan's fairly sure was, up until right now, reserved for Brendon.
"I have no idea," Ryan says. "Come sit, dude, the arm of this couch is starting to hurt my back."
"What makes you think it'll be any better on mine?" Jon asks, and then promptly contradicts that by sliding onto the couch behind Ryan. Spencer makes an unhappy little noise, his eyes still closed, and Ryan kisses his forehead as Jon squeezes his arm gently. "Sorry, man, blame Ryan."
"Every day," Spencer mumbles, and Ryan smiles.
Off in one corner of the room, someone clears their throat, but Spencer ignores it and Jon, under him, does the same; the only people either of them can think of who would be in the house are Brendon and Ryan, who would join in, or Jack and Nancy, who might do something like clearing their throat at first but would quickly move on to just interrupting, and either way Spencer and Jon can keep doing what they're doing for a bit more, so it's okay.
Except that, one of Spencer's hands under Jon's shirt and both of Jon's hands under Spencer's later, the person clears their throat again, and so the two of them break apart, Spencer's cheek resting against Jon's. They'd meant to tell whoever was over there to either join in or say whatever the hell it is he's meaning to, but the man off in the corner wringing his hands to death isn't anyone either of them recognize, so Spencer settles for blinking, instead, and has a feeling Jon's doing the same.
He's not even a man, really, Spencer realizes after a few seconds; he looks like he's halfway through high school. Or whatever the equivalent of that is on this world, Spencer isn't sure. But he keeps wringing his hands, alternately looking from Jon and Spencer to the floor, and Spencer almost feels bad for him.
"Hey," Jon says carefully, one hand on Spencer's hip and the other twined with Spencer's hand on the couch, "how'd you get in here?"
"Um. It was, um, it was unlocked, I'm not supposed to be here," the boy says, and goes a little green.
Spencer
All he hears is "SPENCER SMITH SAVE ME FROM THE REDHEADED MENACE" and then Brendon is diving behind him, one arm around his waist and the other holding something Spencer can't quite see; the next moment a -- well, the redheaded menace, apparently, comes careening into the aisle, grinning fit to split her face apart, and skids to a stop five inches away from him. She's got an open tub of sprinkles in one hand, half-empty, and Spencer doesn't even want to know.
Although, come to think of it, that's probably what Brendon's got, too.
"I see how it is," the girl says, but her voice makes Spencer wonder if she's not maybe their age, maybe a little older, and she's grinning. "Go find someone tall to hide behind, and I'll just disappear! You're lucky I can't turn people into ferrets, man, you are really lucky," she adds, and the arm around Spencer's waist jiggles as Brendon laughs.
"I dunno, man," says Spencer, "You'd make a really lousy ferret, I don't think you should be laughing like that."
In response Brendon headbutts him gently, draws his arm back and away from Spencer, and it feels like he's going to walk away but instead Spencer feels little particles dropping into his hair and down his shirt. When he spins around Brendon's got a look of almost complete innocence on his face; the only things giving him away are his eyebrows, hiked up pretty much as far as they'll go.
"Dude, you totally just lost your shield," says Spencer, backing away to lean against the food, and he hears the girl crow "Yes!" and then Brendon's taking off down the aisle, throwing sprinkles in his wake, the girl hot on his heels.
In heels, it looks like. Jesus.
"What the fuck," he says to himself, and starts picking sprinkles out of his hair.
A moment later a guy walks into the aisle, a pair of very spangly platformed shoes in one hand, and stops muttering to himself when he sees Spencer. "Uh. Hi. Did you see a small redheaded woman in six-inch heels come through here, by any chance? She had a blue shirt on, kind of a spaghetti strap sort of thing," he adds, as if this supermarket was in the habit of stocking lots of redheaded menaces.
"Yeah, I did," Spencer says, and try as he might he can't keep from grinning. "She went off that way, I think they were headed toward the deli. But I don't know if you'll be able to catch her, she was chasing my friend Brendon and he's pretty fast. Even when he is going slow enough to throw sprinkles behind him."
"... she had sprinkles too, didn't she."
"Sure did."
