there's two things I think you should do for me
* Firstly, someone has to put Merlin and Arthur on Atlantis, okay? That just should happen, like, immediately. I kind of want to make Merlin a gate tech *hands* so he doesn't know why Arthur is always taking him off-world.
* Secondly, someone NEEDS to write a fic where Jon Walker saves Christmas. I don't care how - maybe something Santa Clause-esque, only without him aging and rounding out; or maybe Jon's mysterious Uncle Nick needs some holiday help! Maybe he always disappears in radio silence to "Chicago" each year, but really he's up at the North Pole! Seriously. Seriously, think about it now, JON WALKER SAVES CHRISTMAS, HOW CAN THAT NOT BE A RECIPE FOR EXTREME AWESOME?
* Also, I'm feeling totally glum, so here's a bunch of random WIPs (Amnesty, anyone?)
Ghosts R Us, featuring exasperated!Spence, fakeaccent!Brendon, sexuallyinapropriateghost!Ryan, and haunted!Jon
Spencer has always been very practical. The problem is, there’s his real life, and then there’s Ryan.
In his real life, Spencer runs a bookshop. He employs two out of the three Alexes that hang around after school. His best friend cuts hair across the street, and brings him smoothies or coffee or snacks on all his breaks. He has an embarrassing crush on the guy who comes in once a month to pick up a copy of Country Living magazine.
On the other hand, he sees dead people.
*
At eight pm, Spencer locks up the front of the shop and wanders back towards his office. It’s more of a storage room than an office, but it’s got a desk and a file cabinet and a little fridge filled with beer. Brendon’s got his laptop open, sprawled on the low-slung couch.
“Here we go,” Brendon says. He bats at his neck with one hand, where Ryan’s poking him with a pencil. This is a sure sign that Ryan’s bored. Ryan gets bored pretty easily, for a ghost.
“Here we go,” Brendon says again, “-Ryan, quit it.” He pouts in Ryan’s general direction, since he can’t actually see him.
No, that privilege is all Spencer’s, and he’s never been able to adequately describe Ryan to anyone. He’s sort of like how a riverboat gambler might look if he suddenly decided to become a gay cowboy - pinstripe pants, hobo gloves, paisley vest, neckerchief, headband. Spencer has absolutely no idea when Ryan died. Spencer doesn’t even think Ryan knows.
“Here we go?” Spencer prompts, leaning back against his desk.
“Possibly possessed teenager living in what used to be a morgue at a funeral home,” Brendon says. “The parents made it into his bedroom, how messed up is that?”
“No,” Ryan says.
Spencer shakes his head. “No.”
Ryan crosses his arms over his chest and perches on the sofa arm next to Brendon’s head. He narrows his eyes on the computer screen and says, “All teenagers are possessed, dude, it’s a waste of time.”
“Ryan says all teenagers are possessed,” Spencer automatically translates for Brendon.
Brendon pulls a face. “Ryan can bite me.”
Spencer tells Ryan, “No,” before he can even try anything.
Ryan rolls his eyes and says, “Brendon can kiss my cold, dead ass.”
“I’m not saying that. You two need to find a way to communicate that does not involve me.”
“You need to get him a collar with a bell on it. And a chalkboard,” Brendon says. “Or, you know, he can suck my dick.”
Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose. He really wishes he could go back to when Brendon didn’t know about Ryan, just six glorious months ago.
“Oh, wait, wait, this guy-he’s got a thing with photos. Photos getting fucked up, look.” He turns the laptop so Spencer can see. He’s on a product forum for digital photography - Spencer has no idea how Brendon finds these things. A combination of random web searches and good luck. Or really bad luck, if you’re Spencer.
“What am I looking at?” Spencer asks.
“That.” Brendon jabs a finger at the screen. ‘That’ turns out to be a photo with a shadowy figure smack dab in the middle. Despite himself, Spencer’s sort of intrigued.
“Huh.”
“Hey, I think I know that guy,” Ryan says.
Spencer just gives him a look.
Ryan frowns at him. “The dude in the icon, Spence, what the fuck.”
The dude in the icon is, presumably, JWalk<3sCats, since he’s holding a kitten up to his face. He’s also, Spencer’s pretty sure, Country Living Magazine Guy. “Shit.”
Brendon grins at him. “Let’s go snoop!”
“You know snooping’s illegal, right?” Spencer says.
“Snooping is only illegal if they know you’re snooping.” He clicks over to JWalk<3sCats profile. “It says here he owns JWalk Studios, downtown Chicago, shouldn’t be that hard to find. We’re gonna be prospective clients, my dear Spence, it’ll be awesome.”
“I hope it’s fetish photography,” Ryan says.
“It’s not fetish photography,” Spencer says.
“Ryan just wants to see my naked body,” Brendon says.
Ryan snorts. “Like I haven’t already?”
“I didn’t want to know that,” Spencer says. He’s relatively certain Ryan’s seen him naked, too, but he doesn’t like to think about it. It’s too weird, especially since he’s had Ryan hanging around him since he was, like, eight.
“Know what? That Ryan watches me jerk off-oh, hey, can ghosts, you know,” Brendon makes an obscene hand gesture and Spencer covers his eyes with a palm, because he can’t believe his life.
*
Spencer has only known Brendon for the better part of a year, but they really are best friends. He’s the sort of guy who gets completely under your skin - like Pete, only more endearing. Brendon doesn’t take no for an answer, and he’s unbelievably trusting, and even without Ryan’s almost constant teasing - seriously, it’s like pigtail pulling, which is so disturbing, Spencer thinks - Brendon probably still would’ve taken Spencer’s I-see-ghosts claim for the truth.
Spencer wouldn’t have said anything to Brendon about it at all except a) Brendon is his (living) best friend, and b) he’d had a dead dude following him around for nearly a week.
It turns out the ghost had been his downstairs neighbor, the one with the dog Brendon liked so much. Once Brendon agreed to adopt Dylan, the guy had just disappeared. Spencer’s never really sure where they go. He likes to think they drift off to a better place, but Ryan’s been there for going on fifteen years, and Spencer has a feeling he’ll never get rid of him.
So Brendon now thinks it’s awesome and fun to search out hauntings and talk to ghosts and shit. Spencer’s just really surprised neither of them have been arrested yet.
JWalk Studios is in a slightly rundown building in a slightly rundown part of town.
“Classy,” Ryan says, hooking his thumbs into his belt.
“You didn’t have to come,” Spencer says.
“Of course I did. This is the best part of my day, do you think Brendon’s going to use the Russian accent again?”
“No,” Spencer says, giving Brendon a pointed look, “Brendon is not going to use the Russian accent again.”
“Oh, come on,” Brendon says. “My accents are awesome.”
Spencer ignores that patently false claim - he’s like Val Kilmer in The Saint, and it’s kind of more painful than amusing to watch - and says, “So what’s our story?”
Brendon hooks his arm through Spencer’s. “We’re doing a photo shoot. I made an appointment and everything, it’ll be perfect.”
