Fic: If It Kills Me (1/2)
If It Kills Me
Jon/Spencer | 17100 words | NC-17
Spencer Smith knows there must be a catch when Jon Walker − his despised FBI partner − offers to transfer out of Chicago and far, far away from him. There's a catch, all right: Spencer has to spend one sexy night with the untamed playboy. Okay, so the guy's hot. So his reputation in the bedroom is the stuff of legend. So Spencer's been in a dry spell for, oh, over a year. So maybe one night to be rid of him isn't so unbearable. But once the sheets have cooled, Spencer's just starting to heat up, and moving away is the last thing on Jon's mind...
For harlequin_bands. Plot and summary stolen shamelessly from Erin McCarthy's novella Miss Extreme Congeniality. Title stolen from Jason Mraz.
Hearts galore to everyone I threw tidbits of this at over the last month, and to my faithful betas, gobsmackit and siryn99.
and I will find a way to you if it kills me
It's not that Spencer hates undercover missions. In fact, he thinks it's one of the best things about working for the Bureau; he likes getting to pretend he's someone he's not, all in the name of putting bad guys in jail.
He just hates undercover missions when they involve his stupid, obnoxious, I-smile-at-anything-with-a-pulse partner, Jon Walker. And right now, said partner is seriously pushing him toward the edge.
Spencer fidgets with the cuffs of his plain white dress shirt, glaring at Jon across the room in his tux and wondering for the millionth time why he got to be fucking James Bond for the night. There wasn't any reason the two of them couldn't have been part of the crowd at the extremely over-the-top corporate party, but Ryan swore that putting one of them on the catering staff would make it easier to keep things "running smoothly." Normally Spencer wouldn't have cared, but for months now he's been the one transcribing tapes and going over documents, while Jon gets to run off to play pretend stockbroker in the corporate price-fixing investigation they've been working on. And now Spencer's the one picking up dirty dishes while Jon's off flirting with one of the other agents who's been working the case with them.
Okay, so the flirting with Agent Asher makes their mission easier in the long run; they need to get into an office on the second floor, and if they can just pull off the drunken-lovers-looking-for-a-room ruse, getting past the lax security will be simple. Everyone at this party seems more concerned with refilling their champagne flutes than checking out suspicious guests.
That doesn't mean watching Asher and Jon giggle and grope each other for all the world to see has to be something Spencer enjoys. Besides, Asher's got a good five inches on Jon. They look kind of ridiculous together.
"Wow, you smell really great tonight," Spencer hears Jon say through the earbud microphone, and he can also hear the way Asher laughs.
"Walker, seriously, you're way too into this," she says, but Spencer notices the way she slides a hand down Jon's back. He thinks everything would so much easier on him if he could just stay in the car and monitor their progress via the wire. Less exciting, sure, but still...
"Hey, kid, hurry up with those plates." The head of the catering staff snaps his fingers at Spencer. "I'm not paying you to stare at the guests."
You're not paying me at all, asswipe, Spencer thinks, resisting the urge to inform the guy that he's twenty-five, thank-you-very-much, and happens to own a sizable collection of handguns. Instead, he nods and replies, "Sure, yeah, sorry," and then hisses, "Guys, what the fuck, are we heading upstairs or not?" into the microphone.
He's about twenty feet away from Jon and Asher, and Jon looks over his shoulder at Spencer, smirking. "In a hurry?" he asks, and then pointedly glances at the stack of dishes in Spencer's hands. "Wanna make a run for it before they make you get your hands dirty?"
God, Spencer hates him. A lot. They've been partners for almost eight months; eight very long, very taxing months. Sometimes Spencer swears Walker lives to torment him, or at least make him regret joining the FBI in the first place. Not that Spencer ever would; his career is his life, and he'll be damned if he lets his partner try to take that away from him.
"No, I want to get in and out before Ryan starts calling and asking us why the hell we haven't finished up yet." He glares at Jon, who just smiles back, like always. Jon never glares, never actually loses his cool − if anything, stress makes Jon smug, and that irritates Spencer to no end. No one should be that perfect.
"Smith's getting antsy," Jon leans in and says to Asher, who nods.
"Yeah, we should probably start making our way up there." She glances at Spencer. "Ready?"
Spencer's been ready since they got to the mansion an hour and a half ago. "Definitely."
She grins at Jon and says, "Okay, let's do this," and suddenly grabs him by the lapels of his tux and hauls him in close, kissing him sloppily. It looks perfectly drunk, and she does a good job of stumbling a little as she drags him toward the stairs.
Spencer looks around quickly to make sure no one's watching as he sets his pile of dishes down and follows after them, keeping enough distance between them as to not look conspicuous.
In his earbud, he hears Asher laugh again and whisper, "So you really are as great a kisser as they say."
"Who says?" Jon's got that stupid tone in his voice, the one of flattered embarrassment he uses whenever someone mentions his supposed sexual prowess.
"Oh please, I spend way too much time with Conrad and Salpeter to not know your dirty little secrets." More kissing noises. "And they tell me things about you."
"You should really stop hanging out with my exes. Or maybe go out with me and learn for yourself if they're telling the truth." Jon makes a little sound that could be a hummed laugh. "Or maybe I should stop dating people in the Bureau altogether."
Spencer rolls his eyes. "Yeah, that's a stellar idea," he mumbles as he hurries to catch up with them. When he gets to the top of the stairs, Jon's looking at him with an eyebrow quirked, one arm tucked snugly around Asher's waist. For a second, Spencer's hit with the realization that, yeah, they really do make a stunning couple: Jon in his perfectly tailored tux, and Asher in her black, slinky little cocktail dress that shows off her legs.
"D'you say something, Smith?" Jon asks, and goddamn it, he's smirking again.
"Not a thing." More than anything on the planet (except maybe Brussels sprouts), Spencer hates blushing in front of Jon. "The office is down the hall and to the left, right?"
"According to the specs, yeah." Seriously, they're alone now. There's no reason for Jon to keep touching Asher like that, or for her to be leaning into him so closely.
He heads down the long, darkened hallway and stops at the door at the very end, tentatively turning the knob. It opens easily, and Spencer breathes a sigh of relief. He hates picking locks.
Inside the large, wood-trimmed office is a computer database that possibly holds evidence. The plan is for Jon to hack into the database and look for anything illegal, while Spencer and Asher act as lookouts and watch his back.
Jon slides easily into the leather desk chair and starts clacking away at the keys (which is another reason for Spencer to hate him − of course Jon's a computer whiz. The only thing missing from his fucking resume is a Nobel Peace Prize). Meanwhile, Spencer stands watch at the door, mindful of the gun tucked into the back of his black slacks and under his dress shirt. Asher crosses her arms and leans against the opposite wall, her posture deceptively calm.
"You can stop looking at me like that, y'know." She smiles at Spencer, like she knows a secret or something.
Spencer huffs. "Like how?"
Asher glances around the doorjamb when they both hear a loud noise. "Like you're going to eat me alive if I touch Walker again." The corner of her mouth stays quirked.
"I don't − what? Look, you two can molest each other all you want, I don't give a shit. If anything, I just want you guys to keep your head in the game." He feels his cheeks heating again. "It's not like Walker belongs to me or anything."
"Uh huh." She looks thoroughly unconvinced. "We're just playing around. I wouldn't actually date him or anything."
"I don't care, Jesus. Date until your heads explode, whatever." Spencer starts to twitch, not liking the direction of this conversation at all. This is the wrong time and the wrong place for Asher to be accusing him of having some sort of, of thing for Jon. Which he most certainly does not.
Actually, that's why the universe hates Spencer, because it's the biggest reason of all why Spencer hates Jon: because every time Jon so much as looks at him, Spencer wants him. He wants him so badly that sometimes it's all he can do to not visibly shake whenever Jon brushes up against his arm. At night, when he's feeling especially weak, Spencer can close his eyes and picture Jon in his bed, all smooth skin and soft, mussed hair, smiling that stupidly charming smile at him as he sinks his weight onto Spencer and kisses him, hot and slow. Spencer has beat off to that particular fantasy more times than he'll ever admit to, even under torture.
But it's not like it matters. Jon doesn't think of him like that; Jon just sees him as an uptight guy who made it into the Academy at a young age and made agent before most of his peers, a guy who'd rather stay late at the office and go over every fine detail of a case than go out to the local bar for happy hour. Jon probably thinks Spencer's demanding and bossy, but nothing more. And Spencer's perfectly fine with that, because he doesn't need stupid sexual attraction distracting him from his job.
"Okay, got it," Jon says, making a few more taps on the keyboard. "Easy as pie." He switches the monitor off and grabs his flashdrive, tucking it safely into the inside pocket of his jacket.
"I could really make a comment about you getting in and out without a mess, but that's probably bordering on sexual harassment," Asher drawls, looking straight at Spencer.
The flush in his cheeks spreads down to his neck. He ignores Asher and asks, as evenly as possible, "You found something?"
"I'm not sure," Jon replies with a shrug, "but it's worth looking at. We'll have to have Brendon take a look at it." Which means whatever it was Jon found is encoded; Brendon's the only one of their tech guys who can crack practically anything.
"Then let's get the hell out of here." Spencer ushers them out of the office and closes the door carefully behind him, then heads down the hallway, Asher and Jon at his heels.
Unfortunately, that's the moment Agent Asher's past decides to fuck everything up.
"Vicky?" A group of very drunk, very loud women are congregated at the top of the stairs, and the tallest one of them with red hair is flailing her hands in Asher's direction. "Oh my god, Vicky Asher?"
"Uh." Asher stops short and her eyes go wide. "Hi, yes. Lila?"
The red-haired woman lets out a drunken screech of glee and plows through her friends − and Spencer − to throw her arms around Vicky's neck. "I haven't seen you since the reunion picnic forever ago!"
Asher, to her credit, does a good job of not looking completely flustered. "Yeah, I've been a little busy since high school."
Spencer's palms start to sweat, because their cover is dangerously close to being blown. He starts to clear his throat and think of some kind of distraction, only Asher suddenly says, "Walker, hon, could you be a dear and entertain Lila for a moment? I've got to use the restroom." She smiles sweetly at her high school pal and pawns her off on Jon, making a quick getaway.
However, her plan involves shoving a drunk, tall, leggy red-head into Jon's arms, which...yeah, that's not the best idea. Spencer frowns without meaning to.
Lila's eyes flare and her voice drops an octave as she slurs, "Well, hello there, gorgeous," draping her long arms around Jon's shoulders. "Are you here with Vicky tonight?"
Jon's laughs and ducks his head, that "aw, shucks" manner he always has that Spencer's convinced is totally fake. "Me? Naw, we're just friends." He glances over Lila's shoulder at Spencer, eyebrow raised. Spencer ignores the uncomfortable clenching in his stomach.
"Well, I'm sure you've got way too many friends." Lila melts against Jon and rubs her face against his neck. "How 'bout we be not-friends, hmm?"
Jon laughs again, but doesn't look away from Spencer, who is seriously beginning to get sick of this whole thing, and why the fuck haven't they just left already? He rolls his eyes and tries to telepathically tell Jon he's being a moron and to ditch the drunk girl.
Instead, Jon pats the back of Lila's head and says, "I don't mind having friends. Friends are cool." Then he winks at Spencer, and Spencer bites his tongue so hard it stings.
"Kiss him, Li!" A chorus of drunken cheers and catcalls start up from her friends. "We wanna see tongue, c'mon!" "He's hot, lick his neck!"
Lila grins wolfishly at Jon, and the next thing Spencer knows, Jon's being shoved up against the closest wall as Lila shoves her tongue down his throat.
Spencer waits for Jon to push her away and make a break for it.
He waits. And waits some more.