"Of course she did," the guy says, and smiles back, rolling his eyes. "At least this time it isn't fish," he sighs, moving to lean against the food across from Spencer. "That was disastrous. And she smelled for a week."
"Damn," Spencer says, and grins. "That must've been fun."
"You have no idea, man. And that was with showers every day, too." The guy makes a face, and then suddenly shakes his head. "-- I'm Isaac, by the way."
"Spencer."
"Nice to meet you, Spencer," the guy says, and he opens his mouth like he's about to say something else but is promptly cut off by another shriek, this one decidedly female.
"NANCY SAVE ME I'M BEING ATTACKED," the redheaded menace says, running into the aisle, and somehow manages to sneak herself behind -- the guy, Spencer decides he's going to stay the guy until this name thing gets sorted out -- and clings like her life depends on it. She's still got the container in one hand, though, he notices. That's some kind of skill, right there.
"Oh, bullshit," Brendon says, and his container is empty just like the menace's, and he's rolling his eyes.
"Nancy! Save me! Protect my virtue!"
The guy starts laughing, and it takes him a good minute or two to calm down; meanwhile, Brendon makes his way over so he's standing near Spencer, and leans like it's what he was made to do, a thought that has crossed Spencer's mind once or twice, because honestly, fuck.
"I would be more inclined to do so if, one, you had any virtue, and, two, if I wasn't completely sure that you attacked him." The guy's rolling his eyes, but, words notwithstanding, he's also got a quiet sort of smile on his face, and Spencer thinks oh, can't stop himself from thinking damn.
"Why, Isaac, I'm certain I did no such thing! And anyway," she says, finally moving out from behind him, "if I don't have any virtue it's because of you I blame you entirely for my lack of purity."
"Oh my god you are so full of shit."
"That's exactly what someone who steals virtue would say, don't you think?" This last is directed, apparently, at Spencer and Brendon, with appropriate batting of eyelashes. Spencer, for his part, nods and tries very hard not to snicker; it seems like Brendon's doing the same.
"Oh, fuck you," the guy says mildly, and one arm snakes around her waist.
"Not in public!"
"What do you call that time in the library, then?"
"Losing you your job! Just like you wanted, silly."
"Yeah, fine, except that my boss looked just like Juilliard. I couldn't look at him without blushing for weeks, I hope you know that."
"Well, that's hardly my problem, now is it?"
"Shut up, Brendon, you know you two are totally related. Fuck bloodlines, man."
"Oh, I don't know," says Isaac, grinning. "They're pretty much the same person, really. All that's left is for you to be sleeping with your best friend and you're set, man."
Brendon doesn't say anything, and Spencer just grins.
"Oh, Nancy, look, he blushes just like you!"
"Does it count if it's my three best friends?" Brendon asks, and Spencer moves so their arms are touching, so their fingers can twine together for a moment or five before falling apart, the only proof it ever happened a little warmth on Spencer's fingers that wasn't there before, a little warmth in Spencer's inside that'd died down just a bit.
"Oh my god Jack I didn't mean to break him I'm so sorry I don't know what I did we were just baking and he got all floury so I was just joking and I got my voice all deep and I told him he looked good like that, man, and I'm sorry I flirt with your husband but he's flirtable, or whatever, and then he accidentally cut himself on one of the knives on the counter, and then his eyes got all sad and he finished the cookies and then went and curled up on the couch and he hasn't moved since and I am so sorry, I didn't know what to do and I think I broke him and --"
"You didn't break him, someone else did, so do me a favor and shut up and go eat your cookies or flirt with your boyfriends or something," she says, leaving her jacket where it falls on the floor and walking over to the couch. When she gets there she murmurs something; all Brendon can hear is the tone, soft and soothing, and it doesn't do anything, he's still not moving, but apparently it wasn't supposed to do anything because a second later she shucks off her shoes and curls around him on the couch.