Spencer arches an eyebrow. “And why are we getting our pictures taken?”
“Does it matter?” Brendon shrugs. “Dude’s not gonna care, right? Oh, oh,” he waves a hand around, “we can be lovers, that’s awesome, I’m awesome.”
“We can’t be lovers,” Spencer says. He makes a face, because ew. There might have been a time when Spencer was attracted to Brendon, but that was before he’d seen him eat an entire pot of spaghettios.
“This is fantastic,” Ryan says, a little too gleefully for Spencer’s comfort.
“No,” Spencer says. “No, it’s not.”
Pastor Jon, featuring it'sapraisebandnotacult!Ryan and choosingtobeamused!Spencer
Spencer starts a list on the plane. It’s a very short list, since he can only come up with two plausible reasons why Ryan doesn’t want to come home for the holidays. He writes: joined a cult, and, directly under that scary possibility, has fallen in love. He kind of wants to believe the second, even though Ryan’s last email had mentioned an interfaith meeting and living the life of lambs. Spencer is fully prepared to stage an intervention.
He texts Ryan from the air, because he can’t leave it alone. He sends: is there a girl?
Ten mind-numbingly slow minutes later, Ryan texts: no
severl girls? Spencer asks, because cults are notoriously polygamous, and while Wayne isn’t exactly known for its religious compounds - Spencer checked - it doesn’t mean there isn’t, like, a David Koresh wannabe lurking in the woods.
You’re hilarious, Ryan sends back, and then, immediately following, I’ll save you some kool-aid
At least Ryan isn’t so brainwashed that he can’t recognize where Spencer’s going with this. It doesn’t exactly rule out the cult theory, but it makes Spencer feel better anyway.
His plane is forty-five minutes late, taxiing in just after midnight, and he spots Ryan’s gangly form sprawled in a plastic chair just past the luggage carousels at Philly International. He’s got a hat tipped forward over his face, a brown and green striped scarf looped loosely around his neck, his long jean-encased legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.
Ryan doesn’t look up until Spencer kicks at his feet, and then he just yawns into a slow smile. Spencer thinks his hair is getting ridiculously long, curling over his ears. “Hey,” Ryan says, and Spencer rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, hi,” he says, but he can’t help the grin. One of his stupidly wide ones, because he hasn’t seen Ryan in months, and he’s missed the fucker. He pulls Ryan up by the front of his jacket and hugs him and smiles into Ryan’s neck when Ryan hugs him back just as tightly.
Ryan says, “I’m glad you came,” and his voice is muffled by Spencer’s coat.
“Got an extra bunk for me?” Spencer asks, and Ryan pulls back just far enough to slug him in the shoulder.
“Jackass,” he says, even though he’s still grinning. “Just wait ‘til you meet Pastor Jon.”
“How many wives does he have?”
Ryan quirks an eyebrow. “You know, finding religion doesn’t always equate to joining a cult.”
Spencer nods, even though he knows that Ryan has never had any use for God in his entire life, that he’d spent most of his adult years as a bitter agnostic. He thinks this cult must have some pretty awesome perks. Like Naked Orgy Day.
“Come on,” Ryan says. “I’ve got an early morning practice, so it’d be nice to get at least a little sleep tonight.”
“I hope you’re going to feed me first, Ross,” Spencer says. He doesn’t care how late it is. Those little packs of peanuts do absolutely nothing to curb hunger - they only make it worse.
Ryan pokes his stomach. “Yeah, all right,” he says, “maybe.”
*
Ryan is not kidding about the early morning, Spencer realizes, when Ryan’s alarm goes off at five fucking thirty. Ryan rolls out of bed with a groan after Spencer slaps at his head for about ten minutes.
Spencer drifts off again, but wakes up to Ryan poking at him only a half hour later.
“If you get up now I’ll buy you breakfast,” Ryan says.
“What the fuck,” Spencer mumbles into his pillow.
“Come on.” Ryan refuses to stop poking him. Spencer is about three seconds from breaking his fingers off.
“Three seconds,” Spencer growls and Ryan immediately jerks his hand away.
“Waffles,” Ryan says. “It’s possible that I’m willing to buy you waffles if you come with me to band practice.”
Spencer turns his head and blinks. “Wait. Band practice, what?” Spencer isn’t sure he heard him right. “You’re in a band?”
Ryan arches an eyebrow. “Come and see.”
The thing is, cult suspicions aside, Spencer hasn’t seen Ryan this enthusiastic over anything since their short-lived Blink-182 cover band when he’d been thirteen. Spencer’s insanely curious to find out what’s got Ryan’s so jazzed about God lately. It’s more than a little weird.
Spencer sighs. “Fine,” he says, and pushes the blankets back to get out of bed. “This isn’t some sort of weird cult band, is it?”
“We sacrifice virgins before every show,” Ryan deadpans.
“Sweet.” Spencer scrubs a hand over his head and debates having a shower. On the one hand, he still smells like an airplane. On the other, it’s six in the fucking morning.
He ends up just tugging on a t-shirt and sweats and finger combs his hair. A glance in the bathroom mirror shows an unshaven street bum. Spencer flashes himself a thumbs-up and ambles out to meet Ryan, already in his jacket, hovering by the front door with his guitar case in hand.
“Hurry up,” Ryan says. “If we get there before Johnson there might actually be some donuts left.”
“Thought you were buying me waffles, Ross,” Spencer says, tugging on his coat and pulling a wool hat down over his mess of bed hair. It’s fucking freezing there.
“Afterwards.” He holds open the door for Spencer, locking it behind them. “Promise.”
Ryan is his normal quiet self in the car, fingers tapping the wheel in time to music that is thankfully not Christian rock - Spencer doesn’t think he could’ve handled that - and Spencer zones out, still half-asleep, forehead tipped onto the cool window. His breath fogs up the glass, obscuring the passing wintry Pennsylvanian scenery, and he’s not paying any close attention to where they’re going.
There’s a huge Church of the Savior sign in front of him when they finally park and he stumbles out of the car. “What, are you-” Spencer widens his eyes at Ryan over the hood of the hatchback, not sure whether he’s amused or deeply horrified. “Are you in a praise band?”
Ryan frowns. “Shut the fuck up.”
Spencer’s mouth twitches. Amused it is. “Are you allowed to cuss like that, Ryan Ross?”
Ryan rolls his eyes. “You’re such an asshole.”
Spencer grins.
Tea Shop Jon, featuring staidandboring!Jon, enthusiasticcook!Joe, and squintyeyed!Spencer, AKA the boring one that I abandoned for being boring
Jon has one cup of coffee, black, in the morning before work.
He eats an apple standing over his kitchen sink, absently staring out the window into the wan pre-dawn yard, then pours half a glass of water into Henry’s terracotta pot. Henry the jade plant has survived one college dorm and three apartments, and he seems to really like Jon’s new townhouse. Jon likes it, too.