But Jon evidently has other ideas, because his hands come up around Lila's back, like he's settling in for the long haul. Spencer's heart absolutely does not beat a little harder at the way Jon's fingers splay over her shoulder blades, or the way his thumbs sweep back and forth in a lazy pattern against the material of her dress. His stomach certainly doesn't bottom out, and if his cheeks are flushing hotly, it's out of rage, not lust.
It's the last straw when he sees Jon's face go soft as his eyes flutter shut, letting his mouth open wider under Lila's assault. Fine, Jon can fuck up the mission all he wants. Spencer, on the other hand, believes in a job well-done.
He whips out his phone and pretends to answer it, making very exaggerated nods and ending the fake call by saying, loudly, "Sure thing, I'll tell him right away." Spencer flips the phone shut. "Mr. Walker, sir?"
Jon finally comes up for air and blinks at Spencer. "What?" His expression is a cross between amused and tentative.
"Your boyfriend just called." Spencer holds his phone up. "He said to pick up some milk before you head home tonight."
Lila frowns. "You're gay?"
Jon's still blinking at Spencer in confusion, and Spencer takes great pride in the smirk he throws back at him. "Uh, I − "
"God, I knew you were too hot to be straight." Lila stumbles back from Jon and laughs. "Better not keep your boyfriend waiting, then. Tell Vick bye for me!" She keeps laughing as she goes back to the now-wide-eyed gaggle of women, who promptly explode into a flurry of shrieks and giggles as they drag her back downstairs.
Spencer breathes a sigh of relief. "Okay, now that that's over − "
Suddenly it's his turn to be shoved against the wall, which completely takes him by surprise. Jon has never once pushed him.
"What the hell, man, I totally had that under control!" Jon actually looks pissed off. And even then he looks way too hot.
"Yeah, you had it under control when you let Suzy Bimbo check out your tonsils. Give me a break, Walker." He tips his chin up, exerting as much bored contempt as he can manage when all he can think about when he's practically pressed up against Jon is how easy it would be to kiss him. "Someone had to start thinking rationally, and it might as well be me, since you were incapacitated."
"Inca− she kissed me! I was about to tell her we had to go!"
"Sure you were. And just how does one speak when they're having their tongue sucked?"
To his surprise, Jon shoves him again, getting right up in his face. Spencer swallows and barely keeps from gasping.
"You didn't have to tell her I was gay."
"You are gay!"
"I'm bi, everyone knows that."
"Yeah, it's such common knowledge that you're totally not flipping out that your redhead left you hanging."
Jon rolls his eyes and jerks a hand through his hair. "What is your problem, Smith? Since you met me it's like all I ever do is piss you off!"
"If I have any problem, it's you," Spencer sneers, glad that at least his voice is even and sharp. "This job is all fun and games to you, and I'm the one that's left to do all the dirty work. You don't take anything fucking serious, and I'm tired of it." He balls his hands up in fists at his sides to keep them from shaking.
"So what, you want me to put in for a transfer? Get out of Chicago so you never have to see my face again?" He's close enough that Spencer can feel Jon's breath against his chin.
"I want you to stop being so goddamn obnoxious and do your job!"
"I love my job, all right? If you're so fucking sick of me, then why don't you put in for a transfer, huh?"
"Because..." Spencer's grip on his cool starts to slip, and his heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his throat. His lips feel too hot; he licks them hastily and closes his eyes, trying to breathe, trying not to give anything away. "Because I can't." His voice is suddenly too soft, and he just wants to dissolve into the wall in humiliation. He can't think straight with Jon so close, his heat everywhere, fucking with Spencer's common sense.
Jon gets very quiet for a moment, and Spencer eventually opens his eyes to find him looking at Spencer like he's never seen him before. He tips his head to one side and says, softly, "Wait a second." He cups Spencer's chin with his thumb and index finger, but Spencer jerks away, feeling a surge of panic in his gut.
"Stop it," Spencer whispers. Whispers, fuck, why is his voice still all breathy like that?
"Oh, wow." Jon's voice is suddenly just as soft, and he sounds weirdly surprised. Then the corner of his mouth tilts up slowly.
"What?" Spencer asks, hating his life and hating that Jon's mouth looks all shiny this close.
"Nothing, I − d'you ever notice something, Spence?" A full-blown grin is making its way across Jon's face, and instead of backing away, he presses closer to Spencer. "You always glare at me differently from everyone else."
Spencer is momentarily thrown by Jon calling him by his first name, which never happens. "I don't know what you're talking about." He can hear the petulant tone in his voice; he sounds like his five-year-old cousin just before naptime.
Jon shakes his head. "It's not so much about pissing you off, is it?" he asks softly as he keeps pressing closer, until they're flush together, chest to...oh shit.
Spencer swallows again and tries not to whimper.
"Yeah, that's what I thought." Jon laughs quietly and leans up to nuzzle the line of Spencer's jaw, over the two-day-old scruff he was too lazy to shave this morning. "You want me bad." He rolls his hips against Spencer's very obvious hard-on, and Spencer barely bites back a groan.
"I don't," he replies, even as his voice cracks a little and his hand flies up to grip Jon's waist as he arches into him, completely beyond Spencer's control. Damn it.
Jon hums way in the back of his throat and nips sharply at Spencer's ear. "You are so fucking stubborn sometimes," he murmurs, his words suddenly rough and throaty and...god, it's been way, way too long since someone's kissed Spencer's neck like that...
"You're an asshole," Spencer breathes as his other hand splays over Jon's lower back − just to keep his balance, that's all.
"Yeah? And you're a hard-ass."
"I'm a professional."
"Okay, so you're an uptight hard-ass."
"Fuck off, Walk− "
Jon stops whatever insult Spencer had ready by sliding his tongue into Spencer's mouth and kissing him like every deep, dark secret fantasy Spencer has ever had about him. His brain shorts out and turns to snow, and for a moment, nothing else matters but the feel of Jon's mouth on his.
There's a roaring in Spencer's ears, and he's vaguely aware of making some kind of embarrassing moaning noise when Jon rolls his hips again, sinking his teeth into Spencer's lower lip and sucking sharply. The hand splayed along Jon's back flexes and pulls at Jon's tux jacket, wanting skin, wanting him bare. Suddenly it doesn't matter that they're making out against a wall while a huge corporate party rages downstairs, or that Jon just had some bimbo's tongue jammed down his throat; all Spencer wants right now is to get them both naked and get his hands on Jon the way he's wanted to for months.
Of course, Jon ruins it by gasping, "Wish you'd told me," against Spencer's cheek.
Spencer pulls away and blinks at him, every inch of his skin hot to the touch. "Told you what, that you're a douche?" he pants.
"That you wanted to kiss me like that. I could've saved you the wait." He gives Spencer a smirk that almost looks affectionate.
"I didn't − you don't − seriously, this needs to stop." Spencer lays both hands flat against Jon's chest to shove him away, only Jon grins harder and swoops back in to kiss him again, slow and lazy. Instead of shoving, his hands curl inward, griping the lapels of Jon's tux jacket.
"How 'bout we stop and you come home with me?" Jon whispers, lips soft along the corner of Spencer's mouth.
Spencer struggles to think through a red haze of lust. "Are you high? We work together."
"So?" He licks a stripe down Spencer's neck and bites him just over his collarbone. "We're two consenting adults, and this is obviously something we both want."
"You don't actually want me." Spencer laughs, a bit too hysterical. "You're just running off adrenaline. And the fact that Asher turned you down." Which, if Spencer's being honest with himself, is something he can deal with; he's used to being the second choice.
Jon lifts his head, and his eyes are all dark and his mouth is wet and − Spencer huffs and drags him back in for another kiss, because he can, and because he's kind of afraid that if he doesn't kiss Jon now, he'll lose his chance.
"I never seriously asked her out," Jon mumbles in between kisses. He leans back, and there it is again, that affectionate little smirk. "She's not my type, anyway."
So you say, Spencer thinks as his eyes flutter closed when Jon kisses him again. "This would never work. You know that."
Jon muffles a laugh into Spencer's chin, fingers tracing the line of Spencer's fly. "It doesn't have to." He toys with the snap at Spencer's waist. "I'll make you a deal: I'll put in for a transfer to Portland if you spend a night with me."
Turned on or not, Spencer can't help snorting. "Portland? I thought you were from Chicago."
"I am, but I've got family out there, too. Besides, a change of scenery would be good for me."
"You can't be serious."
Jon slowly drags Spencer's zipper open and lets his fingertips smooth over the wet tip of Spencer's cock through his boxers. "No?"
Spencer hisses and loses his train of thought. "N-no, you − I don't even like you."
"You're not the greatest catch either, but I like making your cheeks go bright pink like that." He parts the slit of Spencer's boxers and curls his hand tightly around him. "It's not about liking each other, it's about getting what we both want."
He bucks into Jon's hand before he can stop himself. "And all I have to do is spend a night with you?" His voice doesn't sound like himself; it's low, too raspy, like it sounds whenever he's finished smoking a joint with Ryan.
"Spend a night and not argue with me once. That's it. I'll put in the transfer the next morning."
Spencer doesn't want to say yes. He doesn't want to know what it's like to actually have sex with Jon, because then he'll just want more and he knows that's not going to happen; Jon doesn't have anything better going on at the moment. Spencer's it.
But it's been almost a year and a half since Spencer's had any sort of relationship, and even longer since he's had mind−blowing sex. Nothing else has really mattered to him since he joined the Bureau and started making a name for himself, but now, suddenly, he realizes just how much he needs a chance to just let go, to be crazy and reckless and not give a flying fuck about rules and regulations.
Which is why Spencer bites his lip and says, "Okay. One night."
Jon's smile is gorgeous, bright and dazzling. Spencer wants to close his eyes against it. "Then we've got a deal, Smith. Friday night, my place." He pulls his hand out of Spencer's pants and zips him back up.
Spencer makes a very indignant squawk. "What the − !"
"Like I'm gonna let you come all over my tux. I do have class, y'know." He pats Spencer's cheek. "Don't worry, it'll keep until Friday."
Spencer stays sprawled against the wall, hard and pissed off as he watches Jon saunter back down the stairs. His one bit of consolation is the way Jon awkwardly pauses to adjust his erection.
~
It's probably bad form for someone to spend their free time hanging out with their boss, but when the boss also happens to be a best friend, well. Spencer has been waiting almost a year for the Bureau to say something about Ryan being his superior, but it's never happened.
"So let me get this straight," Ryan drawls, a Corona bottle dangling precariously from one hand as he sprawls in a chair on his back deck; they're taking advantage of the freak spring-like day in January. "Walker's going to put in for a transfer if you sleep with him?"
Spencer instantly goes pink as his stomach flips over. He's such a fucking girl. "The exact wording was 'spend a night.'" He's expertly avoided Jon for the past twenty-four hours, since they finished up the assignment; Spencer really doesn't want to look into his eyes and see even a hint that this whole thing is a giant joke.
"Which means sex to people with more than half a brain."
"I'm not sleeping with him."
Ryan smirks and takes a long drink. "Right. You're just going over there to watch the Food Network."
"This isn't about sex, okay, it's − I don't know, it's a way for me to get my sanity back." He peels the label off his Bud Light bottle and starts folding it into a tiny square. Jon's voice is in his head, saying over and over it'll keep until Friday.
"For fuck's sake, Spence, sex with Walker's not the end of the world. Personally, I'm kind of relieved; you were seriously starting to get weird about him, especially when he and Conrad had to infiltrate that gay club."
"They made out the whole fucking night!" Spencer's voice goes a little too high. "He's like a damn rabbit in heat, I can't believe you didn't − "
Ryan starts ticking points off on his fingers. "One, they got the job done. Two, I do believe they were dating at the time, so going under as lovers didn't seem like much of a stretch, and don't even get me started on the look on your face when I suggested you play his boyfriend instead. It was priceless."
Spencer really hopes Ryan's not mocking him, because he's very close to kicking him where it counts. "Still. Walker will practically lick anything with two legs and a pulse. I'm not that easy."
