How the West Was Won (2/4)

[shihadchick]

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* * *

He feels almost as dopey the next morning when he wakes up after a night of solid sleep as he had been when he hadn't been getting much rest at all. It's a little throwing. Ryan was up before him, and was halfway through his breakfast by the time Spencer makes it downstairs (okay, so he isn't really a morning person. At all. It's totally genetic and not his fault).

Ryan's lack of car and Spencer's lack of license mean that they're walking to school, and it isn't until they're halfway there, the buzz of traffic and noise feeling so ridiculously normal, that Spencer manages to ask the question he's pretty sure he knows the answer to anyway.

"You and Brendon followed me last night, right?"

Ryan nods.

"And you- what'd you see?" In a way, he'd almost be glad to hear Ryan say nothing, suggest that he somehow hallucinated the whole thing (he carefully doesn't think of the shoes he shoved to the back of the hall closet, coated in dust and grime).

"Saw you hit a guy, and then he just vanished into a puff of smoke. And since I don't exactly remember smoking anything illegal, all we could figure is-"

"Vampire," Spencer finishes for him, and if ever there was a time to turn green, or just look pale and consumptive like in some Victorian novel, this is probably it. Somehow he doesn't think his coloring is going to work for that, though.

Ryan actually looks less disbelieving than Spencer thinks he must've, and either that means that it was a lot more convincing from not-up-close-and-personal, or he was kind of in shock at the time. Three guesses there.

"What'd Brendon think? Is he- is he freaked out?" Brendon had seemed pretty normal - as normal as Brendon ever got - in the car the night before, but then Brendon, appearances to the contrary, was alarmingly good at wearing a facade when he felt it was necessary.

"No more than me," Ryan finally answers, which is probably the best Spencer's going to get out of him, and shit, he can't believe he has to make it through a day of school after all of this, he just wants to go find Bob - and how is he going to do that, anyway? They never actually made plans on where to meet, though probably Bob can just use his creepy ninja powers and find Spencer anyway - and find out exactly what the hell is going on here.

"Also, no practice tonight," Ryan goes on, "because what Brendon is is grounded. We didn't exactly make it back under his curfew last night," and Spencer makes a face that is both apologetic and kind of crabby, and Ryan actually shoots him a rare smile and says, "He'll get out of it soon enough. And I think he'll sneak back in a little more carefully next time, too."

Because Spencer is a good friend and a good person, he mercifully does not actually say anything to Ryan about how he's awfully familiar with Brendon's ability to get in and out of his house. Or about how it's not even nine in the morning and he's clearly spoken to Brendon already.

"C'mon," he says to Ryan, as they turn at the next stop light, "hurry up, we're gonna be late."

"You didn't really explain anything yet, Spence," Ryan points out, catching up without even really trying, stupid long legs, and Spencer just shrugs again, one-shouldered, and says "Ryan, I promise, as soon as I find out more, I'll tell you guys."

He figures this should feel a little ridiculously Hardy Boys, or maybe Scooby Doo; that they're planning to meet up and talk about supernatural monsters, except after last night he's pretty sure that not all the bad guys out there are criminals in masks, or even human, and those really aren't the sorts of thoughts that are conducive to not, say, failing out of his junior year, so as hard as it is, he knuckles down and does his best to actually care about why electrons do whatever, and what linear algebra actually has to say about the real world (not that much, Spencer privately maintains, but his math teacher does not agree).

* * *

He and Ryan don't have the same lunch period any more, so Spencer just tucks himself away and eats quietly with a few of the other kids he's friendly with and doesn't say much. He's only got two classes after lunch, and the first one is music, which for Spencer usually means either extra jazz band or marching band practice. It's meant to be marching band that afternoon, and Spencer is definitely looking forward to the opportunity to just mindlessly hit things for fifty minutes, except then he walks into the classroom to see a substitute teacher writing on the whiteboard.

He's squeezing his name in broad marker strokes above the measures they'd been having trouble with last time, which are drawn out in triple size ("because I think some of you are going blind," Mr P. had said, trying to scowl much more fiercely than an old guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt was ever going to seriously pull off), and it reads "Mr Bryar".

The guy turns around and Spencer makes a (thankfully muffled) "nrgh!" sound in the back of his throat, because it's Bob, and he shoots Spencer the ghost of a wink before saying matter of factly to the class, who've pretty much all drifted in by now and are taking their seats with a low speculative hum of conversation, "Hi, I'm Mr Bryar. As I bet you've guessed, I'm going to be taking marching band - and some of the music classes - for the next while, since Mr Pelissier has a family emergency. I've got some pretty good notes on what you're working on right now and the class plan, so unless you're all sitting in the wrong place to mess with me, I think we'll just go on with that. Remind me of your names whenever you stick your hands up, and maybe I'll have them all down before next month." The class laughs obediently, and Spencer is not, at all, thinking wild and kind of freaked out conspiracy theories about how the hell Bob is suddenly here, in his school, and what's happened to Mr P.

"In the meantime," Bob says, "I'll just point and say 'hey you'. Got it?"

There's the usual teenage mutter of agreement, although it's maybe a little more enthusiastic than usual, because, okay, Bob is a lot younger than most of the teachers at Bishop Gorman. And doesn't exactly look, um. Catholic. Although he's clearly toned the dress sense down a lot, there's still Docs on his feet and jewellery in his lip and his ears, and, well, frankly Bob just looks like the kid that's about two steps away from getting suspended. Marching band is definitely about to get a lot more popular.

Spencer manages to make it through the class fairly well, although he has a bad moment when Bob has one of the other guys move out from behind the full kit they have set up for jazz band so he can demonstrate something, and holy shit, can he play. Spencer is maybe having a completely inappropriate reaction to a person in authority, but- Jeez. He has a wild moment where he wonders if he can maybe get some private drum lessons as well, because, seriously.