He takes the backdoor, dropping a trash bag off in the alleyway before tucking his hands into his pockets and hanging a left. He walks past Miss Artie’s bakery and waves through the front pane of glass. He can see his breath lingering in the crisp late fall air, and speeds up his steps.
No other shops are open, not that early, and Jon fumbles with the key on Whistle, fingers numb, before he realizes the door’s already unlocked.
“Hello?” he calls out, stepping inside and flipping the first switch, lighting up neatly lined rows of tables, chairs tipped over on top.
No one answers. A prickling of unease trips up his spine as he makes his way towards the backroom, the kitchen, and he hefts the first thing he can find - an umbrella someone left the day before, when it’d been raining off and on, with a hooked handle and a pointy metal tip.
He flips the switch by the backroom and now all the lights are blazing in the shop. Jon feels weird, like he’s being watched, like someone’s fucking lurking, even though there’s no way anyone could hide in the tiny restaurant. He tightens his grip on the umbrella.
And then a head with a bushy fro pops out the swinging doors of the kitchen and Jon gives an embarrassing yelp as he stumbles backwards.
“Holy fuck,” Joe says. “You scared the crap out of me.”
Jon belated realizes he’s clutching his heart like some sort of Victorian maiden, panting. “Joe,” Jon says, straightening up, umbrella slipping from his now limp fingers to clatter on the floor. “Joe, what are you doing here this early?”
“Why the fuck are you here, dude, don’t tell me-wait, wait, you don’t open ‘til eleven, Walker, don’t tell me you get here everyday at-”
“Joe,” Jon says patiently, sliding his hands into his pockets to mask the slight residual tremors; adrenalin, he thinks, not fear. Joe’s new. He’s not as good as Alex had been, but Jon likes him, likes his enthusiasm, at least.
“I am going to make the most phenomenal sandwich of all time,” Joe says.
Jon arches an eyebrow.
“No, seriously,” Joe says. He shoves a hand through his hair. When he’s working, he ties elastic bands all over his head to hold it back - and he’s got sleeve tattoos and wears worn band t-shirts everyday and the ladies still love him when he inevitably comes out to ask everyone how their lunches are, even though Jon’s told him repeatedly that he doesn’t really have to do that. Joe’s trying a little too hard to erase the memory of Alex and Alex’s famous cookies and chicken salad sandwiches.
Jon says, “All right, well, I’ll be out front.”
*
They don’t get many guys at Whistle. Young guys especially. Mostly, Jon seats older ladies or moms with babies, so the dude with the beard and scowl is really standing out.
“So if you don’t stop scaring my customers, I might have to ask you to leave,” Jon says, setting his pot of hot water and bag of orange-raspberry tea by his elbow. He smiles as he says it, though, because he’s half joking.
The guy isn’t amused, but he does stop eying the room like a caged animal, which is good.
“Can I get you anything else?” Jon asks.
He pauses for a weird moment before saying, “No.”
Jon nods. “Okay.” The guy has really awesome, intense blue eyes. Jon knows he should be walking away right about now, but he can’t help staring. There’s a ghost of a smile hovering over his lips. Jon swallows hard.
Alternate Beach Dog Universe, where Brendon has a boy and Ryan fosters kids and has too many cats - you can see why I didn't go with this original version
“I want a nose ring.”
“No.”
Evan stares up at him with big brown eyes. “Why not?”
“Because you’re ten.” Brendon doesn’t bother saying that even if he was twenty, he still wouldn’t approve. Somehow, some way, he’s become just as controlling as his parents - only he’s much, much cooler - and he isn’t even the least bit upset about that.
“Aaron has a nose ring,” he says, pouting.
“And Aaron’s sixteen, so there you go.” Brendon kind of wishes Evan would find some kids his own age to hang out with. He likes Aaron. Zack trusts Aaron, and Zack’s an awesome judge of character, so he’s not worried about their age difference too much, but it’s still a little strange.
Of course, Aaron’s dad is a weirdo. Brendon’s not even sure they’re really related, since Aaron’s sixteen, and his dad looks like he’s barely past Brendon’s age - if you don’t count all the scarves and plaid tweed, which place him just around eighty years old. Plus there’re all those fucking cats, and Brendon ventured too far into their lawn once - the house butts up behind Brendon’s - and Ross had turned the hose on him.
Evan takes a huge bite of his sandwich and chews with his mouth open, because he’s obnoxious.
Brendon pointedly ignores him. He was him, once, so he knows all his tricks. He feels a lot of sympathy for his parents now.
“Uncle Spence would let me have a nose ring,” Evan mutters, and Brendon snorts.
“Uncle Spence respects your dad’s decisions,” Brendon says, which is not a total lie, but it’s stretching it. Spencer would totally give Evan a pony if he’d ever asked for one - thank god he hasn’t - because Spencer has the biggest soft spot ever for Brendon’s little boy. Residuals from those early days, when Brendon was trying to balance touring and raising a baby on a bus, when they’d all been so young and completely out of their element.
Evan kicks his feet into the kitchen island rhythmically, another of his tics designed to drive normal adults crazy, only it just makes Brendon tap his spoon on the side of his glass in counterpoint. He grins at him, and Evan grins back. There’s pretty much no one on the entire planet Brendon loves more than Evan.
“I’ve got soccer remember,” Evan says.
Brendon nods. “Zack’s taking you. I’ve got a studio session ‘til six, but I’ll be back for dinner, okay? No talking Zack into ice cream.”
Evan asks, “Even if we win?” He juts out his lower lip.
“Nope. Zack’s a pushover, so I’m trusting you.” He waggles his eyebrows at him.
He rolls his eyes and says, “Fine, geez.”
The doorbell rings just as Evan finishes his milk, and Brendon says, “Go change,” and, “Wear your athletic socks this time, seriously,” because his coach basically thinks Brendon’s a forgetful moron and Evan’s got something against sweaty calves, and, “I’ll let Pear in.”
Evan pulls a face and jumps down off the stool. He’s ten but he’s tiny. Brendon blames Audrey for that, because Brendon is totally a respectable height.
“I don’t see why we gotta take Pear,” he says, stomping out of the kitchen and down the front hall.
“You love Pear,” Brendon says, shouts up the stairs after him.
Brendon opens the front door and Pear’s grinning up at him, this total crazy smile, cleat laces tied and draped over her shoulder. Her hair’s got red stripes today, instead of its normal dark brown.
“Your hair’s red,” Brendon says, leaning onto the doorknob and gesturing her inside.
“I know, isn’t it cool? Dad did it.”
Pete is fucking insane at the best of times, so this is totally tame for him. “I bet your mom’s thrilled,” Brendon says.
Pear shrugs a shoulder, still grinning. And then her eyes light up and her entire body tenses when she spots Evan galloping back down the stairs, because Pear Wentz has the biggest crush ever on him, and Brendon thinks it’s hilarious.
“We’re waiting out front for Zack,” Evan says, grabbing Pear’s arm and tugging her past Brendon.
Pear stumbles a little, but the hearts don’t fade from her eyes.
“Evan,” Brendon says. He holds onto the door above his head.