"Of course you are. I haven't seen you get this dumb about someone since high school, when that foreign exchange student from New Zealand showed up during junior year and you could barely speak English for a week."
"Anthony," Spencer sniffs. "His name was Anthony. And whatever, Jon's not even in the same galaxy."
"Oh, really." Ryan sits up, and Spencer recognizes his evil, evil grin. "Then you won't care at all that Jon came into my office this morning and asked what kind of wine you like."
Spencer drops his bottle, spilling beer all over the deck. "What?" His throat is suddenly very dry.
"He wanted to know, hypothetically speaking, if he were to buy wine for you, what kind you'd drink. I told him you're a lush and whites get you every time."
Spencer brandishes the empty bottle at Ryan, who just smiles back like the smug bastard he is. "Don't do that. Don't talk to him, or − or give him ideas and shit. He's not serious, he's probably just using the information for blackmail."
Ryan sighs. "Seriously, if you'd get over this complex you have about wanting into his pants, you'd see Walker's a great guy, and a hell of an agent."
"You have to say that, you're his boss." The pouty kid voice is creeping back into his tone.
"I'm his boss, not his boyfriend, so no, I don't. And you should realize that I wouldn't put just anyone with you, Spence. Not someone I didn't trust to have your back."
He hates it when Ryan gets all rational on him. That's Spencer's job. "Fine. That doesn't mean I have to like him."
"You don't have to do anything. But what you want is something else entirely." Ryan drains the rest of his Corona and salutes Spencer with the bottle. "I'm going back for another, want one?"
"Might as well, since you're a total master at knowing what I want," Spencer mumbles, slumping down in the deck chair.
Ryan clucks his tongue as he gets up and slides the screen door open. "After twenty years, you bet your ass I'm a fucking master."
~
Spencer does a really great job of not freaking himself out before Friday night. He buries himself in paperwork, writing up reports from the last mission (they've yet to learn if it was successful, as Brendon's still going over the encoded data) and tries to ignore the way Ryan keeps emailing him a countdown (eight hours and six minutes til sex w/ walker). Fortunately Jon has kept a low profile most of the week, so Spencer isn't forced to stare at him and think about what may or may not transpire on Friday.
That evening, he doesn't give any thought to his wardrobe; he just grabs the first pair of jeans he finds and throws a t-shirt on and doesn't look at himself in the mirror. He doesn't even shave.
"No sex," Spencer mutters to himself as he stands on Jon's doorstep and knocks twice, palms sweating fiercely in the pockets of his coat. And if, by chance, the sex does happen, it'll be quick and painless. Spencer plans on spending two hours in Jon's apartment, tops.
Only Jon opens the door dressed in a dark blue dress shirt with the collar open and black slacks. His feet are bare and his hair looks thoroughly mussed.
Spencer's stomach bottoms out.
"Uh." He glances down at his jeans, then back up at Jon, frowning. "What the hell."
"You expected me in boxers and a wife-beater?" Jon smirks and folds his arms over his chest.
To be honest, yes. "I expected − " Spencer waves his hand at Jon's pants, glaring in order to keep himself from shoving Jon into the closest wall and pawing at him. "Less, y'know, ironing."
"Maybe I wanted to look nice. Is that a crime?"
Spencer feels like he's walking into some kind of trap, and yet he can't stop himself from staring. "No," he huffs, wishing he'd waited at least another twenty minutes before blushing this intensely.
Jon grins and wraps a hand around Spencer's wrist, pulling him into the apartment and closing the door behind him. He doesn't let Spencer take his coat off; Jon backs him against the doorjamb and presses into him, sliding a leg smoothly between Spencer's and whispering in his ear, "Thanks for keeping your end of the agreement."
Within five seconds of being pressed into the wall, Spencer's panting, his mouth going wet. God, he hates it when Ryan's right. He really is too fucking easy. "A-agreement?" he stutters.
"You not arguing with me." Jon starts to sprinkle baby kisses over Spencer's jaw, soft brushes of his lips that Spencer can barely feel.
"We didn't actually...um..." Jon gets his teeth involved, nipping at Spencer's earlobe, and he loses his train of thought. Suddenly, sex sounds like an awesome idea. "I mean, we didn't shake on anything. There's no binding contract."
Jon chuckles, low and soft as he nuzzles back over Spencer's cheek. "You're here, that's pretty much signing on the dotted line." He flicks the tip of his tongue over the corner of Spencer's mouth, and Spencer can't help whimpering, or letting his lips part. He holds his breath and waits for the kiss he's been tasting since that night at the party.
"You want me to kiss you?" Jon whispers, and dammit if he doesn't sound way too pleased.
Spencer winces, but still whispers back, "You know I do," ducking his head so that Jon can't look into his eyes. He feels a thumb rub over his chin, but a kiss never comes; instead, Jon drops his arms and takes a step back.
"Hungry?" Jon asks, like they weren't just about to make out against his front door. He looks completely in control, while Spencer's melting into a puddle of goo.
Spencer blinks a few times and scrubs a hand through his hair. "You made food?" This wasn't part of the agreement. Jon's not supposed to be cooking, or standing there in his foyer looking like a pleasantly fucked GQ model.
"I made lasagna. Ryan said you like Italian, so I figured that was safe." He waves Spencer toward the kitchen. "C'mon. You can leave your coat in the living room."
Spencer can still feel his heart racing; he kind of hates how collected Jon is. Then he sees the small dining room table just off the kitchen − it's set for two with candles and a bottle of wine.
"What the hell," he says again, coming up short in front of the refrigerator.
Jon's busy pulling the lasagna out of the oven. It smells amazing, but...seriously, it's almost surreal. "Do you really have a problem with dinner, Smith?"
"You asked Ryan what kind of wine I like," Spencer blurts out.
"Yeah. He said you like Rieslings, so that's what I got." He shrugs as he hands Spencer the salad bowl. "You really do like 'em sweet, huh?"
He stares at the salad in his hands for a moment, then walks over to the table, setting in the middle. This, Spencer thinks, is what going crazy feels like. "There's nothing wrong with sweet wines. I just never developed a taste for the dryer ones."
"And here I was pegging you for a Merlot guy."
"Reds give me headaches."
Jon holds up a hand as he sets a basket of breadsticks on the table. "Hey, it makes no difference to me. I didn't even venture outside the realm of beer and tequila shots until I got into the Academy." He hands the wine bottle to Spencer. "Wanna do the honors?"
Spencer doesn't mind opening the bottle himself, because it makes this whole thing feel less like a date and more like...like he's simply eating dinner in Jon's apartment. He pours them both a glass, and takes a long drink as Jon serves up the lasagna.
Not a date. Just an arrangement.
He can already see Ryan rolling his eyes at him.
Before they dig in, Jon turns on his stereo. Frank Sinatra's voice fills the room, singing about how he's got someone under his skin.
Spencer snorts. "Seriously, Walker? You really have all your bases covered, don't you?" He shakes his head, thinking about all the women (and men) who've no doubt been in his place before − sitting at Jon's table with a full spread and a glass of wine and Jon across from them, just waiting for the right moment to win them over completely. If he thinks about it too much, he starts get a little pissed off; Spencer's not going to let himself become a notch in Jon's bedpost. The jealousy is a side effect.
Jon gives him a funny look. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing." Spencer stabs at his salad and abruptly changes the subject. "Heard anything back from Brendon on the flashdrive?"
"Not yet, although he thinks he's close. We're definitely headed in the right direction."
"Unless all that data turns out to be porn, and then we're fucked."
Jon laughs. "Always the pessimist," he says, smiling at Spencer over the rim of his wine glass.
"Just saying, we shouldn't get our hopes up until Brendon's sure. Not that he's been wrong all that often, but you never know."
"I've got a good feeling about this, though. Pretty soon we'll have it wrapped up and in the bag."
"And I've learned that going off your gut instincts isn't always the best idea," Spencer mumbles down at his breadstick. He winces internally − yeah, like he really wants to get into personal shit now, of all times.
Jon tilts his head thoughtfully. "Meaning?"
Spencer shakes his head. "Meaning...I don't trust feelings." And wow, does that ever sound melodramatic and high school-ish. He's not even tipsy.
"Oh, yeah?" Jon smirks as he taps his fork against his plate. "Never took you for an android."
"Shut up." It's automatic, the way Spencer huffs and throws his breadstick at Jon's head. He knows he's flushing, which he hates, only not as much as hates that his skin is still buzzing slightly from when Jon had his hands on him earlier. "I like being careful, okay?" Jesus, he just needs to stop talking. He doesn't even know why he's being so defensive.
Jon ducks and manages to catch Spencer's breadstick. He's laughing, and something flickers in his eyes, something that doesn't look bemused or sarcastic. It looks softer than that, and Spencer starts to think coming here was a huge fucking mistake. "There's nothing wrong with being careful," Jon says, pointing the breadstick at Spencer. "But it can suck the fun out of stuff, too, y'know."
"Yeah, because getting shot is loads of fun." Spencer rolls his eyes and holds out his hand. "Gimme my breadstick back."
"Who said I was talking about work? And not a chance, it's mine now. You've got an entire basket right in front of you."
"I was talking about work. C'mon, I liked that one, give it." Spencer makes a grabby hand motion at Jon, frowning.
"You just can't stand me having something of yours, can you?" Jon looks at the breadstick, feigning a look of pensiveness. "Good thing I'm not attracted to Ross, or there'd be some serious issues." He looks back up at Spencer through the fringe of his bangs falling in his eyes, a big shit−eating grin on his face.
Spencer huffs again, loudly, and gets up from his seat, marching around the table to Jon's side. "Nice try, asshole, it's not like I haven't gotten shit about Ryan for last ten years or so." He lunges for the breadstick. "Fucking give it, Walker."
Jon blinks innocently up at him, holding the breadstick away. "So you're not secret boyfriends like everyone says?"
"No, god, you know that." He lunges for it again, causing his thigh to press up against Jon's arm, and braces his arm along the back of Jon's chair to keep his balance.
"No, I don't. You and Ross are a fucking enigma in the office. Brendon once told me Ross had someone fired for talking shit on you."
"Someone" was Spencer's old partner, actually, and the "talking shit" was him nearly getting Spencer killed. It was stupid, Darren hadn't been paying attention, but Ryan said he wasn't about to keep around agents who put their partners in danger. That wasn't including the part where Ryan nearly beat Darren into a bloody pulp. "Ryan's my boss and my best friend, nothing more. Not that it's any of your business or anything."
"I always thought that was a conflict of interest." It suddenly dawns on Spencer that Jon's got his hand curled around Spencer's thigh, and his thumb is brushing idly back and forth along the seam of his jeans.
He swallows and makes another reach for the breadstick. "And sexual relations between partners isn't?"
Jon's eyes flash and his grin turns wolfish. Shit. "Oh, are we having sex?"
Spencer manages to resist flinching. "That's not what I'm saying, just − damn it, just give me the fucking breadstick!"
"Hmmm, not yet." He sets it on his plate, and the next thing Spencer knows, he's being hauled into Jon's lap, legs spread on either of Jon's thighs. Without thinking, Spencer's hands grip Jon's shoulders, fingers pressed hard into his neck, at the very edge of his hairline.
"Explain to me what you're saying, Smith," Jon says in this ridiculously soft voice that would irritate the shit out of Spencer at any other time. It's just that, right now, being sprawled in Jon's lap doesn't do a whole lot for Spencer's common sense, especially when he's sliding his hands up Spencer's back like that.
Spencer glares and tries half-heartedly to wiggle away. "This is a conflict of interest," he replies, head bowed as he looks somewhere around the center of Jon's chest, which is a really bad idea; he starts thinking about how easily he could undo the buttons, part the edges of his shirt, and just have skin everywhere. The thought makes Spencer glare harder and try to drop his hands, but they're pressed too close together. There's not enough room.