"Hey, what's -- what's wrong?" The half-smile that'd been on Spencer's face fades, replaced by worry, and his voice drops. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, I just fucking broke Nancy, that's all, he hasn't moved in, like, almost an hour, and I don't know what I said or if he was mad I was flirting with him or what but he didn't even put a band-aid on, or anything, and I don't --"
Ryan's on his other side, the next moment, one arm up around his back to rub slow circles
"So how'd you guys meet, anyway? You guys seem ..." Brendon trails off, looking vaguely uncertain, and Isaac bites his lip; the expression looks nothing so much as alien on Brendon's face.
"Yeah, I know," he says instead, grinning, stretching out on the couch a bit. "We worked together. We were -- oh, fuck it. We were secret agents. Interdimensional peacekeeping secret agents, even, and try telling that to your mother when she thinks you're going to go off and be a librarian."
"My wife's living used to be lying, Brendon," Nancy says, the half-smile on his face looking kind of out-of-place, and tilts his head a little, gesturing to the other seat at the table. "Sit. I promise I won't bite."
Brendon laughs, sits in the other chair and grins. "She'd kill you, huh."
"Oh yes. She's very intent I'm the only one she bites, you know."
Brendon's not quite sure what to say to that; he settles for nothing, looking out the window instead.
"So what's up?"
"Oh, I, um." He looks back at Nancy for a second, then down at the table. "Just. Wanted to apologize, for the other day. She said, she said I didn't break you, that someone else did, but I still feel like -- I'm sorry, I really am."
For almost a full minute Nancy's quiet, just looking at him, and Brendon is almost terrified. Then, almost as frightening, he laughs, has a sip of his coffee and looks out the window again. "She was right, you know. But thank you." There's a pause, and it looks to Brendon like Nancy's watching a memory play back in his mind. "I'm sorry I scared you, on my part."
"Oh, dude, no, don't worry about it. I thought I like, I don't know, regressed you to infancy, or shattered your mind into a thousand pieces, something like that."
"No, no. Well --" There's another pause, and Nancy looks at him briefly, a quick flash of color that's gone as soon as it comes, has another sip of coffee. "Did you guys have to read Macbeth for English, at all? Or did you get the Almighty Prince I-Hate-My-Life Of Danes?"
Brendon laughs, nods. "Both, actually. I liked Macbeth better, though."
Nancy nods. "It was like that, in a way. The world I was on. We were secret agents, did either of us ever say? Interdimensional peacekeeping agents, really, diplomats to a point, but really we were secret agents and that's all there was to it. Everyone was Scottish, and my accent was just barely passable but nobody doubted me. Comes in handy sometimes," he adds, and Brendon wonders just what it is that comes in handy. But then: "There were pirates, on a lot of worlds, and some of us were double agents. I found out, much later, that someone else, a guy named Christopher, was on the world as well, as one of them. And I'm trustable but he can read minds, and shit, I can't even compare, can I."
And honestly, Brendon doesn't really have an answer for that. He doesn't have any idea what's going on, if he's being completely honest, so he does what he thinks is best: keeps his mouth shut, for once in his life, and just watches, just listens.
"And it all started to go to hell, you know, like those things do, and my food didn't taste weird so how was I to know that they were drugging me? Not like I'd had experience, or anything. So before I knew it, I'd been locked up in a room, maybe a six-by-six cube? With shackles, and I couldn't remember if I was claustrophobic, couldn't remember anything. I thought I was a vampire for a minute or two, can you believe it?" And holy shit, he almost sounds like he's laughing.
"And this guy, he had an awesome accent for a faker, he came in and muttered -- muttered something, I can't remember," Nancy amends, and Brendon thinks I call bullshit. "So you could say it was a knife-fight, maybe, but I don't know if it counts if one of the parties is shackled and one of the parties has a candle to heat the knife up, does it."
There's really no answer to that, Brendon decides.
"So by the end of it he'd ended up taking me out of the cell, which was nice, I guess, only we ended up in his rooms which meant we ended up on his bed, how fucking creepy is that. And then some time later another one of the agents stormed in, I think, got me out of there --" and Brendon thinks I call bullshit again, wonders just how it is Nancy manages to keep those memories, because he just knows there's more to it than that. "Healed me, got me back to headquarters, I got healed some more. Had a nasty fit when I saw the guy who'd been cutting me, though. -- wasn't him, but I fell off my bed anyway.