He dawdles a little on his way out of the classroom - it just seems like the obvious thing to do (so obvious that Maryanne James and Katie Ashdown are doing the same thing), and Bob looks up from the corner where he's sort of shoving some sheet music back into an overflowing file folder and says, almost as if it's an afterthought, "Hey, Smith, stop by after school if you like, I think Mr Pelissier left me some stuff you wanted, too." Spencer does not grin like an idiot, and just says "Sure thing, Mr Bryar," and dashes off to his next class.

He somehow does not get caught texting Ryan from under the desk in geography, but that's more good luck than good management, especially when Ryan texts him with "Bden + I can spy frm utility closet nxt door y/y?" because, god, Ryan, some jokes are just way too easy.

"N!!" Spencer texts back, flipping past something about the carbon cycle in inland areas in his textbook, "Bden wldn't b out of school b4 thn anyway, Ry. i'll b fine. meet me @ HOME."

Brendon's (and Brent's) school is pretty close to theirs, but there's still no way he'd be able to get over there right after the final bell rings; besides which, the school gets really, really touchy about non-students on the property, and anyway, Spencer isn't sure he wants witnesses for whatever is going to happen when he's talking to Bob. Plus, he's really not sure he wants to be responsible for cramming Ryan and Brendon together into a small space for who knows how long.

They're both tiny people and all, but Brendon has the energy of half a dozen puppies rolled into one undersized frame, and Ryan isn't filled with endless patience, and also, Spencer didn't exactly need to have been sneaking looks at Queer as Folk over the years to read the sparks between the two of them. They might both be still steaming ahead under the power of denial, but Spencer is mostly just stuck on hoping that whenever they do get their acts together it isn't going to mess up their friendship. Because as much as he loves Ryan - and he totally does - just not, you know, like that - he really doesn't want to have to stop being friends with Brendon as well. Brendon is totally fucking awesome. He and Brent have had more than one not-conversation about it by now, although those usually devolve into manly coughing and not meeting each others eyes while they play Tour of Duty or Grand Theft Auto before practice.

* * *

Spencer edges into the band room a few minutes after the final bell has run, the corridors still echoing with kids running and laughing and slamming lockers, feeling his stomach twist a little with nerves.

Bob looks up from his desk by the corner, smiles in a way that is so obviously meant to be reassuring and totally isn't, and says "Hey, Spencer. Sit down." He gestures to the front row, so Spencer dumps his bag on the floor and hoists himself up onto the desk so he's facing Bob, one ankle resting on his knee and his free leg swinging a little.

"So," Bob starts, fiddling with his mouse a little before coming to some sort of internal decision and getting up to walk around his desk and leaning on that, more on eye level with Spencer. Obviously they taught that kind of thing in Mysterious All-Knowing Dude school, or something. "Taking 'sounding like a total tool' as a given, let me tell you the deal.

"First, I gotta apologise for dumping this on you with, well, no warning. You were a little harder to find than we'd expected, and normally you'd be getting most of this talk - although probably not believing it, so, hey, unexpected bonus - before you ended up in the field. At least, that's our goal." Spencer opens his mouth to ask who 'us' is, but figures Bob will probably get there and just shuts up. "The thing is, we've been having difficulty finding people before the bad guys do lately, and instinct is only good for so much. So you're still here, which is a giant fucking relief, not just because no one likes getting kids killed," and 'fuck fuck fuck', thinks Spencer again, because there are levels of 'grown up' and 'serious' that he doesn't think he ever wants to be ready for, "but well. Actually, that's pretty much it. Way to not be dead, let's do what we can to keep it that way."

"Um," Spencer says cleverly, and grabs for his water bottle with slightly numb fingers, staring at Bob a little.

Bob clears his throat. "Sorry, I'm probably not doing this very well. I've never actually had to do this before-"

"Wow, can't tell," Spencer says quietly and very sarcastically, because seriously, it's not his fault he's kind of a smart-ass under the solid A-and-B student exterior, and Bob glares at him and looks a little more relaxed.

"You're my first slayer, Smith, so I guess we're going to have to muddle on together. Like I said last night, you're special. A slayer. Which means it's your crappy-ass luck to have to fight evil and avert the supernatural equivalent of Three Mile Island every now and then, and it's my crappy-ass luck that I get to be the guy who trains you and has your back."

"And there's no appeal?" Spencer asks, and Bob says quietly, sincerely, "No. Sorry, kid, it's- well, it's pretty much us, or Them." The capital letter is pretty obvious.

"That really sucks," Spencer says, and figures it's not going to sink in for a while just how bad. Because- this is his life, and some guy's just waltzed on in and told him that he's not in control anymore? Spencer is so not cool with that.

Bob doesn't even try to argue. "Yeah, it does. And if I could- well, if wishes were horses, there'd be a lot more people getting kicked in the stomach occasionally, you know?" Spencer laughs, just for half a beat.

"The story goes, one g- one person, in all the world, stands up for humanity, for the good guys, holding a torch in the darkness, whatever fucking metaphor you like. And as your Watcher, it means I train you, get you fitter, smarter, stronger, research if something unusual comes up-"

"This is Vegas," Spencer argues, "how would you even notice?"

Bob laughs at him, this time, and it sends a little bead of warmth through him. "You'll notice, trust me."

"So how do we do this, then?" Spencer asks, because apparently somewhere in the course of this talk, he's committed entirely. Maybe he should be committed, as in, in a whole other sense entirely, but- okay, yeah. He kind of has to do this.

Bob straightens up, light on his feet and makes a 'follow me' gesture at Spencer. "First, we hit my place for some gear and some books. Then you get some homework," Spencer groans, and Bob just intones piously "know thy enemy," before finishing the sentence in a more normal tone, "and then I take you out to Forestville again and we figure out a patrol circuit. You'll cover that every night until we can build up an idea of what kind of patterns we're dealing with, and cut back a bit then."