He grins up at him. “Bye, Dad.”
Brendon squeezes his shoulder. It’s a total dad move and Evan rolls his eyes. “Have fun. Kick some ass for me.”
Evan gives him a loose salute and Brendon shakes his head as he closes the door behind them. And maybe he stands at the front window watching them until he sees Zack pull up, but whatever.
*
“I don’t know if we should do this without Cash,” Spencer says. He twirls his sticks, shakes out his arms and kick-starts into Your Temper.
Brendon looks up from fiddling with his guitar strings. “Cash is touring with The Cab. He’s totally fine with this, dude, don’t worry.”
“Brendon.” Spencer’s Brendon’s best friend, because he’s doing this even though Brendon knows he thinks it’s stupid - trying to put out a studio album, another Beach Dog album after six years. Without Cash.
“So we won’t.” Brendon shrugs. “Maybe we won’t be Beach Dog, right? You still wanna play?”
Spencer looks at him like he’s a moron, which is answer enough, and Brendon beams. It’s not like they haven’t jammed together over the years. It’s not like either of them stopped playing.
“It just feels a little weird.” Spencer rolls his shoulders.
The Cab is picking up momentum. It does feel a little weird, but Brendon can’t blame Cash for bowing out.
“I told Aaron he could come in for a while,” Brendon says. Aaron’s decent on the guitar. More than decent, really, even if his dad is scary as hell.
“You just feel bad that his dad’s crazy.”
“Ross is certifiable, Spence, but apparently he’s a fan.”
Spencer’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”
“Aaron had me sign Softly for him,” Brendon says.
“Shit, like, three people bought Softly,” Spencer says, wearing his impressed face. It’s almost exactly like his unimpressed face, only his forehead isn’t wrinkled in disgust.
And, whatever, Softly totally sold more than three copies, but their all-instrumental lullabies for Evan album hadn’t exactly been a hit, either. They’d never toured with it, never played any of the songs live - aside from in Evan’s nursery. It’s kind of Brendon’s favorite.
“He turned the hose on you, Bren. He’s a fan?” Spencer shakes his head.
“I’m not actually sure he knows who I am. I mean, I’ve never met him, right? And I was stepping all over his snap dragons.” Brendon picks out the first three notes of Simple Cures, slips into Carriage House Dawn, and Spencer follows his lead.
*
“Do you know anything about four year olds?”
“Um,” Brendon says. Presumably, at one point in time, Ross’d had a four year old. “You have a son?”
“I have a kid,” Ross says. “Who likes to call me dad because he knows it bugs the shit out of me, who I adopted when he was thirteen, and already a fully-formed human being, capable of rational thought. So, four year olds, go.”
Brendon pulls back a little and stares at his phone, then says, “How did you even get this number?”
“Aaron,” Ross says, the duh implied. In the background, Brendon can hear a cat yowling.
Seriously, fucking crazy. “Why do you-”
“Eloise, put down the damn cat,” Ross yells, then says, “Jesus Christ, I can’t handle this, I think her father was Satan.”
Brendon laughs. Just a little. “Do you want me to come over?” he asks, and Ross says, “Bless you,” and hangs up the phone.
And speaking of Beach Dog, here's a Mary Beth and Eddie snippet set right before they joined Five Days and AZF on tour for Plays Out Like A Drum
“Mom and Dad think I’m gay,” Eddie says, pushing his way into Mary Beth’s apartment. Mary Beth steps aside with a raised eyebrow.
“What?” She doesn’t bother to ask why he’s there, even though they’re currently living on opposite sides of the country from each other.
Eddie drops his duffle beside the couch and grins at her. “Hey, hi,” he says, and folds her up into a hug. “How’s my awesome twin?”
“Wondering why Mom and Dad think you’re gay, geez, Eddie,” Mary Beth says dryly, but she hugs him back, digging her chin into his shoulder. They’re the same exact height, but Eddie got all the Asher genes, big dark eyes, tiny nose, soft smile. Mary Beth is the spitting image of their dad. She used to be kind of bitter about it, but her high cheekbones and piercing eyes have been heralded enough in the entertainment press that she no longer minds. Much.
“It was the only way I could get them to stop trying to set me up with Serena,” Eddie says.
Mary Beth frowns. “We hate Serena.” They hate Serena Lacey because she’s a skank whore who broke Sam’s heart.
“I know.”
“And couldn’t you just tell them that Serena was gay?”
“They know that, Mab, this is Dad we’re dealing with. And it backfired anyway.” Eddie shrugs and heads into the kitchen, throwing over his shoulder, “Now they’re on my ass about Jace.”
Mary Beth stifles a laugh. “Did you call and warn him?”
Eddie peeks back around the doorjamb, grin turned evil. “Hell no.”
And just for fun, here's a Beach Dog Marty and Keltie snippet, because god knows when that's actually getting written
What’s embarrassing, Marty thinks, is having your mom marry into a family that’s, like, a thousand times more cool than Marty will ever be.
“You’ll love Lissa and Kit,” his mom says, sitting on the edge of his bed and smiling at him.
Marty’s pretty sure he’ll love Lissa and Kit, too, considering he’s got fifteen magazines hidden in his closet with Automatic Zombie Fall on the covers, and a poster of Pear Wentz over his bed. Not because she’s hot - Marty isn’t all that interested in girls, really - but because she’s kick-ass. She’s amazing, and now he’s kind of related to her. In a weird, FBR way.
“Jamie’s really nice, too. And David, of course, and I think Spencer mentioned something about Alex’s little girl.” She picks up his hand and threads her fingers through his. “You’ll be fine.”
Marty rolls his eyes. “I know, mom.” He’s really glad his mom’s found Ryan, he is. They’re, like, stupid in love. It’s just. It’s kind of annoying, having all these people he’s expected to get along with. Like ready-made friends, so it’ll really suck when they figure out he’s kind of a loser.
“Okay.” She takes a deep breath, smile wavering just the tiniest little bit. Marty thinks his mom is just about perfect, even though he knows she’s the one who’s given him his loser tendencies.
His dad certainly had nothing to do with his love of ballet and trashy sci-fi novels. And his dad had always hated Stupid Hat Day and he’d never gotten the hang of their shorthand, and he had, more often than not, pretended he hadn’t known them when they’d make their way through all the ridiculous glasses displayed at the local Walgreen’s.
“You like Ryan, right?” she asks.
“It’s a little late to ask me that, you know,” Marty says, but he grins and squeezes her hand, because sure he likes Ryan. Ryan makes her grin stupidly and wears paisley vests and weird scarves and they can talk with their eyebrows, and Marty has always wanted that for her.
So maybe he’s dreading school. He’d never been very popular back home, but he’d grown up with those kids. They knew him, he’d had friends, and no one really cared that he’d preferred dancing to football or soccer. He’d found a niche, he’d settled on in and hardly anyone had noticed him. He has a feeling being a new kid is going to be a totally different experience.
He doesn’t wish they hadn’t moved, though, not if it puts that happy glow in her eyes.