"So." Nancy drains his coffee cup, looks out the window once more before looking at Brendon again, and he's even got half a smile on his face, Brendon honestly doesn't know if he's crazy or not but he's sure as hell not asking. "Like I said. Not your fault. We've all got our demons, right? Some of them just happen to be Scottish and have a penchant for candles and knives and crosses."
"RYAN. Ryan fucking Ross, get your ass in here," Brendon shouts from the depths of the closet, trying to scowl and still not managing it.
"I was busy," Ryan says, a minute and a half or so later, and he can really nail the scowl when he wants to. Brendon can't really decide whether the flush of his cheeks and the puffiness of his lips help or hurt, but either way he still, Brendon concludes, looks pretty hot.
"You should've brought him with you," Brendon says, turning back to the hangers in front of him, "everyone needs to see this, man, I thought up the theme for our next tour."
"... in this closet."
"Yeah, totally," and where did it go? He had it in his hands, like. Two minutes ago. Three, tops. Where the -- "Here it is," he says, and, grinning, brings the now-found article of clothing forward to show off.
Ryan isn't even close to as appreciative as he ought to be. This is the find of the fucking century, it's crazy, and he's not even glad. What the hell. "It's, um."
"It's fucking awesome is what it is, don't even pretend you don't think so too."
"It's, um. It's tweed, Brendon, it has leather patches on the elbows."
"I know. It's amazing," he says, and in a fit of inspiration shrugs the jacket on. It fits him perfectly. Man oh man is this going to rule.
An hour and a half later, Brendon still has the fucking jacket on, but he's also curled up with Ryan and Jon on the couch, so Ryan supposes it's okay. They're watching some movie in a foreign language; he wishes that could explain everything about the movie, but there are some things a language barrier just doesn't excuse.
Like -- "Did that unicorn just turn into a robot?"
"It totally did, dude, this movie fucking rocks." And it figures that Brendon's loving it. Ryan looks over at Jon, who just shakes his head and smiles, burrows a little closer to Ryan, one hand on his hip.
A few minutes later the robot has turned into a centaur that thinks it's a ballerina. Ryan's almost about to get up -- because as comfortable as he is right now, Jon molded to one side of him with a hand on his hip and Brendon on the other with an arm around his waist (he can feel Brendon rubbing Jon's side absently), there is only so much fucking insane he can take in one day and he's fairly sure that the tweed jacket occupied about three quarters of today's quota -- when he hears the door open and shut, and settles back down.
"You guys better not be watching porn without me," Jack's voice says, drawing closer. "That would just be all kinds of unfair, honestly."
"Robots," Jon says with a straight face.
"Um," says Spencer, settling himself on the other side of Brendon. "That's a centaur. That thinks it's a ballerina."
"That used to be a robot."
"And before that it was a unicorn." Brendon's practically glowing. Ryan thinks, not for the first time, that there is something very wrong with him, but then Brendon laughs and he thinks oh, what the hell.
Jack drapes herself over the armchair, grinning. "Nice jacket, Brendon."
"-- oh, uh, Nancy said I could look through his closet if I wanted, take anything that fit me, was this yours?"
"No, no, no worries. Tweed looks good on you."
"Oh, okay." Brendon breathes, curling away from Ryan so he can curl into Spencer a little more.
"-- I mean, Nancy had sex in it, but whatever, right?"
Three minutes and a lot of spastic movement later, Brendon's facing Ryan and Jon and Spencer, pouting. Ryan can't tell if it's because he's lost his jacket, because they closed the gap he left (and filled up the couch at the same time) after about three seconds, or because he's missing the movie, but mostly he doesn't care because this is hilarious. He intends to hold out as long as he can.
Spencer, apparently, has different plans, sliding over and holding a hand out, so Brendon stops pouting and squeezes back onto the couch, leaning his head on Spencer's shoulder. And rubbing Ryan's side absently, now, apparently, and really he can't complain.
Five minutes later, the centaur has found a mate in the form of a giant squirrel done up like a dandy, and they're doing what might be the can-can. Or the Macarena. Ryan's not really sure.