Jon slides his hands higher and leans in, bringing them almost chest to chest as he traces the tip of his nose over the rough stubble on Spencer's cheeks. Much to his (secret) chagrin, Spencer wishes he'd taken the time to shave. "Maybe. But I don't see you objecting. Not really." He brushes his lips over Spencer's cheek, a barely-there kiss that makes Spencer squeeze his eyes shut and shiver.
"Just...just saying that you shouldn't be so hypocritical." He maybe leans into Jon a little more. Possibly. His balance is all off sitting this way.
He hears Jon give a soft, affectionate laugh he's never heard before. "Okay, Spence, I'll stop being a hypocritical bastard." Fingertips thread gently through Spencer's hair, and Spencer is once again thrown by Jon calling him by his first name (shortened first name, even, like he's been calling him Spence for years) to notice that Jon's tipping his chin forward and bringing their mouths together.
It's a million times softer than Spencer was expecting, and he really wants to be pissed off that none of this is going according to plan. He doesn't want Jon's hands rubbing slow, lazy circles over his spine, or Jon's lips being all gentle and barely parted, and he certainly doesn't want Jon calling him anything other than Smith.
"Why did you want to be an agent?" Jon whispers against Spencer's mouth, and no, no, they aren't having small talk. It's bad enough Spencer can feel himself sinking his weight against Jon, his fingers sliding up into his hair.
"I don't know, because it's cooler than being a cop." He hates that his voice is suddenly husky, and that his tongue slips over the edge of Jon's lower lip and traces the slightly crooked line of his teeth.
"I'm being serious." Spencer can feel him smile, senses the way the muscles in his mouth pull and the way his lips shift. "I'll tell you my story if you tell me yours." He fits his hand over Spencer's jaw, thumbing sweeping over his cheek, and Spencer shivers. Again.
"That's not why I'm here," he replies meanly, hands flexing at Jon's neck. "Stories weren't part of the deal." He puts extra bite into his words, hoping it covers up how breathless he sounds.
Jon kisses him a little deeper, a little wetter, and Spencer can't help it − he moans softly and rolls his hips up. He's hard (has been since he walked in the door, practically), and he can feel Jon through his slacks as well, and god, they could strip right here and do it on Jon's dining room chair and Spencer wouldn't care at all.
Jon pulls back abruptly, making their mouths part wetly. "You promised," he says, and he's just as breathless as Spencer. "No arguing."
Spencer groans, only partly from arousal. "I hate you," he murmurs, eyes fluttering shut as Jon lifts his hips a little and gives him a hint of friction.
"I'm aware of this fact. Now start talking."
If he weren't so turned on, Spencer would roll his eyes. "Whatever, fine." He decides to distract himself by letting his hands wander; he runs the tips of his fingers over the V of bare skin peeking out from Jon's open collar, over the dip in his throat. "I like being the good guy."
Jon's breath hitches softly as Spencer slides the top button free. "That's...very twelve-years-old of you." He's watching Spencer's hands with sharp, intense fascination. There's not a trace of smugness in his voice anymore.
"Fuck off, it's the closest thing to being a superhero I could find. Spiderman was already taken."
"There are too many Spidermans in the Bureau, anyway." Jon flicks his tongue out over his bottom lip slowly; Spencer wants to reach up, slide his thumb over the slick skin there, and watch Jon's eyes go even darker.
He swallows. "It's dumb and clichéd, but I like knowing people are safer because of me."
Jon shakes his head and brushes a kiss over Spencer's chin, his hand sliding down Spencer's side. "'s not dumb at all," he whispers, and Spencer thinks they're wearing too many clothes.
"W-what about you?" He tries to tip his chin down and get Jon to kiss him again. He doesn't know why he's asking, because it's not like he cares.
Jon smiles a little crookedly and nuzzles over Spencer's jaw instead of letting their mouths connect again. "I didn't want to join the army, so I figured the FBI was the next best thing." He huffs a laugh. "And yeah, I realize I sound like a Ben Fold's song."
Great, now Spencer has images of Jon in army fatigues in his head. "Why not the army?" he asks softly, tightening his legs against Jon's thighs as he rocks up carefully, making them both groan and Jon's hands clutch at Spencer's t-shirt.
Jon scrapes his teeth gently over the curve of Spencer's jaw. "Because it's what my dad wanted, and I like to be difficult."
Spencer tries very hard not to whimper like a girl. He mostly succeeds. "Can't argue with that." He finally slides his hand up Jon's neck and cups his chin, forcing him to into another kiss, this one sloppy and all tongue. He forms the words in his head − I think we've done enough sharing for one night − but all that comes out once he's able to wrench his mouth away and suck air back into his lungs is, "C'mon, please." He's a little mortified to already be at the point of begging, but Jon doesn't pull back and smirk at him, or laugh, or make some kind of quip about Spencer being pushy.
Instead, Jon bites his lip and moans softly, pressing his forehead against Spencer's for a moment. "Stand up," he says, panting.
Spencer scrambles out of Jon's lap, knocking into the table and almost sending Jon's wine glass flying. "Shit, the food, I − "
"You care about dinner now?" Jon's laugh is husky and low as he wraps an arm around Spencer's waist to steady him. He also uses it as an excuse to lean in and bite lightly at Spencer's neck.
"No, right, good point − " He fists both hands into Jon's shirt and starts stumbling backwards, not caring if he ends up on the floor or sprawled across the dining table, just as long as they can get horizontal and naked right now. "Couch?" he gasps.
Jon nods and takes over the momentum, steering them toward the living room, and suddenly Spencer finds himself shoved down onto a very soft suede couch. He hasn't even bothered to take in Jon's decorating skills (or lack thereof); his hands splay over the cushions long enough for him to appreciate their texture, but then Jon drops to his knees and spreads Spencer's thighs, and yeah. Fuck the couch.
"What, do you fucking shrink these things?" Jon says, breathless and grinning up at Spencer through the messy fall of his bands as he tugs the fly of Spencer's jeans open. "This can't be healthy, Smith."
"My jeans are my bus− " All coherent forms of thought go flying out of his brain, because Jon yanks Spencer's boxers down just enough to free his dick and licks up the underside, swirling his tongue around the tip. Spencer drops his head back against the couch and swallows a moan; it's been so long since he's gotten any head at all, and for a second he freaks out over the possibility of coming within five seconds, especially since it's Jon, and −
No, fuck, that's not what he needs to be thinking about. It doesn't matter who's doing this, just that it's happening. But he's not about to let Jon know that he's already so close, that his mouth is soslickhotwetgood; he can't give Jon that satisfaction. So he squeezes his eyes shut and sucks his lip into his mouth and concentrates on breathing.
Jon spreads his hands over Spencer's knees, slides his mouth lower, inch by inch, hollowing his cheeks as he tightens the suction, and Spencer sees stars behind behind his eyelids. A tiny, tiny grunt escapes his throat; he digs his fingers deeper into the couch cushions.
So close, god, so close −
"Relax."
Spencer blinks his eyes open and glances down. Jon's lips are hovering over the head of his cock, fingers curled loosely around the base, and he's looking up at Spencer, eyes dark and completely blown.
"Relax," Jon says again, rubbing his bottom lip over the tip. "Try to enjoy it."
Is he blind? "I am enjoying it," Spencer hisses, pushing his hips up to give Jon the hint.
"You're too tense."
"Maybe I'm tense because you stopped."
"Or maybe you need to take my advice and relax." Jon stretches his lips wide and takes Spencer back into his mouth, all the way in, and Spencer can't help the huh−uh that squeaks out. It's embarrassing, making these sounds; Spencer's never been one for making noise, because it makes him feel out of control and way too fucking vulnerable. He's never been good at vocalizing his pleasure, anyway, not without sounding like a really lame porno; he flushes hard at the thought of Jon laughing at whatever might slip out of his mouth accidentally, and he bites down even harder on his lip.
The hand curled around Spencer's dick squeezes and begins moving in time with Jon's mouth, a slip-sliding rhythm that's so close to perfect, Spencer has to fight the urge not to thrust his hips up and fuck Jon's mouth. He can hardly breathe, keeps chanting in his brain to hold on hold on, because if he comes now he'll never hear the end of it, only he hears a soft groaning sound and realizes it's Jon humming around his cock.
"Oh god," Spencer gasps, tightly, trying not to let the words turn into a full-body moan.
Jon pulls off with a slow, obscene little wet pop and tongues the ridge underneath, like he's got all the time in the world. Like he's memorizing the feel and taste of him. "Let me hear you, Spence," he whispers, and then he decides to get his other hand involved. Spencer watches, glassy-eyed, as Jon sucks two fingers into his mouth and slicks them up, lets them slide free easily a moment later before easing one fingertip gently against the curve of Spencer's ass. "You're so fucking hot, I want to hear you," he says again, voice barely above a growl, sliding his finger further inside.
Spencer holds his breath and keeps from grinding down on Jon's hand, resisting that automatic response to give in and let Jon take over. But it's hard, so, so hard, and Spencer can feel the tension building low in his stomach, the heat spreading through every inch of his skin.
It's been so long since anyone's touched him like this, since he's felt splintered and on fire and just wanting beyond reason. It's too much and not enough, all at once, but Spencer can bring himself to tell Jon any of this, he can't just lay himself open like that −
"Please, Spence." The growl in Jon's voice turns sharp, almost breaking on his name. The rhythm of his hand is losing its finesse, and when he adds a second finger inside Spencer, he can feel Jon's hand shaking. "Tell me you want this as much as I do, because fuck, you make me so goddamn hard I can't even think, and you taste so good, so good, better than I imagined − " He trails off into a moan and licks Spencer sloppily, and Spencer suddenly notices the way Jon's pushing his hips up against the couch, and the way his breath is turning rough and shallow.
Spencer did that to him. He made Jon lose control, without meaning to or trying, and it's honestly the hottest thing Spencer's ever seen in his life.
It makes the last threads of his restraint snap and disappear. He sags against the couch, head rolling back as his mouth falls open and he moans, loud enough for the entire floor to hear, "Jesus fuck, Jon, you're so fucking good at this, don't ever stop or I'll kill you, I swear." It's the first time he's ever called Jon by his first name, but Spencer's too far gone to care.
He hears Jon's breath hitch, and then he's suddenly engulfed in wet heat and suction, fingers twisting inside him deep, bordering on the edge of pain, and Spencer gives in. He melts into the couch as his hands paw blindly at Jon's hair, holding on as he rolls his hips up. There's a moment of panic when Spencer thinks he's gone too far, but Jon just whimpers and sucks harder, pumping him faster as everything goes slick and hot. He's conscious of babbling nonsense over and over again ("Jon, god, your mouth, I can't − shit − ") as he scrapes his nails over Jon's scalp.
It lasts longer than Spencer expects, but it's still embarrassingly short, and when he comes, a small part of his brain is stupidly relieved no one from the office is there to hear him yell until he's hoarse about how much he loves Jon's mouth. He feels Jon shudder under his hands a few seconds later, and then he's groaning deep in his throat as he grinds against the couch and finally goes still, letting Spencer slip from his mouth. He pulls his fingers free and braces both hands on Spencer's thighs, head bowed as he gasps for air, his cheeks bright pink and damp with sweat.
Spencer can't form the words to even describe how gorgeous Jon is in this moment. He stays sprawled over the couch cushions, utterly boneless, panting and watching Jon come back down to earth. He starts to reach his hand out to trace a finger down Jon's nose...
...and then blinks. What the fuck, seriously? He's acting like a starry-eyed teenager who just got blown for the first time. He should be zipping his jeans back up and getting the hell out of there, not staring down at Jon while his heart does weird, scary things in his chest.
"I − " His voice sounds like he's the one who's just gotten through sucking cock. Spencer swallows a few times. "I..." Should really be going, thanks for the head. "...think the food is fucked."