"When am I meant to do my actual homework, then?"

Bob's reply of "study hall" is a little merciless.

Another thought cannonballs into the front of Spencer's mind.

"Hey- what am I going to tell my parents? And I have band practice three nights a week, too." And he can't give that up, he just- he can't.

Bob pauses at the door, answering, "You can't tell your parents anything, Spencer. Even if they believe you it just- it puts them in danger, too. And I don't think they'd be too keen on the thought of you putting yourself in danger, either. Not gonna sugarcoat this, you're going to have to sneak out sometimes, and you're going to have to lie to them. I'll do what I can with 'band rehearsal' and notes, but some of it is going to be unavoidable. Your band practice, um, I guess. You need to train as much as possible, but we can do some of that in the mornings. If it's still daylight, you can probably still make some of that, but- look, you'll see. And I'm serious about the parents- you can't tell them, you can't tell your friends, girlfriend, whatever."

"Lone hero, huh?" Spencer says, trying desperately to sound a lot cooler with that - god, it sounds pretty horrible, no wonder Batman was so fucked up - than he is.

Bob makes a face. "Yep. Just you."

"And you."

"And me, not you should need much. You did damn good last night for a first time, actually," and Spencer fidgets for a second and then asks the other question he should've asked last night.

"What would you have done if I hadn't? You could've got me killed!"

There's total confidence in Bob's expression as he replies, "Just one vamp? I might be normal, but I'm fast and I've been in training my whole life, I could've taken him. Just needed to give you a second first to see if you had it. Which you did, luckily for me." He doesn't go on any further, but it seems a pretty obvious next step that a lot of people would've seen that and turned into a screaming mess for quite some time. Bob seems kind of like a ninja and kind of super-capable, but also maybe like he's the kind of guy who really doesn't cope well with screaming messes. Spencer likes to think he's good at reading people, that way.

"So, feel like trying out your first sparring session, Spencer?" Bob asks, and gives him an address to meet him at (because, okay, yes, probably it might look just a little suspicious if a high school kid is getting rides from a teacher, even if he is only the band teacher and in three days a week).

* * *

Bob's place is pretty much a stereotypical bachelor two bedroom, ratty old couch in the living room that's probably been there as long as Spencer's been alive, and boxes everywhere from where he clearly hasn't really made much of an effort to unpack. There's a half filled book case by the tv (game console already hooked in, so Spencer thinks 'definitely human, definitely a guy'), with "Ooh, Guitar Hero?" Spencer can't help himself, he sort of drifts a little closer. It's the new version, too, and they haven't even had a chance to play it yet.

Bob snorts, and hauls him back by the shoulder. "Maybe later. We've got stuff to do now," and Spencer lets himself be led downstairs, to what is very much not a typical basement.

It's well-lit, bright lights without that awful fluorescent flicker, smooth polished wooden floor, mirrors along one wall like a gym (like his sister's dancing studio), a pile of mats, and a locked cupboard that makes Spencer's fingers itch a little, just looking at it.

Bob just silently points at the corner and indicates for Spencer to dump his bag and books, and then come back over to the center of the room.

It turns out Bob's idea of training is firstly a shitload of jumping jacks, and the only reason Spencer isn't panting by the time Bob lets him stop is that Bob's doing them right alongside him, and if Bob's fit enough for that, well, Spencer isn't going to let himself look any worse. Then there's something that may have been yoga, or possibly yoga's fucked up adopted half-brother, and some more stretching and bending, and then Bob has him lift some weights, frowning a little as if he's making mental notes.

And then he pulls a fine chain out from under his shirt, twists his hand a little and tugs a key off it, which he takes over to the corner and uses to unlock the cupboard there. Turns out that what's inside there are a whole bunch of weapons - wooden staffs, stakes like the one he'd handed Spencer the night before in the graveyard, stuff Spencer couldn't even put a name to that looks like the extra props from every movie released in the last thirty years. There's even a broadsword.

Bob takes out two of the staffs, hands one to Spencer, and moves back to the center of the room.

Spencer looks down at the carved and polished wood in his hands, gives it an experimental twirl.

"Well, what are you waiting for," Bob asks, faintly mocking. "Let's get into this."

* * *

Training passes in a blur of near-bruises and reflexes that Spencer definitely never knew he had (but is pretty fucking thankful for), the thwack of wood on wood, and the occasional muffled curse from Bob when Spencer actually manages to land a blow or two. Bob keeps talking the whole time, more details about the whole slaying business ("Pointy end in them, Smith, but I think you got that one already"), who he is ("The Watcher's council are... well, they're in charge of finding slayers, getting them a watcher, paying my rent, which is nice, cos that school of yours sure doesn't pay much, but they're not important now"), and what Spencer's meant to be spending all his free time doing ("Fighting evil, did you miss that the first ten times?")

Bob seems to be making some kind of half-hearted attempt to remember that he's meant to be, like, a good example and all that kind of thing, which so far mostly seems to be manifesting as him wincing a little when he does swear, and then forgetting ten seconds later and talking to Spencer as if he's, like, almost an equal or something. It's actually pretty cool, and Spencer has to admit that if someone had told him he'd be doing something like this, ever, he'd have kind of expected some kind of grumpy Mister Miyaki-type guy. Bob is just- Bob. Acting like any of the guys Spencer talks to sometimes at the music store down by the freeway, friendly enough but with a helluva lot more life and experience hiding obviously behind his expression, leaking out into what he says and does.