"-- actually, we had sex on that couch too. This morning," Jack says, and at the faces they all make she laughs and laughs.
"... well, you're new," Ryan hears from over his shoulder, and blinks.
"I'm twenty, actually, so not really that new," he says, finger in his book so he can close it and look around from his spot on the couch to find the source of the voice -- over there, he sees, it's a man with half a smirk on his face. "Why?"
"Oh, no reason," the man says, coming out of the doorway and into the living room, shrugging. "If I had know such wonders existed in this house I would certainly visit more often, though."
Ryan restrains the urge to roll his eyes, instead focusing on the fact that the man's accent is having an identity crisis, or something. It sort of sounds French. Or English. Or Irish. Or Portuguese. It probably, he thinks, wouldn't be as rude as he's used to thinking it is to ask where the man is from, considering the fact that the first thing he did was hit on him, but still.
And he doesn't really know how to respond, so he doesn't. He does sit up a little straighter, bend his legs and pull them close, because it looks like the man's going for the couch and he is definitely not one of the people Ryan would be comfortable having on his legs.
In any kind of way.
Instead of sitting, though, the man leans on the back of the couch, crossing his arms and bending at the waist a little, presumably so that his head is closer to Ryan's. Which, uh, Ryan is hoping that Jack or Nancy will show up sometime and introduce this guy. Or kick him out.
Or Spencer could come down the stairs, rubbing at his nose and sniffling, and shuffle toward the couch with his eyes barely open. "I swear to god I am going to break into Brendon's account when he's asleep and beat that fucking level for him," he mumbles, dropping onto the couch.
Ryan hides a grin -- that sounds pretty accurate, and is also why he's downstairs reading -- and shifts on the couch, one arm around Spencer so he can lean. "I don't think you're gonna be awake that long, Spence," he says, and Spencer scowls; Ryan smiles into Spencer's hair and squeezes him gently.
"This house is the eighth wonder of the world," the man says, and thank god, he's moved a little further away. "Are there more of you?"
"Don't have any twins," Spencer says, and sneezes. "If I did maybe he'd be the one allergic to whatever the hell plant it is on this world. That would be nice."
"No, no," Ryan says, laughing, "if there were two of you, the other one would be upstairs strangling Brendon or something. And then where would we be?"
"Jon can sing for us," Spencer says, eyes shutting as he apparently loses the ability to remain upright, starting to slide down Ryan; the way he's headed he's going to fall off the couch, so Ryan does some maneuvering so the arm of the couch is at his back and Spencer's leaned against his chest. "I remember what it was like to be able to think," he adds as an afterthought. "It was nice."
"I know." Ryan wraps an arm around Spencer's waist as a bonus anti-falling device, and looks up at the man, who's mostly just standing there, being vaguely unnerving. "Are you, like, did you want something?"
"Oh, my dear, I want a great many things, even right now," he says, and there's a peculiar slant of his eyebrows that makes Ryan think is he hitting on me with Spencer in my lap? but then the guy shrugs a little. "I was actually looking for Isaac or Songe, as it happens. Are either of them here?"
"I ... don't know anyone by that name, sorry."
"No, no, see, back when we were in the supermarket, Nancy said he was Isaac. I remember. And then there was a thing ..." Spencer trails off, and Ryan kisses the back of his head. He grins, a second later, because he's fairly sure he just saw someone familiar in the window; a moment later he's proven right, because Jon is coming through the door and kicking off his flip-flops. "See I told you he could sing for us. Right on cue."
"Shit, Spence, you still ..."
"Yeah," Ryan says, and sighs. "He's also entertaining thoughts of breaking into Brendon's account and beating the level he's on, if that says anything about his state of mind."
Jon grins. "Says a lot, actually." He leans over and kisses Ryan upside-down over Spencer's outraged hey! -- as much outrage as he can muster, anyway -- and then leans a little further and kisses Spencer's forehead. "Sorry, man, I'm not kissing you if it might not be allergies."
"Ryan kisses me," Spencer says, scowling.
"That's because I've already had all your cooties, Spence."
"Hey, Ry?" Jon's straightened back up, but he hasn't moved; Ryan looks up at him, craning his neck, and thinks that the beard looks really fucking bizarre from this angle.