Jon's laugh is slow and sleepy-sounding. He doesn't look up at Spencer right away as he says, softly, "Yeah. We can nuke it if you want." He leans down and kisses a bare spot on Spencer's stomach where his shirt has ridden up. "Are you still hungry?"
Instead of getting to his feet and giving Jon some quip about getting what he came for, Spencer grins shyly − shyly, god, what's going on here? − and scrubs his fingers through Jon's hair, making it even more mussed and unruly. "I'm good. I had half a breadstick before I chucked it at your head." His stomach chooses that moment to growl loudly, making Jon bark out another laugh.
"I feel like a shitty host. I'm letting you starve, Spence." And whoa, okay, Spencer always knew Jon had a hint of a lisp before, but he's never noticed it curling around his name like that until now. It makes his stomach go all warm.
"It's okay, really. It's not like I'm gonna waste away or anything." He winces as soon as the words have left his mouth; his weight isn't something he talks about with anyone but Ryan, and even then it's very, very rarely. It's been a sore spot for him since he was in high school.
Jon smirks and leans over again to skim his teeth lightly over Spencer's stomach, right over his bellybutton. "If you're asking me if you're fat, I'm not falling for it." Then he groans and sits back on heels. "Sorry, my knees are killing me. This is why I need to get an apartment with carpet."
So it's easier to give head? Spencer thinks, and almost laughs out loud. He finally glances around the apartment and notices all the wood flooring and the exposed brick walls, various black-and-white photographs hanging throughout the room.
"Did you take those?" he asks as Jon stands up slowly; there's a very distinct wet spot on the front of his slacks that Spencer carefully ignores.
"Most of them. Some of them Conrad took and gave to me." Jon offers his hand to Spencer and pulls him up, and Spencer also ignores the sharp little twinge of something resembling jealousy. It's stupid; Conrad and Jon had been friends for years before they ever dated, so it's perfectly reasonable that Jon would have his pictures hanging in his apartment. In really nice frames.
But said frames are forgotten when Jon tugs Spencer closer and whispers against his ear, "I'm gonna go change, okay? If you're not hungry anymore, you can either hang out, or go check out the hot tub. I took the cover off a few hours ago, it should be ready to go."
Spencer snorts. "You have a hot tub?"
"Yeah, I like to relax sometimes, so what?"
"It's fucking January, Walker. There's an inch of snow on the ground."
"Live a little. It's fun, I promise." And with that, Jon smacks Spencer on the ass and heads down the hall to his bedroom, leaving Spencer standing in the living room with his jeans still hanging open.
~
part two
Jon/Spencer | 17100 words | NC-17
Spencer Smith knows there must be a catch when Jon Walker − his despised FBI partner − offers to transfer out of Chicago and far, far away from him. There's a catch, all right: Spencer has to spend one sexy night with the untamed playboy. Okay, so the guy's hot. So his reputation in the bedroom is the stuff of legend. So Spencer's been in a dry spell for, oh, over a year. So maybe one night to be rid of him isn't so unbearable. But once the sheets have cooled, Spencer's just starting to heat up, and moving away is the last thing on Jon's mind...
For harlequin_bands. Plot and summary stolen shamelessly from Erin McCarthy's novella Miss Extreme Congeniality. Title stolen from Jason Mraz.
Hearts galore to everyone I threw tidbits of this at over the last month, and to my faithful betas, gobsmackit and siryn99.
and I will find a way to you if it kills me
It's not that Spencer hates undercover missions. In fact, he thinks it's one of the best things about working for the Bureau; he likes getting to pretend he's someone he's not, all in the name of putting bad guys in jail.
He just hates undercover missions when they involve his stupid, obnoxious, I-smile-at-anything-with-a-pulse partner, Jon Walker. And right now, said partner is seriously pushing him toward the edge.
Spencer fidgets with the cuffs of his plain white dress shirt, glaring at Jon across the room in his tux and wondering for the millionth time why he got to be fucking James Bond for the night. There wasn't any reason the two of them couldn't have been part of the crowd at the extremely over-the-top corporate party, but Ryan swore that putting one of them on the catering staff would make it easier to keep things "running smoothly." Normally Spencer wouldn't have cared, but for months now he's been the one transcribing tapes and going over documents, while Jon gets to run off to play pretend stockbroker in the corporate price-fixing investigation they've been working on. And now Spencer's the one picking up dirty dishes while Jon's off flirting with one of the other agents who's been working the case with them.
Okay, so the flirting with Agent Asher makes their mission easier in the long run; they need to get into an office on the second floor, and if they can just pull off the drunken-lovers-looking-for-a-room ruse, getting past the lax security will be simple. Everyone at this party seems more concerned with refilling their champagne flutes than checking out suspicious guests.
That doesn't mean watching Asher and Jon giggle and grope each other for all the world to see has to be something Spencer enjoys. Besides, Asher's got a good five inches on Jon. They look kind of ridiculous together.
"Wow, you smell really great tonight," Spencer hears Jon say through the earbud microphone, and he can also hear the way Asher laughs.
"Walker, seriously, you're way too into this," she says, but Spencer notices the way she slides a hand down Jon's back. He thinks everything would so much easier on him if he could just stay in the car and monitor their progress via the wire. Less exciting, sure, but still...
"Hey, kid, hurry up with those plates." The head of the catering staff snaps his fingers at Spencer. "I'm not paying you to stare at the guests."
You're not paying me at all, asswipe, Spencer thinks, resisting the urge to inform the guy that he's twenty-five, thank-you-very-much, and happens to own a sizable collection of handguns. Instead, he nods and replies, "Sure, yeah, sorry," and then hisses, "Guys, what the fuck, are we heading upstairs or not?" into the microphone.
He's about twenty feet away from Jon and Asher, and Jon looks over his shoulder at Spencer, smirking. "In a hurry?" he asks, and then pointedly glances at the stack of dishes in Spencer's hands. "Wanna make a run for it before they make you get your hands dirty?"
God, Spencer hates him. A lot. They've been partners for almost eight months; eight very long, very taxing months. Sometimes Spencer swears Walker lives to torment him, or at least make him regret joining the FBI in the first place. Not that Spencer ever would; his career is his life, and he'll be damned if he lets his partner try to take that away from him.
"No, I want to get in and out before Ryan starts calling and asking us why the hell we haven't finished up yet." He glares at Jon, who just smiles back, like always. Jon never glares, never actually loses his cool − if anything, stress makes Jon smug, and that irritates Spencer to no end. No one should be that perfect.
"Smith's getting antsy," Jon leans in and says to Asher, who nods.
"Yeah, we should probably start making our way up there." She glances at Spencer. "Ready?"
Spencer's been ready since they got to the mansion an hour and a half ago. "Definitely."
She grins at Jon and says, "Okay, let's do this," and suddenly grabs him by the lapels of his tux and hauls him in close, kissing him sloppily. It looks perfectly drunk, and she does a good job of stumbling a little as she drags him toward the stairs.
Spencer looks around quickly to make sure no one's watching as he sets his pile of dishes down and follows after them, keeping enough distance between them as to not look conspicuous.
In his earbud, he hears Asher laugh again and whisper, "So you really are as great a kisser as they say."
"Who says?" Jon's got that stupid tone in his voice, the one of flattered embarrassment he uses whenever someone mentions his supposed sexual prowess.
"Oh please, I spend way too much time with Conrad and Salpeter to not know your dirty little secrets." More kissing noises. "And they tell me things about you."
"You should really stop hanging out with my exes. Or maybe go out with me and learn for yourself if they're telling the truth." Jon makes a little sound that could be a hummed laugh. "Or maybe I should stop dating people in the Bureau altogether."
Spencer rolls his eyes. "Yeah, that's a stellar idea," he mumbles as he hurries to catch up with them. When he gets to the top of the stairs, Jon's looking at him with an eyebrow quirked, one arm tucked snugly around Asher's waist. For a second, Spencer's hit with the realization that, yeah, they really do make a stunning couple: Jon in his perfectly tailored tux, and Asher in her black, slinky little cocktail dress that shows off her legs.
"D'you say something, Smith?" Jon asks, and goddamn it, he's smirking again.
"Not a thing." More than anything on the planet (except maybe Brussels sprouts), Spencer hates blushing in front of Jon. "The office is down the hall and to the left, right?"
"According to the specs, yeah." Seriously, they're alone now. There's no reason for Jon to keep touching Asher like that, or for her to be leaning into him so closely.
He heads down the long, darkened hallway and stops at the door at the very end, tentatively turning the knob. It opens easily, and Spencer breathes a sigh of relief. He hates picking locks.
Inside the large, wood-trimmed office is a computer database that possibly holds evidence. The plan is for Jon to hack into the database and look for anything illegal, while Spencer and Asher act as lookouts and watch his back.
Jon slides easily into the leather desk chair and starts clacking away at the keys (which is another reason for Spencer to hate him − of course Jon's a computer whiz. The only thing missing from his fucking resume is a Nobel Peace Prize). Meanwhile, Spencer stands watch at the door, mindful of the gun tucked into the back of his black slacks and under his dress shirt. Asher crosses her arms and leans against the opposite wall, her posture deceptively calm.
"You can stop looking at me like that, y'know." She smiles at Spencer, like she knows a secret or something.
Spencer huffs. "Like how?"
Asher glances around the doorjamb when they both hear a loud noise. "Like you're going to eat me alive if I touch Walker again." The corner of her mouth stays quirked.
"I don't − what? Look, you two can molest each other all you want, I don't give a shit. If anything, I just want you guys to keep your head in the game." He feels his cheeks heating again. "It's not like Walker belongs to me or anything."
"Uh huh." She looks thoroughly unconvinced. "We're just playing around. I wouldn't actually date him or anything."
"I don't care, Jesus. Date until your heads explode, whatever." Spencer starts to twitch, not liking the direction of this conversation at all. This is the wrong time and the wrong place for Asher to be accusing him of having some sort of, of thing for Jon. Which he most certainly does not.
Actually, that's why the universe hates Spencer, because it's the biggest reason of all why Spencer hates Jon: because every time Jon so much as looks at him, Spencer wants him. He wants him so badly that sometimes it's all he can do to not visibly shake whenever Jon brushes up against his arm. At night, when he's feeling especially weak, Spencer can close his eyes and picture Jon in his bed, all smooth skin and soft, mussed hair, smiling that stupidly charming smile at him as he sinks his weight onto Spencer and kisses him, hot and slow. Spencer has beat off to that particular fantasy more times than he'll ever admit to, even under torture.
But it's not like it matters. Jon doesn't think of him like that; Jon just sees him as an uptight guy who made it into the Academy at a young age and made agent before most of his peers, a guy who'd rather stay late at the office and go over every fine detail of a case than go out to the local bar for happy hour. Jon probably thinks Spencer's demanding and bossy, but nothing more. And Spencer's perfectly fine with that, because he doesn't need stupid sexual attraction distracting him from his job.
"Okay, got it," Jon says, making a few more taps on the keyboard. "Easy as pie." He switches the monitor off and grabs his flashdrive, tucking it safely into the inside pocket of his jacket.
"I could really make a comment about you getting in and out without a mess, but that's probably bordering on sexual harassment," Asher drawls, looking straight at Spencer.
The flush in his cheeks spreads down to his neck. He ignores Asher and asks, as evenly as possible, "You found something?"
"I'm not sure," Jon replies with a shrug, "but it's worth looking at. We'll have to have Brendon take a look at it." Which means whatever it was Jon found is encoded; Brendon's the only one of their tech guys who can crack practically anything.
"Then let's get the hell out of here." Spencer ushers them out of the office and closes the door carefully behind him, then heads down the hallway, Asher and Jon at his heels.
Unfortunately, that's the moment Agent Asher's past decides to fuck everything up.
"Vicky?" A group of very drunk, very loud women are congregated at the top of the stairs, and the tallest one of them with red hair is flailing her hands in Asher's direction. "Oh my god, Vicky Asher?"