“Everything’s going to be fine, Mom,” he says, and he mostly means it.
And... I'm spent.
* Secondly, someone NEEDS to write a fic where Jon Walker saves Christmas. I don't care how - maybe something Santa Clause-esque, only without him aging and rounding out; or maybe Jon's mysterious Uncle Nick needs some holiday help! Maybe he always disappears in radio silence to "Chicago" each year, but really he's up at the North Pole! Seriously. Seriously, think about it now, JON WALKER SAVES CHRISTMAS, HOW CAN THAT NOT BE A RECIPE FOR EXTREME AWESOME?
* Also, I'm feeling totally glum, so here's a bunch of random WIPs (Amnesty, anyone?)
Ghosts R Us, featuring exasperated!Spence, fakeaccent!Brendon, sexuallyinapropriateghost!Ryan, and haunted!Jon
Spencer has always been very practical. The problem is, there’s his real life, and then there’s Ryan.
In his real life, Spencer runs a bookshop. He employs two out of the three Alexes that hang around after school. His best friend cuts hair across the street, and brings him smoothies or coffee or snacks on all his breaks. He has an embarrassing crush on the guy who comes in once a month to pick up a copy of Country Living magazine.
On the other hand, he sees dead people.
*
At eight pm, Spencer locks up the front of the shop and wanders back towards his office. It’s more of a storage room than an office, but it’s got a desk and a file cabinet and a little fridge filled with beer. Brendon’s got his laptop open, sprawled on the low-slung couch.
“Here we go,” Brendon says. He bats at his neck with one hand, where Ryan’s poking him with a pencil. This is a sure sign that Ryan’s bored. Ryan gets bored pretty easily, for a ghost.
“Here we go,” Brendon says again, “-Ryan, quit it.” He pouts in Ryan’s general direction, since he can’t actually see him.
No, that privilege is all Spencer’s, and he’s never been able to adequately describe Ryan to anyone. He’s sort of like how a riverboat gambler might look if he suddenly decided to become a gay cowboy - pinstripe pants, hobo gloves, paisley vest, neckerchief, headband. Spencer has absolutely no idea when Ryan died. Spencer doesn’t even think Ryan knows.
“Here we go?” Spencer prompts, leaning back against his desk.
“Possibly possessed teenager living in what used to be a morgue at a funeral home,” Brendon says. “The parents made it into his bedroom, how messed up is that?”
“No,” Ryan says.
Spencer shakes his head. “No.”
Ryan crosses his arms over his chest and perches on the sofa arm next to Brendon’s head. He narrows his eyes on the computer screen and says, “All teenagers are possessed, dude, it’s a waste of time.”
“Ryan says all teenagers are possessed,” Spencer automatically translates for Brendon.
Brendon pulls a face. “Ryan can bite me.”
Spencer tells Ryan, “No,” before he can even try anything.
Ryan rolls his eyes and says, “Brendon can kiss my cold, dead ass.”
“I’m not saying that. You two need to find a way to communicate that does not involve me.”
“You need to get him a collar with a bell on it. And a chalkboard,” Brendon says. “Or, you know, he can suck my dick.”
Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose. He really wishes he could go back to when Brendon didn’t know about Ryan, just six glorious months ago.
“Oh, wait, wait, this guy-he’s got a thing with photos. Photos getting fucked up, look.” He turns the laptop so Spencer can see. He’s on a product forum for digital photography - Spencer has no idea how Brendon finds these things. A combination of random web searches and good luck. Or really bad luck, if you’re Spencer.
“What am I looking at?” Spencer asks.
“That.” Brendon jabs a finger at the screen. ‘That’ turns out to be a photo with a shadowy figure smack dab in the middle. Despite himself, Spencer’s sort of intrigued.
“Huh.”
“Hey, I think I know that guy,” Ryan says.
Spencer just gives him a look.
Ryan frowns at him. “The dude in the icon, Spence, what the fuck.”
The dude in the icon is, presumably, JWalk<3sCats, since he’s holding a kitten up to his face. He’s also, Spencer’s pretty sure, Country Living Magazine Guy. “Shit.”
Brendon grins at him. “Let’s go snoop!”
“You know snooping’s illegal, right?” Spencer says.
“Snooping is only illegal if they know you’re snooping.” He clicks over to JWalk<3sCats profile. “It says here he owns JWalk Studios, downtown Chicago, shouldn’t be that hard to find. We’re gonna be prospective clients, my dear Spence, it’ll be awesome.”
“I hope it’s fetish photography,” Ryan says.
“It’s not fetish photography,” Spencer says.
“Ryan just wants to see my naked body,” Brendon says.
Ryan snorts. “Like I haven’t already?”
“I didn’t want to know that,” Spencer says. He’s relatively certain Ryan’s seen him naked, too, but he doesn’t like to think about it. It’s too weird, especially since he’s had Ryan hanging around him since he was, like, eight.
“Know what? That Ryan watches me jerk off-oh, hey, can ghosts, you know,” Brendon makes an obscene hand gesture and Spencer covers his eyes with a palm, because he can’t believe his life.
*
Spencer has only known Brendon for the better part of a year, but they really are best friends. He’s the sort of guy who gets completely under your skin - like Pete, only more endearing. Brendon doesn’t take no for an answer, and he’s unbelievably trusting, and even without Ryan’s almost constant teasing - seriously, it’s like pigtail pulling, which is so disturbing, Spencer thinks - Brendon probably still would’ve taken Spencer’s I-see-ghosts claim for the truth.
Spencer wouldn’t have said anything to Brendon about it at all except a) Brendon is his (living) best friend, and b) he’d had a dead dude following him around for nearly a week.
It turns out the ghost had been his downstairs neighbor, the one with the dog Brendon liked so much. Once Brendon agreed to adopt Dylan, the guy had just disappeared. Spencer’s never really sure where they go. He likes to think they drift off to a better place, but Ryan’s been there for going on fifteen years, and Spencer has a feeling he’ll never get rid of him.
So Brendon now thinks it’s awesome and fun to search out hauntings and talk to ghosts and shit. Spencer’s just really surprised neither of them have been arrested yet.
JWalk Studios is in a slightly rundown building in a slightly rundown part of town.
“Classy,” Ryan says, hooking his thumbs into his belt.
“You didn’t have to come,” Spencer says.
“Of course I did. This is the best part of my day, do you think Brendon’s going to use the Russian accent again?”
“No,” Spencer says, giving Brendon a pointed look, “Brendon is not going to use the Russian accent again.”
“Oh, come on,” Brendon says. “My accents are awesome.”
Spencer ignores that patently false claim - he’s like Val Kilmer in The Saint, and it’s kind of more painful than amusing to watch - and says, “So what’s our story?”
Brendon hooks his arm through Spencer’s. “We’re doing a photo shoot. I made an appointment and everything, it’ll be perfect.”
Spencer arches an eyebrow. “And why are we getting our pictures taken?”