Bob lets him go with just enough time to race home before dinner, shoving a couple of stakes into his backpack for him ("Just in case.") and warning him to be waiting at the corner at sundown for Bob to pick him up. Spencer nods carefully and jogs off, covering the distance between Bob's place and his own in just under twenty minutes. If he doesn't get himself, like, killed horribly or something in the next few weeks, maybe he should join the track team or something.

Ryan's there almost the second Spencer gets up to help clear the table, and he sort of throws a few knives and forks into the appropriate drawer before giving up and just sort of lurking by the kitchen island twitching, and then Spencer's mom takes pity on them and sends them off "since it looks like you've got something to talk about, boys." Spencer would hate how easily she could read them if it didn't usually end with hugs and cookies when you needed them, and space to sort your own shit out when she thought you needed that, too. Okay, so Spencer's mom is pretty much awesome.

They head up to Spencer's bedroom - there's a little more assurance of privacy there than the basement, which involves the threat of sisters walking in at any time - and Spencer drops to the floor, leaning against the bed while Ryan snags a pillow off the bed and leans against that, long fingers tapping on his knee.

Spencer opens his mouth to start, with no real idea of what he's going to say, and then a rustle from behind him catches his attention, sending him spinning around, hands coming up in a guard position, just in time to catch Brendon tumbling through his window and rolling across the bed, knocking Spencer - and then, by extension Ryan - like ninepins.

He wriggles out from underneath Brendon's flailing limbs to give him his best glare.

"Brendon, fuck, my mother doesn't know you're grounded, come in the front door next time, will you?"

Brendon just grins unrepentantly, climbs up Ryan's body to get to his feet and throws himself back onto the bed with abandon, head cocked invitingly.

"Okay, fine. Jeez." Spencer bites at his lip, and then starts explaining again, from when Bob had stopped him on the sidewalk, to the night before at the cemetery ("Wow, that's actually grosser from close up," Brendon observes, and Ryan glares at him this time, which saves Spencer a whole seven seconds of effort, which he appreciates), to the stuff he said at training that afternoon.

"...and I'm totally not meant to tell you guys any of this, do you understand?" Spencer finishes, gaze moving from Ryan's look of concern to twist a little and look up at Brendon, wearing a fairly similar look. "If you hadn't decided to get nosy-"

"Excuse us for caring," Ryan says under his breath, earning another dirty look from Spencer.

"If you hadn't got nosy you wouldn't have known, Ry. And it's not that I want to keep secrets from you or anything, it's just- it's dangerous." His voice is quiet as he goes on. "I don't want you guys to get hurt."

"We don't want you getting hurt, either, Spence," Ryan says stolidly, and Brendon is nodding, almost as if the two of them have discussed this which, huh, is maybe not as unlikely as it seems, and oh god, Spencer is totally fucking doomed, because-

"We can help," Brendon says earnestly, just about bouncing off the bed again with eagerness, and oh, yeah. Doomed.

* * *

Spencer's first official patrol goes pretty well - or at least, he doesn't get hurt, and he doesn't see anyone but the newly-risen dead get hurt either, which is apparently a good night's work, according to Bob. He gives Spencer a brief nod when he drops him back on the corner of his block where he can sneak back in himself (and he's going to have to be super careful, too, because Brendon totally left footprints in the garden when he was sneaking in, and Spencer so doesn't want to get sprung on the basis of someone else's evidence).

The second night's patrol - a little longer, a little further afield, and yeah, it's starting to get just a little more difficult to get up in the mornings - goes reasonably well too. Spencer manages to knock an older vamp off a groundskeeper who was out a little too late and takes care of that before the man is more than a little scratched up and a lot freaked out. Bob works some kind of fast-talking mojo - and Spencer had always known that whole 'gang members on PCP' thing was exaggerated by the media, ha, and god did that explain a lot - and they get the guy back in his car and headed for home or the emergency room without too much trouble. Spencer is - he hopes - the only one who spots a purple van parked a few hundred yards down the sidewalk from their starting point, and the only one who catches a glimpse in his peripheral vision of a dark head ducking back behind a tree. And god, but he's going to kill them tomorrow for this.

By the time he gets home, Spencer's head is aching from the strain of having to try to find any vampires in the area (Bob claims he should be able to, like, sense them, but Spencer is taking that with a grain of salt still, thank you very fucking much), to look out for himself, and trying to make sure that Ry and Brendon don't get bit as well. He pulls his head out from under the pillow once he's in just long enough to send a bitchy text to each of them demanding firstly that they let him know they are, in fact, still alive and not craving hemoglobin, and secondly that they promise to never ever do that to him again.

Ryan just texts back incomprehensible phrases that - after some blinking and way too much mental effort - Spencer identifies as My Chemical Romance lyrics, and he can't help a noise that sounds a lot like "grrrargh!" before crawling under his covers fully dressed, texting back 'o fuck off ry' and falling fast asleep.

He dreams of wide open blue sky, somewhere like the grand canyon - where he's been with his family on more than one occasion, and while it's always really cool to look at and all, there's just not that much to actually do there, unless you're into hiking and all that kind of thing - except the rock faces above him don't stretch nearly so high, and he's sure it's never been that cold in Arizona or Nevada. Also, he realises before he wakes up gasping, tense with a completely out-of-proportion flood of fear, the walls of the grand canyon don't move.

The third and fourth nights are more or less repeat performances of the second, and seriously, he's going to kill them, especially when Bob pricks his ears and straightens up from his slouch against an alley wall to say "hey, did you hear something? Like- I dunno, someone giggling?"

They've expanded their circuit to take in a bit more of the city now, going after some of the older and wiser vamps, and besides, it's not exactly as if there are guys rising every night - the vamps don't, apparently, actually turn all that many people. When Spencer stops to think about it - in uncomfortable, memories-of-charts-of-the food-chain type ways - it makes sense, even.