"Uh." Asher stops short and her eyes go wide. "Hi, yes. Lila?"
The red-haired woman lets out a drunken screech of glee and plows through her friends − and Spencer − to throw her arms around Vicky's neck. "I haven't seen you since the reunion picnic forever ago!"
Asher, to her credit, does a good job of not looking completely flustered. "Yeah, I've been a little busy since high school."
Spencer's palms start to sweat, because their cover is dangerously close to being blown. He starts to clear his throat and think of some kind of distraction, only Asher suddenly says, "Walker, hon, could you be a dear and entertain Lila for a moment? I've got to use the restroom." She smiles sweetly at her high school pal and pawns her off on Jon, making a quick getaway.
However, her plan involves shoving a drunk, tall, leggy red-head into Jon's arms, which...yeah, that's not the best idea. Spencer frowns without meaning to.
Lila's eyes flare and her voice drops an octave as she slurs, "Well, hello there, gorgeous," draping her long arms around Jon's shoulders. "Are you here with Vicky tonight?"
Jon's laughs and ducks his head, that "aw, shucks" manner he always has that Spencer's convinced is totally fake. "Me? Naw, we're just friends." He glances over Lila's shoulder at Spencer, eyebrow raised. Spencer ignores the uncomfortable clenching in his stomach.
"Well, I'm sure you've got way too many friends." Lila melts against Jon and rubs her face against his neck. "How 'bout we be not-friends, hmm?"
Jon laughs again, but doesn't look away from Spencer, who is seriously beginning to get sick of this whole thing, and why the fuck haven't they just left already? He rolls his eyes and tries to telepathically tell Jon he's being a moron and to ditch the drunk girl.
Instead, Jon pats the back of Lila's head and says, "I don't mind having friends. Friends are cool." Then he winks at Spencer, and Spencer bites his tongue so hard it stings.
"Kiss him, Li!" A chorus of drunken cheers and catcalls start up from her friends. "We wanna see tongue, c'mon!" "He's hot, lick his neck!"
Lila grins wolfishly at Jon, and the next thing Spencer knows, Jon's being shoved up against the closest wall as Lila shoves her tongue down his throat.
Spencer waits for Jon to push her away and make a break for it.
He waits. And waits some more.
But Jon evidently has other ideas, because his hands come up around Lila's back, like he's settling in for the long haul. Spencer's heart absolutely does not beat a little harder at the way Jon's fingers splay over her shoulder blades, or the way his thumbs sweep back and forth in a lazy pattern against the material of her dress. His stomach certainly doesn't bottom out, and if his cheeks are flushing hotly, it's out of rage, not lust.
It's the last straw when he sees Jon's face go soft as his eyes flutter shut, letting his mouth open wider under Lila's assault. Fine, Jon can fuck up the mission all he wants. Spencer, on the other hand, believes in a job well-done.
He whips out his phone and pretends to answer it, making very exaggerated nods and ending the fake call by saying, loudly, "Sure thing, I'll tell him right away." Spencer flips the phone shut. "Mr. Walker, sir?"
Jon finally comes up for air and blinks at Spencer. "What?" His expression is a cross between amused and tentative.
"Your boyfriend just called." Spencer holds his phone up. "He said to pick up some milk before you head home tonight."
Lila frowns. "You're gay?"
Jon's still blinking at Spencer in confusion, and Spencer takes great pride in the smirk he throws back at him. "Uh, I − "
"God, I knew you were too hot to be straight." Lila stumbles back from Jon and laughs. "Better not keep your boyfriend waiting, then. Tell Vick bye for me!" She keeps laughing as she goes back to the now-wide-eyed gaggle of women, who promptly explode into a flurry of shrieks and giggles as they drag her back downstairs.
Spencer breathes a sigh of relief. "Okay, now that that's over − "
Suddenly it's his turn to be shoved against the wall, which completely takes him by surprise. Jon has never once pushed him.
"What the hell, man, I totally had that under control!" Jon actually looks pissed off. And even then he looks way too hot.
"Yeah, you had it under control when you let Suzy Bimbo check out your tonsils. Give me a break, Walker." He tips his chin up, exerting as much bored contempt as he can manage when all he can think about when he's practically pressed up against Jon is how easy it would be to kiss him. "Someone had to start thinking rationally, and it might as well be me, since you were incapacitated."
"Inca− she kissed me! I was about to tell her we had to go!"
"Sure you were. And just how does one speak when they're having their tongue sucked?"
To his surprise, Jon shoves him again, getting right up in his face. Spencer swallows and barely keeps from gasping.
"You didn't have to tell her I was gay."
"You are gay!"
"I'm bi, everyone knows that."
"Yeah, it's such common knowledge that you're totally not flipping out that your redhead left you hanging."
Jon rolls his eyes and jerks a hand through his hair. "What is your problem, Smith? Since you met me it's like all I ever do is piss you off!"
"If I have any problem, it's you," Spencer sneers, glad that at least his voice is even and sharp. "This job is all fun and games to you, and I'm the one that's left to do all the dirty work. You don't take anything fucking serious, and I'm tired of it." He balls his hands up in fists at his sides to keep them from shaking.
"So what, you want me to put in for a transfer? Get out of Chicago so you never have to see my face again?" He's close enough that Spencer can feel Jon's breath against his chin.
"I want you to stop being so goddamn obnoxious and do your job!"
"I love my job, all right? If you're so fucking sick of me, then why don't you put in for a transfer, huh?"
"Because..." Spencer's grip on his cool starts to slip, and his heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his throat. His lips feel too hot; he licks them hastily and closes his eyes, trying to breathe, trying not to give anything away. "Because I can't." His voice is suddenly too soft, and he just wants to dissolve into the wall in humiliation. He can't think straight with Jon so close, his heat everywhere, fucking with Spencer's common sense.
Jon gets very quiet for a moment, and Spencer eventually opens his eyes to find him looking at Spencer like he's never seen him before. He tips his head to one side and says, softly, "Wait a second." He cups Spencer's chin with his thumb and index finger, but Spencer jerks away, feeling a surge of panic in his gut.
"Stop it," Spencer whispers. Whispers, fuck, why is his voice still all breathy like that?
"Oh, wow." Jon's voice is suddenly just as soft, and he sounds weirdly surprised. Then the corner of his mouth tilts up slowly.
"What?" Spencer asks, hating his life and hating that Jon's mouth looks all shiny this close.
"Nothing, I − d'you ever notice something, Spence?" A full-blown grin is making its way across Jon's face, and instead of backing away, he presses closer to Spencer. "You always glare at me differently from everyone else."
Spencer is momentarily thrown by Jon calling him by his first name, which never happens. "I don't know what you're talking about." He can hear the petulant tone in his voice; he sounds like his five-year-old cousin just before naptime.
Jon shakes his head. "It's not so much about pissing you off, is it?" he asks softly as he keeps pressing closer, until they're flush together, chest to...oh shit.
Spencer swallows again and tries not to whimper.
"Yeah, that's what I thought." Jon laughs quietly and leans up to nuzzle the line of Spencer's jaw, over the two-day-old scruff he was too lazy to shave this morning. "You want me bad." He rolls his hips against Spencer's very obvious hard-on, and Spencer barely bites back a groan.
"I don't," he replies, even as his voice cracks a little and his hand flies up to grip Jon's waist as he arches into him, completely beyond Spencer's control. Damn it.
Jon hums way in the back of his throat and nips sharply at Spencer's ear. "You are so fucking stubborn sometimes," he murmurs, his words suddenly rough and throaty and...god, it's been way, way too long since someone's kissed Spencer's neck like that...
"You're an asshole," Spencer breathes as his other hand splays over Jon's lower back − just to keep his balance, that's all.
"Yeah? And you're a hard-ass."
"I'm a professional."
"Okay, so you're an uptight hard-ass."
"Fuck off, Walk− "
Jon stops whatever insult Spencer had ready by sliding his tongue into Spencer's mouth and kissing him like every deep, dark secret fantasy Spencer has ever had about him. His brain shorts out and turns to snow, and for a moment, nothing else matters but the feel of Jon's mouth on his.
There's a roaring in Spencer's ears, and he's vaguely aware of making some kind of embarrassing moaning noise when Jon rolls his hips again, sinking his teeth into Spencer's lower lip and sucking sharply. The hand splayed along Jon's back flexes and pulls at Jon's tux jacket, wanting skin, wanting him bare. Suddenly it doesn't matter that they're making out against a wall while a huge corporate party rages downstairs, or that Jon just had some bimbo's tongue jammed down his throat; all Spencer wants right now is to get them both naked and get his hands on Jon the way he's wanted to for months.
Of course, Jon ruins it by gasping, "Wish you'd told me," against Spencer's cheek.
Spencer pulls away and blinks at him, every inch of his skin hot to the touch. "Told you what, that you're a douche?" he pants.
"That you wanted to kiss me like that. I could've saved you the wait." He gives Spencer a smirk that almost looks affectionate.
"I didn't − you don't − seriously, this needs to stop." Spencer lays both hands flat against Jon's chest to shove him away, only Jon grins harder and swoops back in to kiss him again, slow and lazy. Instead of shoving, his hands curl inward, griping the lapels of Jon's tux jacket.
"How 'bout we stop and you come home with me?" Jon whispers, lips soft along the corner of Spencer's mouth.
Spencer struggles to think through a red haze of lust. "Are you high? We work together."
"So?" He licks a stripe down Spencer's neck and bites him just over his collarbone. "We're two consenting adults, and this is obviously something we both want."
"You don't actually want me." Spencer laughs, a bit too hysterical. "You're just running off adrenaline. And the fact that Asher turned you down." Which, if Spencer's being honest with himself, is something he can deal with; he's used to being the second choice.
Jon lifts his head, and his eyes are all dark and his mouth is wet and − Spencer huffs and drags him back in for another kiss, because he can, and because he's kind of afraid that if he doesn't kiss Jon now, he'll lose his chance.
"I never seriously asked her out," Jon mumbles in between kisses. He leans back, and there it is again, that affectionate little smirk. "She's not my type, anyway."
So you say, Spencer thinks as his eyes flutter closed when Jon kisses him again. "This would never work. You know that."
Jon muffles a laugh into Spencer's chin, fingers tracing the line of Spencer's fly. "It doesn't have to." He toys with the snap at Spencer's waist. "I'll make you a deal: I'll put in for a transfer to Portland if you spend a night with me."
Turned on or not, Spencer can't help snorting. "Portland? I thought you were from Chicago."
"I am, but I've got family out there, too. Besides, a change of scenery would be good for me."
"You can't be serious."
Jon slowly drags Spencer's zipper open and lets his fingertips smooth over the wet tip of Spencer's cock through his boxers. "No?"
Spencer hisses and loses his train of thought. "N-no, you − I don't even like you."
"You're not the greatest catch either, but I like making your cheeks go bright pink like that." He parts the slit of Spencer's boxers and curls his hand tightly around him. "It's not about liking each other, it's about getting what we both want."
He bucks into Jon's hand before he can stop himself. "And all I have to do is spend a night with you?" His voice doesn't sound like himself; it's low, too raspy, like it sounds whenever he's finished smoking a joint with Ryan.
"Spend a night and not argue with me once. That's it. I'll put in the transfer the next morning."
Spencer doesn't want to say yes. He doesn't want to know what it's like to actually have sex with Jon, because then he'll just want more and he knows that's not going to happen; Jon doesn't have anything better going on at the moment. Spencer's it.
But it's been almost a year and a half since Spencer's had any sort of relationship, and even longer since he's had mind−blowing sex. Nothing else has really mattered to him since he joined the Bureau and started making a name for himself, but now, suddenly, he realizes just how much he needs a chance to just let go, to be crazy and reckless and not give a flying fuck about rules and regulations.