“Does it matter?” Brendon shrugs. “Dude’s not gonna care, right? Oh, oh,” he waves a hand around, “we can be lovers, that’s awesome, I’m awesome.”
“We can’t be lovers,” Spencer says. He makes a face, because ew. There might have been a time when Spencer was attracted to Brendon, but that was before he’d seen him eat an entire pot of spaghettios.
“This is fantastic,” Ryan says, a little too gleefully for Spencer’s comfort.
“No,” Spencer says. “No, it’s not.”
Pastor Jon, featuring it'sapraisebandnotacult!Ryan and choosingtobeamused!Spencer
Spencer starts a list on the plane. It’s a very short list, since he can only come up with two plausible reasons why Ryan doesn’t want to come home for the holidays. He writes: joined a cult, and, directly under that scary possibility, has fallen in love. He kind of wants to believe the second, even though Ryan’s last email had mentioned an interfaith meeting and living the life of lambs. Spencer is fully prepared to stage an intervention.
He texts Ryan from the air, because he can’t leave it alone. He sends: is there a girl?
Ten mind-numbingly slow minutes later, Ryan texts: no
severl girls? Spencer asks, because cults are notoriously polygamous, and while Wayne isn’t exactly known for its religious compounds - Spencer checked - it doesn’t mean there isn’t, like, a David Koresh wannabe lurking in the woods.
You’re hilarious, Ryan sends back, and then, immediately following, I’ll save you some kool-aid
At least Ryan isn’t so brainwashed that he can’t recognize where Spencer’s going with this. It doesn’t exactly rule out the cult theory, but it makes Spencer feel better anyway.
His plane is forty-five minutes late, taxiing in just after midnight, and he spots Ryan’s gangly form sprawled in a plastic chair just past the luggage carousels at Philly International. He’s got a hat tipped forward over his face, a brown and green striped scarf looped loosely around his neck, his long jean-encased legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.
Ryan doesn’t look up until Spencer kicks at his feet, and then he just yawns into a slow smile. Spencer thinks his hair is getting ridiculously long, curling over his ears. “Hey,” Ryan says, and Spencer rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, hi,” he says, but he can’t help the grin. One of his stupidly wide ones, because he hasn’t seen Ryan in months, and he’s missed the fucker. He pulls Ryan up by the front of his jacket and hugs him and smiles into Ryan’s neck when Ryan hugs him back just as tightly.
Ryan says, “I’m glad you came,” and his voice is muffled by Spencer’s coat.
“Got an extra bunk for me?” Spencer asks, and Ryan pulls back just far enough to slug him in the shoulder.
“Jackass,” he says, even though he’s still grinning. “Just wait ‘til you meet Pastor Jon.”
“How many wives does he have?”
Ryan quirks an eyebrow. “You know, finding religion doesn’t always equate to joining a cult.”
Spencer nods, even though he knows that Ryan has never had any use for God in his entire life, that he’d spent most of his adult years as a bitter agnostic. He thinks this cult must have some pretty awesome perks. Like Naked Orgy Day.
“Come on,” Ryan says. “I’ve got an early morning practice, so it’d be nice to get at least a little sleep tonight.”
“I hope you’re going to feed me first, Ross,” Spencer says. He doesn’t care how late it is. Those little packs of peanuts do absolutely nothing to curb hunger - they only make it worse.
Ryan pokes his stomach. “Yeah, all right,” he says, “maybe.”
*
Ryan is not kidding about the early morning, Spencer realizes, when Ryan’s alarm goes off at five fucking thirty. Ryan rolls out of bed with a groan after Spencer slaps at his head for about ten minutes.
Spencer drifts off again, but wakes up to Ryan poking at him only a half hour later.
“If you get up now I’ll buy you breakfast,” Ryan says.
“What the fuck,” Spencer mumbles into his pillow.
“Come on.” Ryan refuses to stop poking him. Spencer is about three seconds from breaking his fingers off.
“Three seconds,” Spencer growls and Ryan immediately jerks his hand away.
“Waffles,” Ryan says. “It’s possible that I’m willing to buy you waffles if you come with me to band practice.”
Spencer turns his head and blinks. “Wait. Band practice, what?” Spencer isn’t sure he heard him right. “You’re in a band?”
Ryan arches an eyebrow. “Come and see.”
The thing is, cult suspicions aside, Spencer hasn’t seen Ryan this enthusiastic over anything since their short-lived Blink-182 cover band when he’d been thirteen. Spencer’s insanely curious to find out what’s got Ryan’s so jazzed about God lately. It’s more than a little weird.
Spencer sighs. “Fine,” he says, and pushes the blankets back to get out of bed. “This isn’t some sort of weird cult band, is it?”
“We sacrifice virgins before every show,” Ryan deadpans.
“Sweet.” Spencer scrubs a hand over his head and debates having a shower. On the one hand, he still smells like an airplane. On the other, it’s six in the fucking morning.
He ends up just tugging on a t-shirt and sweats and finger combs his hair. A glance in the bathroom mirror shows an unshaven street bum. Spencer flashes himself a thumbs-up and ambles out to meet Ryan, already in his jacket, hovering by the front door with his guitar case in hand.
“Hurry up,” Ryan says. “If we get there before Johnson there might actually be some donuts left.”
“Thought you were buying me waffles, Ross,” Spencer says, tugging on his coat and pulling a wool hat down over his mess of bed hair. It’s fucking freezing there.
“Afterwards.” He holds open the door for Spencer, locking it behind them. “Promise.”
Ryan is his normal quiet self in the car, fingers tapping the wheel in time to music that is thankfully not Christian rock - Spencer doesn’t think he could’ve handled that - and Spencer zones out, still half-asleep, forehead tipped onto the cool window. His breath fogs up the glass, obscuring the passing wintry Pennsylvanian scenery, and he’s not paying any close attention to where they’re going.
There’s a huge Church of the Savior sign in front of him when they finally park and he stumbles out of the car. “What, are you-” Spencer widens his eyes at Ryan over the hood of the hatchback, not sure whether he’s amused or deeply horrified. “Are you in a praise band?”
Ryan frowns. “Shut the fuck up.”
Spencer’s mouth twitches. Amused it is. “Are you allowed to cuss like that, Ryan Ross?”
Ryan rolls his eyes. “You’re such an asshole.”
Spencer grins.
Tea Shop Jon, featuring staidandboring!Jon, enthusiasticcook!Joe, and squintyeyed!Spencer, AKA the boring one that I abandoned for being boring
Jon has one cup of coffee, black, in the morning before work.
He eats an apple standing over his kitchen sink, absently staring out the window into the wan pre-dawn yard, then pours half a glass of water into Henry’s terracotta pot. Henry the jade plant has survived one college dorm and three apartments, and he seems to really like Jon’s new townhouse. Jon likes it, too.
He takes the backdoor, dropping a trash bag off in the alleyway before tucking his hands into his pockets and hanging a left. He walks past Miss Artie’s bakery and waves through the front pane of glass. He can see his breath lingering in the crisp late fall air, and speeds up his steps.