Spencer is pretty sure he recognises that giggle, but he can't exactly say that to Bob so he just mumbles something and then seizes the distraction of a - not a vamp, he doesn't think, but definitely something with big fucking teeth that needs staking - trying to sink said teeth into a homeless guy, and the subject drops.

That incident seems to get Bob all the more fired up with his actual Watcherly-type duties - they'd actually taken a break for Spencer to admire Bob's own kit up close and personal the afternoon before. It was set up in the second bedroom, a tight professional looking kit, clearly well-used and cared for. Spencer tried not to drool too much.

"How do you manage to practice?" he had asked, thinking of just how close the neighboring apartments were and wincing a little at the thought of how much his neighbors complained when he practiced at home, and that was from a sort-of insulated garage, in a standalone house.

Bob had just grinned smugly and said, "Soundproofed the hell out of this place first thing on getting here. Make friends with your local witches, Smith, the good ones are worth their weight in gold."

Spencer had just stared. "You have a magic drumkit?"

Bob laughed- actually, no, Bob giggled, it just didn't seem like the sort of word you wanted to admit out loud you'd applied to him, because Bob always looked like he was two steps away from being able to totally school your ass if necessary - and corrected "No, magic room. I'll give you Greta's number later, if you want to try the same thing with your guys. They don't work cheap, though, mind."

Spencer almost wants to ask if they charge in things like 'the scent of your favorite memory' or if they take debit cards. He's pretty sure Bob would make fun of him if he did, though. Bob is almost as good at making fun of him as Ryan is, which is- impressive, actually.

But the next afternoon, it's right back to full-on sparring - staffs, and then light, thin-bladed swords, and yeah, Spencer has to kind of pinch himself occasionally because he feels like he's stuck in some kind of montage scene, but it's as if all he's really doing is reminding himself how this kind of stuff works, rebuilding muscle memory that has gone faint and reedy. Bob is breathing heavily by the time he manages to knock the rapier out of Spencer's hand, signalling a move to hand-to-hand and the end of the physical training session.

Spencer is stronger than Bob, and a little quicker, but he was still working on the 'wilier', and so it would've been a pretty even bet as to who is more surprised when Spencer manages to actually throw him, knocking him hard into the pile of mats and using his bodyweight to pin him for a breath.

"Nice," Bob gets out, squirming to get one hand free so he can brush sweat-damp hair out of his face, and Spencer freezes up for a second thinking, 'wow, blue' and then realises he's staring at his Watcher's eyes and scrambles to his feet. Bob doesn't appear to notice anything amiss, so he figures he's actually managed to not look quite so ridiculous as he had thought for a change.

They've spent their warm up going over the non-human races that might also be around in addition to vampires. Bob listed off djinns, naiads, gnomes, fairies (both Tinkerbell-sized and human-sized; apparently they really got around, and got a kick out of hiding in plain sight, and there were a bunch of them working at Disney World. Spencer very carefully adds that to the mental list of things to never, ever tell anyone, especially Brendon), gargoyles, demons - and that just goes into a whole sidetrack about how many different kinds of demons there are ("No one actually knows," Bob had said, way too cheerfully for Spencer's peace of mind, "They just keep on, I dunno, turning up. Fire will kill most things a stake won't, though."

So Spencer starts carrying a lighter as well, and cops lectures on why smoking is bad for him and if he 'does it in the house, so help me god, Spencer James Smith, you will be in Trouble' from his mother when she finds it in the pocket of his jeans in the laundry basket).

As Spencer stretches carefully to cool down, Bob drops right back into lecture mode, picking up the thread where they've left it, pulling a book down from the shelf to illustrate just what the demon they'd found the night before trying to snack on the guy behind Dunkin' Donuts had been. Mostly what it had been was really gooey and apparently never coming out of Spencer's shirt, but he was getting used to that. As well as a free pass out of school he's starting to wish this slaying gig came with a clothing allowance.

"And there's elves, too," Bob starts, and sees the look on Spencer's face in time to add smartly, "and none of them look like Orlando Bloom, either, but you won't see many of them over here, they're a bit too attached to the Old World; England and bits of Europe."

"Wait," Spencer asks, mock-dramatically, "you mean to say I get to travel on this gig, too?"

Bob just snorts and waves him out the door with a "Go get dinner, and I'll see you tonight, smartass."

* * *

It's a Friday, so Spencer doesn't actually have to sneak out, just waves goodbye to his dad on his way out the door without more explanation than "I'm going out, I'll call if I'm late."

He and Bob work their way around the usual hunting grounds pretty fast, surprising one vamp behind one of the dive bars closer to Vegas proper, and then heading back out to Woodlawn, because Bob has been scoping the papers that evening and thinks some of the newly deceased sound, quote, 'interesting'.

Turns out there was a whole group of burials earlier that day, some big road accident, "with fangs?" Spencer asks from the cover of the trees, spinning a stake around his knuckles absently.

Bob jerks his head to point at the dirt being disturbed again over one of the fresh graves, "Signs point to yes."

If Spencer had been running a tally for the evening, it would've gone something like this:
Vampires spotted, three; vampires staked, three; vampires who felt some ridiculous need to grandstand with arcane threats about how Spencer was going to die, like, so, so horribly and the doom which was going to come down upon him and the entire human race, etc etc etc, thankfully only one, but Spencer's pretty sure he's in far more danger of hurting himself with how much he's rolling his eyes than he is of actually getting bit, and then he wonders if he's somehow getting complacent after not even a week on the job.

And that's when the fourth vampire comes out of nowhere and sends him flying, hissing viciously inches away from his face, and it would've got him dead to rights, surprise doing half the job for it, if Bob hadn't tackled it off him, sending all three of them tumbling across the mud and grass.

The vampire takes one look at the both of them and clearly decides that discretion is the better part of continuing to feast on tasty human necks, darting towards the chainlink fence surrounding the cemetery with superhuman speed.