Which is why Spencer bites his lip and says, "Okay. One night."
Jon's smile is gorgeous, bright and dazzling. Spencer wants to close his eyes against it. "Then we've got a deal, Smith. Friday night, my place." He pulls his hand out of Spencer's pants and zips him back up.
Spencer makes a very indignant squawk. "What the − !"
"Like I'm gonna let you come all over my tux. I do have class, y'know." He pats Spencer's cheek. "Don't worry, it'll keep until Friday."
Spencer stays sprawled against the wall, hard and pissed off as he watches Jon saunter back down the stairs. His one bit of consolation is the way Jon awkwardly pauses to adjust his erection.
~
It's probably bad form for someone to spend their free time hanging out with their boss, but when the boss also happens to be a best friend, well. Spencer has been waiting almost a year for the Bureau to say something about Ryan being his superior, but it's never happened.
"So let me get this straight," Ryan drawls, a Corona bottle dangling precariously from one hand as he sprawls in a chair on his back deck; they're taking advantage of the freak spring-like day in January. "Walker's going to put in for a transfer if you sleep with him?"
Spencer instantly goes pink as his stomach flips over. He's such a fucking girl. "The exact wording was 'spend a night.'" He's expertly avoided Jon for the past twenty-four hours, since they finished up the assignment; Spencer really doesn't want to look into his eyes and see even a hint that this whole thing is a giant joke.
"Which means sex to people with more than half a brain."
"I'm not sleeping with him."
Ryan smirks and takes a long drink. "Right. You're just going over there to watch the Food Network."
"This isn't about sex, okay, it's − I don't know, it's a way for me to get my sanity back." He peels the label off his Bud Light bottle and starts folding it into a tiny square. Jon's voice is in his head, saying over and over it'll keep until Friday.
"For fuck's sake, Spence, sex with Walker's not the end of the world. Personally, I'm kind of relieved; you were seriously starting to get weird about him, especially when he and Conrad had to infiltrate that gay club."
"They made out the whole fucking night!" Spencer's voice goes a little too high. "He's like a damn rabbit in heat, I can't believe you didn't − "
Ryan starts ticking points off on his fingers. "One, they got the job done. Two, I do believe they were dating at the time, so going under as lovers didn't seem like much of a stretch, and don't even get me started on the look on your face when I suggested you play his boyfriend instead. It was priceless."
Spencer really hopes Ryan's not mocking him, because he's very close to kicking him where it counts. "Still. Walker will practically lick anything with two legs and a pulse. I'm not that easy."
"Of course you are. I haven't seen you get this dumb about someone since high school, when that foreign exchange student from New Zealand showed up during junior year and you could barely speak English for a week."
"Anthony," Spencer sniffs. "His name was Anthony. And whatever, Jon's not even in the same galaxy."
"Oh, really." Ryan sits up, and Spencer recognizes his evil, evil grin. "Then you won't care at all that Jon came into my office this morning and asked what kind of wine you like."
Spencer drops his bottle, spilling beer all over the deck. "What?" His throat is suddenly very dry.
"He wanted to know, hypothetically speaking, if he were to buy wine for you, what kind you'd drink. I told him you're a lush and whites get you every time."
Spencer brandishes the empty bottle at Ryan, who just smiles back like the smug bastard he is. "Don't do that. Don't talk to him, or − or give him ideas and shit. He's not serious, he's probably just using the information for blackmail."
Ryan sighs. "Seriously, if you'd get over this complex you have about wanting into his pants, you'd see Walker's a great guy, and a hell of an agent."
"You have to say that, you're his boss." The pouty kid voice is creeping back into his tone.
"I'm his boss, not his boyfriend, so no, I don't. And you should realize that I wouldn't put just anyone with you, Spence. Not someone I didn't trust to have your back."
He hates it when Ryan gets all rational on him. That's Spencer's job. "Fine. That doesn't mean I have to like him."
"You don't have to do anything. But what you want is something else entirely." Ryan drains the rest of his Corona and salutes Spencer with the bottle. "I'm going back for another, want one?"
"Might as well, since you're a total master at knowing what I want," Spencer mumbles, slumping down in the deck chair.
Ryan clucks his tongue as he gets up and slides the screen door open. "After twenty years, you bet your ass I'm a fucking master."
~
Spencer does a really great job of not freaking himself out before Friday night. He buries himself in paperwork, writing up reports from the last mission (they've yet to learn if it was successful, as Brendon's still going over the encoded data) and tries to ignore the way Ryan keeps emailing him a countdown (eight hours and six minutes til sex w/ walker). Fortunately Jon has kept a low profile most of the week, so Spencer isn't forced to stare at him and think about what may or may not transpire on Friday.
That evening, he doesn't give any thought to his wardrobe; he just grabs the first pair of jeans he finds and throws a t-shirt on and doesn't look at himself in the mirror. He doesn't even shave.
"No sex," Spencer mutters to himself as he stands on Jon's doorstep and knocks twice, palms sweating fiercely in the pockets of his coat. And if, by chance, the sex does happen, it'll be quick and painless. Spencer plans on spending two hours in Jon's apartment, tops.
Only Jon opens the door dressed in a dark blue dress shirt with the collar open and black slacks. His feet are bare and his hair looks thoroughly mussed.
Spencer's stomach bottoms out.
"Uh." He glances down at his jeans, then back up at Jon, frowning. "What the hell."
"You expected me in boxers and a wife-beater?" Jon smirks and folds his arms over his chest.
To be honest, yes. "I expected − " Spencer waves his hand at Jon's pants, glaring in order to keep himself from shoving Jon into the closest wall and pawing at him. "Less, y'know, ironing."
"Maybe I wanted to look nice. Is that a crime?"
Spencer feels like he's walking into some kind of trap, and yet he can't stop himself from staring. "No," he huffs, wishing he'd waited at least another twenty minutes before blushing this intensely.
Jon grins and wraps a hand around Spencer's wrist, pulling him into the apartment and closing the door behind him. He doesn't let Spencer take his coat off; Jon backs him against the doorjamb and presses into him, sliding a leg smoothly between Spencer's and whispering in his ear, "Thanks for keeping your end of the agreement."
Within five seconds of being pressed into the wall, Spencer's panting, his mouth going wet. God, he hates it when Ryan's right. He really is too fucking easy. "A-agreement?" he stutters.
"You not arguing with me." Jon starts to sprinkle baby kisses over Spencer's jaw, soft brushes of his lips that Spencer can barely feel.
"We didn't actually...um..." Jon gets his teeth involved, nipping at Spencer's earlobe, and he loses his train of thought. Suddenly, sex sounds like an awesome idea. "I mean, we didn't shake on anything. There's no binding contract."
Jon chuckles, low and soft as he nuzzles back over Spencer's cheek. "You're here, that's pretty much signing on the dotted line." He flicks the tip of his tongue over the corner of Spencer's mouth, and Spencer can't help whimpering, or letting his lips part. He holds his breath and waits for the kiss he's been tasting since that night at the party.
"You want me to kiss you?" Jon whispers, and dammit if he doesn't sound way too pleased.
Spencer winces, but still whispers back, "You know I do," ducking his head so that Jon can't look into his eyes. He feels a thumb rub over his chin, but a kiss never comes; instead, Jon drops his arms and takes a step back.
"Hungry?" Jon asks, like they weren't just about to make out against his front door. He looks completely in control, while Spencer's melting into a puddle of goo.
Spencer blinks a few times and scrubs a hand through his hair. "You made food?" This wasn't part of the agreement. Jon's not supposed to be cooking, or standing there in his foyer looking like a pleasantly fucked GQ model.
"I made lasagna. Ryan said you like Italian, so I figured that was safe." He waves Spencer toward the kitchen. "C'mon. You can leave your coat in the living room."
Spencer can still feel his heart racing; he kind of hates how collected Jon is. Then he sees the small dining room table just off the kitchen − it's set for two with candles and a bottle of wine.
"What the hell," he says again, coming up short in front of the refrigerator.
Jon's busy pulling the lasagna out of the oven. It smells amazing, but...seriously, it's almost surreal. "Do you really have a problem with dinner, Smith?"
"You asked Ryan what kind of wine I like," Spencer blurts out.
"Yeah. He said you like Rieslings, so that's what I got." He shrugs as he hands Spencer the salad bowl. "You really do like 'em sweet, huh?"
He stares at the salad in his hands for a moment, then walks over to the table, setting in the middle. This, Spencer thinks, is what going crazy feels like. "There's nothing wrong with sweet wines. I just never developed a taste for the dryer ones."
"And here I was pegging you for a Merlot guy."
"Reds give me headaches."
Jon holds up a hand as he sets a basket of breadsticks on the table. "Hey, it makes no difference to me. I didn't even venture outside the realm of beer and tequila shots until I got into the Academy." He hands the wine bottle to Spencer. "Wanna do the honors?"
Spencer doesn't mind opening the bottle himself, because it makes this whole thing feel less like a date and more like...like he's simply eating dinner in Jon's apartment. He pours them both a glass, and takes a long drink as Jon serves up the lasagna.
Not a date. Just an arrangement.
He can already see Ryan rolling his eyes at him.
Before they dig in, Jon turns on his stereo. Frank Sinatra's voice fills the room, singing about how he's got someone under his skin.
Spencer snorts. "Seriously, Walker? You really have all your bases covered, don't you?" He shakes his head, thinking about all the women (and men) who've no doubt been in his place before − sitting at Jon's table with a full spread and a glass of wine and Jon across from them, just waiting for the right moment to win them over completely. If he thinks about it too much, he starts get a little pissed off; Spencer's not going to let himself become a notch in Jon's bedpost. The jealousy is a side effect.
Jon gives him a funny look. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing." Spencer stabs at his salad and abruptly changes the subject. "Heard anything back from Brendon on the flashdrive?"
"Not yet, although he thinks he's close. We're definitely headed in the right direction."
"Unless all that data turns out to be porn, and then we're fucked."
Jon laughs. "Always the pessimist," he says, smiling at Spencer over the rim of his wine glass.
"Just saying, we shouldn't get our hopes up until Brendon's sure. Not that he's been wrong all that often, but you never know."
"I've got a good feeling about this, though. Pretty soon we'll have it wrapped up and in the bag."
"And I've learned that going off your gut instincts isn't always the best idea," Spencer mumbles down at his breadstick. He winces internally − yeah, like he really wants to get into personal shit now, of all times.
Jon tilts his head thoughtfully. "Meaning?"
Spencer shakes his head. "Meaning...I don't trust feelings." And wow, does that ever sound melodramatic and high school-ish. He's not even tipsy.
"Oh, yeah?" Jon smirks as he taps his fork against his plate. "Never took you for an android."
"Shut up." It's automatic, the way Spencer huffs and throws his breadstick at Jon's head. He knows he's flushing, which he hates, only not as much as hates that his skin is still buzzing slightly from when Jon had his hands on him earlier. "I like being careful, okay?" Jesus, he just needs to stop talking. He doesn't even know why he's being so defensive.
Jon ducks and manages to catch Spencer's breadstick. He's laughing, and something flickers in his eyes, something that doesn't look bemused or sarcastic. It looks softer than that, and Spencer starts to think coming here was a huge fucking mistake. "There's nothing wrong with being careful," Jon says, pointing the breadstick at Spencer. "But it can suck the fun out of stuff, too, y'know."
"Yeah, because getting shot is loads of fun." Spencer rolls his eyes and holds out his hand. "Gimme my breadstick back."
"Who said I was talking about work? And not a chance, it's mine now. You've got an entire basket right in front of you."
"I was talking about work. C'mon, I liked that one, give it." Spencer makes a grabby hand motion at Jon, frowning.
"You just can't stand me having something of yours, can you?" Jon looks at the breadstick, feigning a look of pensiveness. "Good thing I'm not attracted to Ross, or there'd be some serious issues." He looks back up at Spencer through the fringe of his bangs falling in his eyes, a big shit−eating grin on his face.