No other shops are open, not that early, and Jon fumbles with the key on Whistle, fingers numb, before he realizes the door’s already unlocked.
“Hello?” he calls out, stepping inside and flipping the first switch, lighting up neatly lined rows of tables, chairs tipped over on top.
No one answers. A prickling of unease trips up his spine as he makes his way towards the backroom, the kitchen, and he hefts the first thing he can find - an umbrella someone left the day before, when it’d been raining off and on, with a hooked handle and a pointy metal tip.
He flips the switch by the backroom and now all the lights are blazing in the shop. Jon feels weird, like he’s being watched, like someone’s fucking lurking, even though there’s no way anyone could hide in the tiny restaurant. He tightens his grip on the umbrella.
And then a head with a bushy fro pops out the swinging doors of the kitchen and Jon gives an embarrassing yelp as he stumbles backwards.
“Holy fuck,” Joe says. “You scared the crap out of me.”
Jon belated realizes he’s clutching his heart like some sort of Victorian maiden, panting. “Joe,” Jon says, straightening up, umbrella slipping from his now limp fingers to clatter on the floor. “Joe, what are you doing here this early?”
“Why the fuck are you here, dude, don’t tell me-wait, wait, you don’t open ‘til eleven, Walker, don’t tell me you get here everyday at-”
“Joe,” Jon says patiently, sliding his hands into his pockets to mask the slight residual tremors; adrenalin, he thinks, not fear. Joe’s new. He’s not as good as Alex had been, but Jon likes him, likes his enthusiasm, at least.
“I am going to make the most phenomenal sandwich of all time,” Joe says.
Jon arches an eyebrow.
“No, seriously,” Joe says. He shoves a hand through his hair. When he’s working, he ties elastic bands all over his head to hold it back - and he’s got sleeve tattoos and wears worn band t-shirts everyday and the ladies still love him when he inevitably comes out to ask everyone how their lunches are, even though Jon’s told him repeatedly that he doesn’t really have to do that. Joe’s trying a little too hard to erase the memory of Alex and Alex’s famous cookies and chicken salad sandwiches.
Jon says, “All right, well, I’ll be out front.”
*
They don’t get many guys at Whistle. Young guys especially. Mostly, Jon seats older ladies or moms with babies, so the dude with the beard and scowl is really standing out.
“So if you don’t stop scaring my customers, I might have to ask you to leave,” Jon says, setting his pot of hot water and bag of orange-raspberry tea by his elbow. He smiles as he says it, though, because he’s half joking.
The guy isn’t amused, but he does stop eying the room like a caged animal, which is good.
“Can I get you anything else?” Jon asks.
He pauses for a weird moment before saying, “No.”
Jon nods. “Okay.” The guy has really awesome, intense blue eyes. Jon knows he should be walking away right about now, but he can’t help staring. There’s a ghost of a smile hovering over his lips. Jon swallows hard.
Alternate Beach Dog Universe, where Brendon has a boy and Ryan fosters kids and has too many cats - you can see why I didn't go with this original version
“I want a nose ring.”
“No.”
Evan stares up at him with big brown eyes. “Why not?”
“Because you’re ten.” Brendon doesn’t bother saying that even if he was twenty, he still wouldn’t approve. Somehow, some way, he’s become just as controlling as his parents - only he’s much, much cooler - and he isn’t even the least bit upset about that.
“Aaron has a nose ring,” he says, pouting.
“And Aaron’s sixteen, so there you go.” Brendon kind of wishes Evan would find some kids his own age to hang out with. He likes Aaron. Zack trusts Aaron, and Zack’s an awesome judge of character, so he’s not worried about their age difference too much, but it’s still a little strange.
Of course, Aaron’s dad is a weirdo. Brendon’s not even sure they’re really related, since Aaron’s sixteen, and his dad looks like he’s barely past Brendon’s age - if you don’t count all the scarves and plaid tweed, which place him just around eighty years old. Plus there’re all those fucking cats, and Brendon ventured too far into their lawn once - the house butts up behind Brendon’s - and Ross had turned the hose on him.
Evan takes a huge bite of his sandwich and chews with his mouth open, because he’s obnoxious.
Brendon pointedly ignores him. He was him, once, so he knows all his tricks. He feels a lot of sympathy for his parents now.
“Uncle Spence would let me have a nose ring,” Evan mutters, and Brendon snorts.
“Uncle Spence respects your dad’s decisions,” Brendon says, which is not a total lie, but it’s stretching it. Spencer would totally give Evan a pony if he’d ever asked for one - thank god he hasn’t - because Spencer has the biggest soft spot ever for Brendon’s little boy. Residuals from those early days, when Brendon was trying to balance touring and raising a baby on a bus, when they’d all been so young and completely out of their element.
Evan kicks his feet into the kitchen island rhythmically, another of his tics designed to drive normal adults crazy, only it just makes Brendon tap his spoon on the side of his glass in counterpoint. He grins at him, and Evan grins back. There’s pretty much no one on the entire planet Brendon loves more than Evan.
“I’ve got soccer remember,” Evan says.
Brendon nods. “Zack’s taking you. I’ve got a studio session ‘til six, but I’ll be back for dinner, okay? No talking Zack into ice cream.”
Evan asks, “Even if we win?” He juts out his lower lip.
“Nope. Zack’s a pushover, so I’m trusting you.” He waggles his eyebrows at him.
He rolls his eyes and says, “Fine, geez.”
The doorbell rings just as Evan finishes his milk, and Brendon says, “Go change,” and, “Wear your athletic socks this time, seriously,” because his coach basically thinks Brendon’s a forgetful moron and Evan’s got something against sweaty calves, and, “I’ll let Pear in.”
Evan pulls a face and jumps down off the stool. He’s ten but he’s tiny. Brendon blames Audrey for that, because Brendon is totally a respectable height.
“I don’t see why we gotta take Pear,” he says, stomping out of the kitchen and down the front hall.
“You love Pear,” Brendon says, shouts up the stairs after him.
Brendon opens the front door and Pear’s grinning up at him, this total crazy smile, cleat laces tied and draped over her shoulder. Her hair’s got red stripes today, instead of its normal dark brown.
“Your hair’s red,” Brendon says, leaning onto the doorknob and gesturing her inside.
“I know, isn’t it cool? Dad did it.”
Pete is fucking insane at the best of times, so this is totally tame for him. “I bet your mom’s thrilled,” Brendon says.
Pear shrugs a shoulder, still grinning. And then her eyes light up and her entire body tenses when she spots Evan galloping back down the stairs, because Pear Wentz has the biggest crush ever on him, and Brendon thinks it’s hilarious.
“We’re waiting out front for Zack,” Evan says, grabbing Pear’s arm and tugging her past Brendon.
Pear stumbles a little, but the hearts don’t fade from her eyes.
“Evan,” Brendon says. He holds onto the door above his head.
He grins up at him. “Bye, Dad.”