Spencer rolls to his feet, groaning, because ow, he'd totally landed his knee on a rock or something, and takes a deep breath, preparatory to chasing the vamp down.

"Nah," Bob says, moving quickly in the exact opposite direction, "we're not going to catch it now, if we head back to the car we might be able to get close enough before it hits more populated-" but Spencer is staring horrified in the direction the vampire has run, a nagging memory of seeing something move, earlier, something that didn't feel like a threat, but instead-

He swallows down a choked, panicking whimper, sprinting at top speed towards the stand of brush on the boundary, pulse pounding double-time in his ears, oh god, what if he's not fast enough?

He crashes through the bushes with absolutely no regard for stealth, momentum carrying him right into the back of the vampire, which is looming over a prone Ryan. Adrenaline spikes so hard that he can't even hear himself yelling at first, and he seizes the vamp's shoulder, pulling it around to face him, and Ryan's kicking madly, pushing himself backwards and away, scrambling to his feet, and Spencer pulls back his arm, stake smooth and balanced in his hand to dust the vamp, and then Brendon is screaming "Spencer, watch out!" and he drops flat, just as a giant fucking stone club sweeps through the air where his head had been.

Great. So the vampire has friends.

Spencer whirls to face the thing behind him, and nearly actually falls as he finds himself looking up, at something huge and ugly that looks like nothing so much as the ogre from Jack and the Beanstalk, except maybe a little shorter and definitely less friendly looking.

A quick glance behind him shows that Ryan is standing, and Brendon's pulled himself out of whatever bush he got shoved into, leaves still caught in his hair, and they're circling the vamp, not letting it get too close to either one of them, and they both have stakes at least - Spencer had insisted, even if they're not so sure how to use them - so he can probably leave them for a second- Spencer ducks the club again, seriously, how the hell does something that big get to be so fast?

"Ha!" Ryan crows behind him, and Spencer dares another look to see that, somehow, Brendon and Ryan have managed to actually dust the vamp between them, and he has time to feel a faint glow of pride in them - under the burning fury that they put themselves in danger like that - and that's when the club gets him a glancing blow on the shoulder which should probably have broken it, but apparently he gets super healing, or at least, much less fragile bones, along with the extra strength and agility. You take what you can get, Spencer thinks, jumping back and trying not to move his left arm too much, wondering frantically how the hell they can get out of this mess.

"Spencer, what the- son of a bitch," Bob says, way too calmly behind him, and then he's reaching back over his shoulder and pulling one of the swords out from the back of his jacket, holding it in an easy stance, sliding up to stand beside Spencer and not taking his eyes off the ogre-thing for a second as he asks quietly, "You all right?"

"Arm's a bit numb," Spencer answers at the same volume, "but I think I'm okay. Um. What do we do now?"

Bob rushes forward at that, swinging the sword in a smooth stroke which knocks into the club with a bell-like chime, instantly reversing the swing to shift the blade away and then up, and in, and the ogre is disarmed and in, well, pieces before Spencer can do anything to help.

"Poor stupid thing," Bob says quietly, looking down at it, and it's somehow about a hundred times more disturbing than the vampires are, or that one actual-demon was, because this doesn't dissolve into dust or melt into, well, goo, it's just- dead. "And this is not good," Bob goes on to say, kneeling to wipe the sword off in the grass - the ogre's blood is pale pinkish, not red or black-brown in the moonlight like Spencer's used to seeing.

"What do you mean?" Spencer asks, voice still a little hushed, unwilling to break the unnatural stillness.

"Ogres in people-places mean that someone's been messing with things they shouldn't," Bob says, still staring at the body. "I mean, sure, they're violent and scary when you drop them in the middle of a city, surrounded by people and noise and cold iron - out in the Back Beyond or in the middle of the woods, different story. They're like- it's like stirring up a bees nest. You'll get stung half to death, and they'll kill themselves doing it, but neither of you really meant for it to happen. Nature sucks, Smith. And this guy shouldn't have got this far into a city without someone hearing about it, which means something's going on that shouldn't be. And, more importantly," his glare sharpens, and he shifts his weight on the balls of his feet, glare split evenly between Brendon and Ryan, who both look a little the worse for wear, speckled with dirt and leaf mould. Ryan is somehow almost entirely clean despite his fall, his hair mussed and scarf askew. And of course, trust Ryan to be wearing a silk scarf and narrow pinstriped trousers to a graveyard to hunt vampires.

"More importantly," Bob repeats, quiet and fucking scary, "who are you, and why are you doing your best to get Spencer killed by distracting him? And," his glare shifts to take in Spencer, who was well aware that he looked guilty guilty guilty, "why do they seem to know you're the Slayer?"

Spencer lifts his chin, straightening up a little, wincing as the motion pulls at his shoulder again. "Bob, this is Ryan," he gestured, "and Brendon. They're my best friends, and, uh, my band as well, actually. And they kind of- I asked Brendon for a ride the first night we met out at Forestville. And they sort of followed me and saw everything."

"And we want to help," Brendon adds stubbornly, despite the fact that he's kind of shaking a little with reaction, inching closer to Ryan as they stand there, neither of them backing down at all.

Bob sighs, looking at the two of them for another long moment. "I guess we should talk about this, then. Especially since the whole 'secret identity'," the glare is back again, and Spencer shrinks just a little, "ship has well and fucking truly sailed. Come on, it's getting chilly and you guys could probably do with something to recharge on." He seems to have come to some kind of decision.