"Yeah?"
"Why is there a guy standing in the corner of the room watching us silently?"
"I like unnerving good-looking men," the man says, and Ryan can't tell if he's being serious or not. Part of it's the accent -- which is still bugging him -- but part of it is also the completely unreadable tone. "Also yes, Isaac often goes by Nancy, mostly when Songe is involved, and --"
"And you know, you're one of the few people she lets call me Isaac anymore," Nancy says, wandering into the room. "Although that's probably because I'm not busy calling her Jack. She said if they were going to call me Isaac then she had to be called something completely different, so I just sort of went with it." He shrugs, and then smiles. "Haven't seen you in a while, Juilliard. What's up?"
"My darling Isaac, how I've missed you." Nancy laughs as the man -- Juilliard, Ryan guesses that means the accent's French, although he still thinks it's weird -- pulls him into a waltz for a few steps. "Did you know that when someone pulls you into a dance you follow instead of leading?"
"Blame my wife," Nancy says, and everyone in the room grins.
"I was actually looking for that charming redhead, as it happens. Although," Juilliard says, pausing and looking over the three of them on the couch, and Ryan might be imagining it but he swears the guy looks at him longer than he does Spencer or Jon, "if you'd told me you were hiding such lovely people in your house I would have come a good deal sooner."
"No hitting on the houseguests, Juilliard," Nancy says, rolling his eyes. He's still grinning, though, and Ryan wonders how long he's known him. "We've told you more than once. It's in bad taste. And they're all spoken for. And besides that, what would Meligot think?"
"She'd ask me why I let such a chance pass me by, my dear, you know that."
Nancy just shakes his head. "I think Jack's out in the garden. She said she was going out to plant something or ... weed ... something ... I have no idea, honestly, c'mon, we might as well try out there."
"The idea of Songe in a garden is, quite frankly, terrifying; I hope you know this." But Juilliard's following Nancy out anyway. Thank goodness. "-- goodbye, my beautiful boys," he says, at the doorway, and Ryan resists the urge to scowl or roll his eyes or something. "And I do hope you get better soon. Allergies ought to know better than to bother the pretty people of the world." And now he's gone.
"Okay, what the fuck was that?" Jon's looking at the door with an expression Ryan's fairly sure was, up until right now, reserved for Brendon.
"I have no idea," Ryan says. "Come sit, dude, the arm of this couch is starting to hurt my back."
"What makes you think it'll be any better on mine?" Jon asks, and then promptly contradicts that by sliding onto the couch behind Ryan. Spencer makes an unhappy little noise, his eyes still closed, and Ryan kisses his forehead as Jon squeezes his arm gently. "Sorry, man, blame Ryan."
"Every day," Spencer mumbles, and Ryan smiles.
Off in one corner of the room, someone clears their throat, but Spencer ignores it and Jon, under him, does the same; the only people either of them can think of who would be in the house are Brendon and Ryan, who would join in, or Jack and Nancy, who might do something like clearing their throat at first but would quickly move on to just interrupting, and either way Spencer and Jon can keep doing what they're doing for a bit more, so it's okay.
Except that, one of Spencer's hands under Jon's shirt and both of Jon's hands under Spencer's later, the person clears their throat again, and so the two of them break apart, Spencer's cheek resting against Jon's. They'd meant to tell whoever was over there to either join in or say whatever the hell it is he's meaning to, but the man off in the corner wringing his hands to death isn't anyone either of them recognize, so Spencer settles for blinking, instead, and has a feeling Jon's doing the same.
He's not even a man, really, Spencer realizes after a few seconds; he looks like he's halfway through high school. Or whatever the equivalent of that is on this world, Spencer isn't sure. But he keeps wringing his hands, alternately looking from Jon and Spencer to the floor, and Spencer almost feels bad for him.
"Hey," Jon says carefully, one hand on Spencer's hip and the other twined with Spencer's hand on the couch, "how'd you get in here?"
"Um. It was, um, it was unlocked, I'm not supposed to be here," the boy says, and goes a little green.
Spencer