Brendon squeezes his shoulder. It’s a total dad move and Evan rolls his eyes. “Have fun. Kick some ass for me.”
Evan gives him a loose salute and Brendon shakes his head as he closes the door behind them. And maybe he stands at the front window watching them until he sees Zack pull up, but whatever.
*
“I don’t know if we should do this without Cash,” Spencer says. He twirls his sticks, shakes out his arms and kick-starts into Your Temper.
Brendon looks up from fiddling with his guitar strings. “Cash is touring with The Cab. He’s totally fine with this, dude, don’t worry.”
“Brendon.” Spencer’s Brendon’s best friend, because he’s doing this even though Brendon knows he thinks it’s stupid - trying to put out a studio album, another Beach Dog album after six years. Without Cash.
“So we won’t.” Brendon shrugs. “Maybe we won’t be Beach Dog, right? You still wanna play?”
Spencer looks at him like he’s a moron, which is answer enough, and Brendon beams. It’s not like they haven’t jammed together over the years. It’s not like either of them stopped playing.
“It just feels a little weird.” Spencer rolls his shoulders.
The Cab is picking up momentum. It does feel a little weird, but Brendon can’t blame Cash for bowing out.
“I told Aaron he could come in for a while,” Brendon says. Aaron’s decent on the guitar. More than decent, really, even if his dad is scary as hell.
“You just feel bad that his dad’s crazy.”
“Ross is certifiable, Spence, but apparently he’s a fan.”
Spencer’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”
“Aaron had me sign Softly for him,” Brendon says.
“Shit, like, three people bought Softly,” Spencer says, wearing his impressed face. It’s almost exactly like his unimpressed face, only his forehead isn’t wrinkled in disgust.
And, whatever, Softly totally sold more than three copies, but their all-instrumental lullabies for Evan album hadn’t exactly been a hit, either. They’d never toured with it, never played any of the songs live - aside from in Evan’s nursery. It’s kind of Brendon’s favorite.
“He turned the hose on you, Bren. He’s a fan?” Spencer shakes his head.
“I’m not actually sure he knows who I am. I mean, I’ve never met him, right? And I was stepping all over his snap dragons.” Brendon picks out the first three notes of Simple Cures, slips into Carriage House Dawn, and Spencer follows his lead.
*
“Do you know anything about four year olds?”
“Um,” Brendon says. Presumably, at one point in time, Ross’d had a four year old. “You have a son?”
“I have a kid,” Ross says. “Who likes to call me dad because he knows it bugs the shit out of me, who I adopted when he was thirteen, and already a fully-formed human being, capable of rational thought. So, four year olds, go.”
Brendon pulls back a little and stares at his phone, then says, “How did you even get this number?”
“Aaron,” Ross says, the duh implied. In the background, Brendon can hear a cat yowling.
Seriously, fucking crazy. “Why do you-”
“Eloise, put down the damn cat,” Ross yells, then says, “Jesus Christ, I can’t handle this, I think her father was Satan.”
Brendon laughs. Just a little. “Do you want me to come over?” he asks, and Ross says, “Bless you,” and hangs up the phone.
And speaking of Beach Dog, here's a Mary Beth and Eddie snippet set right before they joined Five Days and AZF on tour for Plays Out Like A Drum
“Mom and Dad think I’m gay,” Eddie says, pushing his way into Mary Beth’s apartment. Mary Beth steps aside with a raised eyebrow.
“What?” She doesn’t bother to ask why he’s there, even though they’re currently living on opposite sides of the country from each other.
Eddie drops his duffle beside the couch and grins at her. “Hey, hi,” he says, and folds her up into a hug. “How’s my awesome twin?”
“Wondering why Mom and Dad think you’re gay, geez, Eddie,” Mary Beth says dryly, but she hugs him back, digging her chin into his shoulder. They’re the same exact height, but Eddie got all the Asher genes, big dark eyes, tiny nose, soft smile. Mary Beth is the spitting image of their dad. She used to be kind of bitter about it, but her high cheekbones and piercing eyes have been heralded enough in the entertainment press that she no longer minds. Much.
“It was the only way I could get them to stop trying to set me up with Serena,” Eddie says.
Mary Beth frowns. “We hate Serena.” They hate Serena Lacey because she’s a skank whore who broke Sam’s heart.
“I know.”
“And couldn’t you just tell them that Serena was gay?”
“They know that, Mab, this is Dad we’re dealing with. And it backfired anyway.” Eddie shrugs and heads into the kitchen, throwing over his shoulder, “Now they’re on my ass about Jace.”
Mary Beth stifles a laugh. “Did you call and warn him?”
Eddie peeks back around the doorjamb, grin turned evil. “Hell no.”
And just for fun, here's a Beach Dog Marty and Keltie snippet, because god knows when that's actually getting written
What’s embarrassing, Marty thinks, is having your mom marry into a family that’s, like, a thousand times more cool than Marty will ever be.
“You’ll love Lissa and Kit,” his mom says, sitting on the edge of his bed and smiling at him.
Marty’s pretty sure he’ll love Lissa and Kit, too, considering he’s got fifteen magazines hidden in his closet with Automatic Zombie Fall on the covers, and a poster of Pear Wentz over his bed. Not because she’s hot - Marty isn’t all that interested in girls, really - but because she’s kick-ass. She’s amazing, and now he’s kind of related to her. In a weird, FBR way.
“Jamie’s really nice, too. And David, of course, and I think Spencer mentioned something about Alex’s little girl.” She picks up his hand and threads her fingers through his. “You’ll be fine.”
Marty rolls his eyes. “I know, mom.” He’s really glad his mom’s found Ryan, he is. They’re, like, stupid in love. It’s just. It’s kind of annoying, having all these people he’s expected to get along with. Like ready-made friends, so it’ll really suck when they figure out he’s kind of a loser.
“Okay.” She takes a deep breath, smile wavering just the tiniest little bit. Marty thinks his mom is just about perfect, even though he knows she’s the one who’s given him his loser tendencies.
His dad certainly had nothing to do with his love of ballet and trashy sci-fi novels. And his dad had always hated Stupid Hat Day and he’d never gotten the hang of their shorthand, and he had, more often than not, pretended he hadn’t known them when they’d make their way through all the ridiculous glasses displayed at the local Walgreen’s.
“You like Ryan, right?” she asks.
“It’s a little late to ask me that, you know,” Marty says, but he grins and squeezes her hand, because sure he likes Ryan. Ryan makes her grin stupidly and wears paisley vests and weird scarves and they can talk with their eyebrows, and Marty has always wanted that for her.
So maybe he’s dreading school. He’d never been very popular back home, but he’d grown up with those kids. They knew him, he’d had friends, and no one really cared that he’d preferred dancing to football or soccer. He’d found a niche, he’d settled on in and hardly anyone had noticed him. He has a feeling being a new kid is going to be a totally different experience.
He doesn’t wish they hadn’t moved, though, not if it puts that happy glow in her eyes.
“Everything’s going to be fine, Mom,” he says, and he mostly means it.
And... I'm spent.