"We can meet at the all night coffee place by Spencer's house, okay? We can get a bit of privacy there, and something warm to drink, and you all get to be reasonably sure I'm not going to actually kill you all and hide the bodies." His look says if he wanted to, he could totally do it, but the glare has sort of lost its edge a bit by now. Mostly Bob just looks like he's thinking hard, and he keeps sneaking little glances at Ryan, Ryan who's actually paying more attention to Brendon, now, shoulders bumping, quirking his eyebrow up in a silent 'sure you're okay?' type gesture, and almost reaching out to touch a vivid scratch along the line of his jaw before seeming to remember where they are and breaking off the gesture. Brendon's looking back just as intently, and Spencer can kind of feel a timer in the back of his head start ticking down.

"Okay," Ryan says finally, shooting one last look at Brendon and then having a silent eyebrow conversation with Spencer in turn. ("Can we trust this guy?" "Yes!" "Are you sure?" "Jesus, Ryan, he just saved all our lives, and also, yes!")

"We'll meet you there." They turn to walk back towards the street where Brendon's car is, and Spencer moves to follow them, but Bob clears his throat and says "Nuh-uh, Spencer, you're coming with me."

He gives a 'what-can-you-do' sort of shrug to Ryan and Brendon, both of whom are back to looking a little suspicious, and follows Bob back to his car. Either he's going to get the lecture to end all lectures of all time, or Bob actually is going to kill him and hide the body... but given how much Bob's bitched about training, he thinks that would lead to even more work than Bob would like, so he's got to be pretty safe.

* * *

They drive a block and a half in silence before Bob speaks, twisting the dial of the radio down so that it cuts from faint background noise to so low Spencer can't even make out a beat. "Uh, your friend, Ryan, is he-?" and Bob looks so awkward, and it's absolutely the last thing Spencer would have ever even expected him to ask, and he bristles automatically.

"Is he what?"

Bob snorts a little, "Cool down, Smith, I just wondered if he was- he looks pretty fey, you know?"

Spencer does not calm down. Spencer maybe just barely doesn't yell.

"I really don't think that's any of your business," he starts stiffly, and Bob looks illuminated for a second, and then amused, the bastard, and then actually, genuinely laughs, holding up his hand in surrender, stopping Spencer mid-rant.

"Spencer. I didn't mean 'is he queer', I know you haven't known me that long, but I'm not that kind of asshole. I meant fey like 'from under a fairy hill', not- jeez, Spencer, I like dick, I'm not exactly going to be able to hold who they want to sleep with against anyone else!"

Spencer blushes a little and says, still a little stiff, "As far as I know - and he is older than me - Ryan's got a perfectly normal human mom and dad, no wings, no fairy dust," but his brain is just running itself around in tiny crazed little circles, repeating "Holy shit, Bob likes guys, Bob likes guys," and he hopes like hell none of that is visible on his face.

"Good to know," Bob replies easily, and they lapse back into silence the entire rest of the way, Spencer doing his best not to shift in the seat at all, because the belt is putting entirely unwelcome pressure on his sore shoulder, and he wants more than anything just to go home and go to bed.

* * *

Their little pow-wow at the coffee shop isn't quite as awkward as Spencer's expecting it to be. Maybe it's because they're all tired and mostly a little knocked around - he even catches Bob rubbing at his wrist as if he strained it a little, in that last vicious lunge - or maybe it's something to do with the guy running the counter, who just barely doesn't laugh at them as they pile in the door, clearly all jonesing for some form of caffeine.

"Tough night?" he asks conversationally, clear brown eyes meeting Spencer's, and it sends a little jolt through the bottom of his stomach, in a way that he can't quite identify. It's not lust, not quite, although the guy is definitely hot, a little scruffy looking but more than likely the type who has to beat them off with sticks, but there's something there. Spencer just lets himself smile back and says noncommitally, "Yeah, you could maybe say that," and then Ryan's ordering his own coffee, shouldering in front of Brendon who's looking thoughtfully at the homemade cookies ("The pecan ones are the best," the barista guy says, up on his toes and leaning over the counter to smile at Brendon, and okay, wow, that's definitely flirting, and Spencer has got to work on his gaydar, because either the slayer super powers are interfering or he just plain doesn't have it).

The four of them take a table well in the back, out of earshot of any of the other customers at this time of the night - morning, really - and exchange awkward looks. Spencer catches himself tapping his fingers nervously on the side of his cup and forces them to still, looking up at Bob. He's surprised anew at the feeling that he can actually get a read on Bob, on what he's thinking. It seems unreal that it's been less than a week since he found out about all of this, but it's been a very intense week, and that has to count for something.

Bob looks a little unsure, and it brings home again in a rush to Spencer that, okay, Watcher, sure, but Bob's not all that much older than them, and he's apparently been doing this his whole life? Spencer can't imagine that. He can't imagine doing this without Ryan and Brendon knowing, maybe telling Brent one day, even though he would in fact definitely prefer that they not help.

"You really can't help," Bob starts, echoing Spencer's thought.

Ryan looks mulish, and Spencer kind of sinks a little in his seat, because he knows that look, and he really doesn't want a ringside seat for the Ryan-Bob grudge match argument that it presages, and not just because he's honestly not sure who would win.

"You wouldn't have even known the ogre was around if it hadn't been for us," Brendon volunteers and while that's strictly true, it's also not the smartest tactic to run with, and Bob predictably splutters.

"We can help," Ryan reiterates, calm and steady. "If you tell us what to do, we'll learn, and Spencer said you need to, like, research stuff sometimes, we can do that too. I get good grades and I'm good with the net."

Bob just rolls his eyes and says "Yeah, Ryan, I can use google too," but Ryan's answering glare is only about a tenth part as scary as it usually is, which Spencer figures means they're warming up to each other.

The discussion gets a little bit circular, and probably a lot more overt than is good in public, but anyone who did overhear would just think they were talking about tv or a movie or- and Spencer looks at his companions and hides a rapid grin to himself - Dungeons and Dragons or the like. Bob doesn't really back down on the idea of Brendon and Ryan out on patrol ("safety in numbers is not just for stranger danger, Bob," Brendon says, trying his wide-eyed innocent look on him, and it actually almost works for a second, but Bob is a hardass and just flicks a sugar packet across the table at him instead), but he does, grudgingly, admit that they could use some help with other stuff.

Spencer just lets them argue themselves out, only interjecting from time to time when it looks like he needs to, and he spins his coffee cup in tiny circles inside his cupped hands, and only looks up to catch the sideways looks the barista is shooting them four or five - or maybe six - times. He can't quite tell if it's Ryan or Brendon the guy is watching.

Brendon's only holding his head up by virtue of the fact his chin is resting on his hand, and Spencer feels almost as wrecked himself by the time they call it a night and make for their respective homes. Bob waves him towards Brendon's van, this time, and Spencer says 'Night' quietly and tips into the backseat, glad that he lives close, that it's Saturday morning and he can sleep in.

Brendon and Ryan are quiet in the front seats, but they both get out to hug him quickly when Brendon drops him at the gate, before he makes his way up to his room and sweet unbroken sleep.

* * *

Ryan is kind of struck dumb, after Spencer closes the door behind him and he and Brendon get back into the van. He's not entirely sure what to say, or how to say it, not without Spencer's calming (inhibiting) presence in the back seat.

Brendon's eyes are huge and too-dark in his face when he pulls up out front of Ryan's place, and everything he's not saying - that neither of them is saying - is right there in his expression, even as tired and slightly shocky as he is.

It would take a tougher guy than Ryan to turn away from that. To turn that down, and he probably should anyway, but god, he doesn't want to.

"Don't do that again, hey," Brendon says, a little rough still, the ghost of the look that he'd been wearing when he'd hauled Ryan to his feet back in the graveyard still lingering.

Ryan shifts uneasily in the seat, can't bring himself to break eye contact, but he ducks his head at an angle all the same, feeling the pull of muscles, bruises sparking along his side from where he'd hit the ground hard. "I'll do my best," he says, and "Same to you, Brendon, right?"

He'd been so scared for a second himself, that Brendon was going to do something- something brave and stupid, and he didn't think he'd ever been more grateful to see Spencer in his life. Even if the rush of adrenaline had left him feeling like he'd been wrung-out to dry, and appallingly incapable of quelling the resulting urge to kind of cling to Brendon as much as he wanted to. He had a feeling that even if he'd ever been hiding the tiny hopes he had in that direction, they weren't anything like secret now. The only question was whether or not Brendon had noticed.

Ryan manages to collect himself sufficiently to realise he's been quiet a little too long, and also that he's kind of staring at Brendon's mouth, and apparently subtlety is vastly, entirely overrated after all, because Brendon sets his face in what Ryan has come to know as his 'fiercely determined' look, turns in his seat so he's facing Ryan properly, swears very quietly as he manages to knock his knee into the side of the dash in the process and says, very carefully, "I will if you will."

Ryan doesn't think they're talking about nearly getting eaten by vampires anymore.

"Brendon, are you sure- are we?" Ryan asks, and he hates sounding so unsure, hates it so much, but this is Brendon and it's so important, and the thought of getting this wrong makes him feel sick and uncertain in his stomach, like it would mess up something he needs to stay upright, stay functional. He's maybe a little dependent, fine, whatever.

"Yeah," Brendon breathes, and it's so determined, and Ryan maybe falls a little in love with him all over again at the set expression on his face, the way he bites his lip just a little (teeth dimpling the soft skin, flash of white under the flickering lamp of the streetlight), and then leans in to Ryan, giving him every opportunity to shift away.

Ryan thinks about staring up at teeth in the moonlight, at the cool recollection of not-gonna-make-it, about watching Brendon through his lashes, through the months and years, through veils of self-preservation and what-if fears. Ryan thinks about Brendon's shoulder warm against his in the coffee shop, about Brendon's voice and hands and steady presence.

Ryan leans in.

* * *

Brendon isn't entirely sure how he got to the point of sitting in his car and making out with Ryan Ross, an hour or so after they nearly got eaten by monsters, but aside from, well, the whole monsters part of the deal, he's really not complaining.

His back is going to kill him later for the way in which he's twisted it to actually get his hands on Ryan, but it is so, so worth it. Ryan's breathing warm and too-fast into his mouth, lips sliding against his, and he's got his hands cupping Brendon's face, and it's just so good. It's not like Brendon hasn't made out with people before, because he totally has, and he's maybe even good at it now, but this is Ryan, and that's Ryan's tongue, in his mouth, and honestly he's not really sure what to do at this point.

Kissing more seems like the best plan.

Something like five minutes or maybe an hour pass, and Brendon is still totally on board with the kissing plan, except apparently his body isn't entirely listening, because he's a little shaky and a lot turned on and- yawning.

Ryan just laughs at him a little, and then ducks his head into Brendon's shoulder.

"I'll try not to take that personally," he says, deadpan as always, but Brendon can practically feel his smile.

"Long day," Brendon says, and Ryan says "mmm" into his neck and another little shudder runs down Brendon's spine at that, the buzz transmuting through skin and bone into a little flicker-flash of heat. Except for all that, it is, like, oh-god-o-clock in the morning, and he really does want to go home and get some sleep, and Ryan probably feels the same.

"I'd ask you to stay," Ryan says, still not-quite looking at Brendon, "but," and then he shrugs, and Brendon says "hey, hey, I understand," because he does, and then he has to tip Ryan's chin up so he can kiss him again, just once for luck and then again for sweet dreams.

"So we're doing this now," Brendon says, as Ryan slides out of the car and turns back to look at him before closing the door careful-quiet, and "Yeah," Ryan says, equally quiet, but his smile could light up the city.

* * *

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