Spencer huffs again, loudly, and gets up from his seat, marching around the table to Jon's side. "Nice try, asshole, it's not like I haven't gotten shit about Ryan for last ten years or so." He lunges for the breadstick. "Fucking give it, Walker."
Jon blinks innocently up at him, holding the breadstick away. "So you're not secret boyfriends like everyone says?"
"No, god, you know that." He lunges for it again, causing his thigh to press up against Jon's arm, and braces his arm along the back of Jon's chair to keep his balance.
"No, I don't. You and Ross are a fucking enigma in the office. Brendon once told me Ross had someone fired for talking shit on you."
"Someone" was Spencer's old partner, actually, and the "talking shit" was him nearly getting Spencer killed. It was stupid, Darren hadn't been paying attention, but Ryan said he wasn't about to keep around agents who put their partners in danger. That wasn't including the part where Ryan nearly beat Darren into a bloody pulp. "Ryan's my boss and my best friend, nothing more. Not that it's any of your business or anything."
"I always thought that was a conflict of interest." It suddenly dawns on Spencer that Jon's got his hand curled around Spencer's thigh, and his thumb is brushing idly back and forth along the seam of his jeans.
He swallows and makes another reach for the breadstick. "And sexual relations between partners isn't?"
Jon's eyes flash and his grin turns wolfish. Shit. "Oh, are we having sex?"
Spencer manages to resist flinching. "That's not what I'm saying, just − damn it, just give me the fucking breadstick!"
"Hmmm, not yet." He sets it on his plate, and the next thing Spencer knows, he's being hauled into Jon's lap, legs spread on either of Jon's thighs. Without thinking, Spencer's hands grip Jon's shoulders, fingers pressed hard into his neck, at the very edge of his hairline.
"Explain to me what you're saying, Smith," Jon says in this ridiculously soft voice that would irritate the shit out of Spencer at any other time. It's just that, right now, being sprawled in Jon's lap doesn't do a whole lot for Spencer's common sense, especially when he's sliding his hands up Spencer's back like that.
Spencer glares and tries half-heartedly to wiggle away. "This is a conflict of interest," he replies, head bowed as he looks somewhere around the center of Jon's chest, which is a really bad idea; he starts thinking about how easily he could undo the buttons, part the edges of his shirt, and just have skin everywhere. The thought makes Spencer glare harder and try to drop his hands, but they're pressed too close together. There's not enough room.
Jon slides his hands higher and leans in, bringing them almost chest to chest as he traces the tip of his nose over the rough stubble on Spencer's cheeks. Much to his (secret) chagrin, Spencer wishes he'd taken the time to shave. "Maybe. But I don't see you objecting. Not really." He brushes his lips over Spencer's cheek, a barely-there kiss that makes Spencer squeeze his eyes shut and shiver.
"Just...just saying that you shouldn't be so hypocritical." He maybe leans into Jon a little more. Possibly. His balance is all off sitting this way.
He hears Jon give a soft, affectionate laugh he's never heard before. "Okay, Spence, I'll stop being a hypocritical bastard." Fingertips thread gently through Spencer's hair, and Spencer is once again thrown by Jon calling him by his first name (shortened first name, even, like he's been calling him Spence for years) to notice that Jon's tipping his chin forward and bringing their mouths together.
It's a million times softer than Spencer was expecting, and he really wants to be pissed off that none of this is going according to plan. He doesn't want Jon's hands rubbing slow, lazy circles over his spine, or Jon's lips being all gentle and barely parted, and he certainly doesn't want Jon calling him anything other than Smith.
"Why did you want to be an agent?" Jon whispers against Spencer's mouth, and no, no, they aren't having small talk. It's bad enough Spencer can feel himself sinking his weight against Jon, his fingers sliding up into his hair.
"I don't know, because it's cooler than being a cop." He hates that his voice is suddenly husky, and that his tongue slips over the edge of Jon's lower lip and traces the slightly crooked line of his teeth.
"I'm being serious." Spencer can feel him smile, senses the way the muscles in his mouth pull and the way his lips shift. "I'll tell you my story if you tell me yours." He fits his hand over Spencer's jaw, thumbing sweeping over his cheek, and Spencer shivers. Again.
"That's not why I'm here," he replies meanly, hands flexing at Jon's neck. "Stories weren't part of the deal." He puts extra bite into his words, hoping it covers up how breathless he sounds.
Jon kisses him a little deeper, a little wetter, and Spencer can't help it − he moans softly and rolls his hips up. He's hard (has been since he walked in the door, practically), and he can feel Jon through his slacks as well, and god, they could strip right here and do it on Jon's dining room chair and Spencer wouldn't care at all.
Jon pulls back abruptly, making their mouths part wetly. "You promised," he says, and he's just as breathless as Spencer. "No arguing."
Spencer groans, only partly from arousal. "I hate you," he murmurs, eyes fluttering shut as Jon lifts his hips a little and gives him a hint of friction.
"I'm aware of this fact. Now start talking."
If he weren't so turned on, Spencer would roll his eyes. "Whatever, fine." He decides to distract himself by letting his hands wander; he runs the tips of his fingers over the V of bare skin peeking out from Jon's open collar, over the dip in his throat. "I like being the good guy."
Jon's breath hitches softly as Spencer slides the top button free. "That's...very twelve-years-old of you." He's watching Spencer's hands with sharp, intense fascination. There's not a trace of smugness in his voice anymore.
"Fuck off, it's the closest thing to being a superhero I could find. Spiderman was already taken."
"There are too many Spidermans in the Bureau, anyway." Jon flicks his tongue out over his bottom lip slowly; Spencer wants to reach up, slide his thumb over the slick skin there, and watch Jon's eyes go even darker.
He swallows. "It's dumb and clichéd, but I like knowing people are safer because of me."
Jon shakes his head and brushes a kiss over Spencer's chin, his hand sliding down Spencer's side. "'s not dumb at all," he whispers, and Spencer thinks they're wearing too many clothes.
"W-what about you?" He tries to tip his chin down and get Jon to kiss him again. He doesn't know why he's asking, because it's not like he cares.
Jon smiles a little crookedly and nuzzles over Spencer's jaw instead of letting their mouths connect again. "I didn't want to join the army, so I figured the FBI was the next best thing." He huffs a laugh. "And yeah, I realize I sound like a Ben Fold's song."
Great, now Spencer has images of Jon in army fatigues in his head. "Why not the army?" he asks softly, tightening his legs against Jon's thighs as he rocks up carefully, making them both groan and Jon's hands clutch at Spencer's t-shirt.
Jon scrapes his teeth gently over the curve of Spencer's jaw. "Because it's what my dad wanted, and I like to be difficult."
Spencer tries very hard not to whimper like a girl. He mostly succeeds. "Can't argue with that." He finally slides his hand up Jon's neck and cups his chin, forcing him to into another kiss, this one sloppy and all tongue. He forms the words in his head − I think we've done enough sharing for one night − but all that comes out once he's able to wrench his mouth away and suck air back into his lungs is, "C'mon, please." He's a little mortified to already be at the point of begging, but Jon doesn't pull back and smirk at him, or laugh, or make some kind of quip about Spencer being pushy.
Instead, Jon bites his lip and moans softly, pressing his forehead against Spencer's for a moment. "Stand up," he says, panting.
Spencer scrambles out of Jon's lap, knocking into the table and almost sending Jon's wine glass flying. "Shit, the food, I − "
"You care about dinner now?" Jon's laugh is husky and low as he wraps an arm around Spencer's waist to steady him. He also uses it as an excuse to lean in and bite lightly at Spencer's neck.
"No, right, good point − " He fists both hands into Jon's shirt and starts stumbling backwards, not caring if he ends up on the floor or sprawled across the dining table, just as long as they can get horizontal and naked right now. "Couch?" he gasps.
Jon nods and takes over the momentum, steering them toward the living room, and suddenly Spencer finds himself shoved down onto a very soft suede couch. He hasn't even bothered to take in Jon's decorating skills (or lack thereof); his hands splay over the cushions long enough for him to appreciate their texture, but then Jon drops to his knees and spreads Spencer's thighs, and yeah. Fuck the couch.
"What, do you fucking shrink these things?" Jon says, breathless and grinning up at Spencer through the messy fall of his bands as he tugs the fly of Spencer's jeans open. "This can't be healthy, Smith."
"My jeans are my bus− " All coherent forms of thought go flying out of his brain, because Jon yanks Spencer's boxers down just enough to free his dick and licks up the underside, swirling his tongue around the tip. Spencer drops his head back against the couch and swallows a moan; it's been so long since he's gotten any head at all, and for a second he freaks out over the possibility of coming within five seconds, especially since it's Jon, and −
No, fuck, that's not what he needs to be thinking about. It doesn't matter who's doing this, just that it's happening. But he's not about to let Jon know that he's already so close, that his mouth is soslickhotwetgood; he can't give Jon that satisfaction. So he squeezes his eyes shut and sucks his lip into his mouth and concentrates on breathing.
Jon spreads his hands over Spencer's knees, slides his mouth lower, inch by inch, hollowing his cheeks as he tightens the suction, and Spencer sees stars behind behind his eyelids. A tiny, tiny grunt escapes his throat; he digs his fingers deeper into the couch cushions.
So close, god, so close −
"Relax."
Spencer blinks his eyes open and glances down. Jon's lips are hovering over the head of his cock, fingers curled loosely around the base, and he's looking up at Spencer, eyes dark and completely blown.
"Relax," Jon says again, rubbing his bottom lip over the tip. "Try to enjoy it."
Is he blind? "I am enjoying it," Spencer hisses, pushing his hips up to give Jon the hint.
"You're too tense."
"Maybe I'm tense because you stopped."
"Or maybe you need to take my advice and relax." Jon stretches his lips wide and takes Spencer back into his mouth, all the way in, and Spencer can't help the huh−uh that squeaks out. It's embarrassing, making these sounds; Spencer's never been one for making noise, because it makes him feel out of control and way too fucking vulnerable. He's never been good at vocalizing his pleasure, anyway, not without sounding like a really lame porno; he flushes hard at the thought of Jon laughing at whatever might slip out of his mouth accidentally, and he bites down even harder on his lip.
The hand curled around Spencer's dick squeezes and begins moving in time with Jon's mouth, a slip-sliding rhythm that's so close to perfect, Spencer has to fight the urge not to thrust his hips up and fuck Jon's mouth. He can hardly breathe, keeps chanting in his brain to hold on hold on, because if he comes now he'll never hear the end of it, only he hears a soft groaning sound and realizes it's Jon humming around his cock.
"Oh god," Spencer gasps, tightly, trying not to let the words turn into a full-body moan.
Jon pulls off with a slow, obscene little wet pop and tongues the ridge underneath, like he's got all the time in the world. Like he's memorizing the feel and taste of him. "Let me hear you, Spence," he whispers, and then he decides to get his other hand involved. Spencer watches, glassy-eyed, as Jon sucks two fingers into his mouth and slicks them up, lets them slide free easily a moment later before easing one fingertip gently against the curve of Spencer's ass. "You're so fucking hot, I want to hear you," he says again, voice barely above a growl, sliding his finger further inside.
Spencer holds his breath and keeps from grinding down on Jon's hand, resisting that automatic response to give in and let Jon take over. But it's hard, so, so hard, and Spencer can feel the tension building low in his stomach, the heat spreading through every inch of his skin.
It's been so long since anyone's touched him like this, since he's felt splintered and on fire and just wanting beyond reason. It's too much and not enough, all at once, but Spencer can bring himself to tell Jon any of this, he can't just lay himself open like that −
"Please, Spence." The growl in Jon's voice turns sharp, almost breaking on his name. The rhythm of his hand is losing its finesse, and when he adds a second finger inside Spencer, he can feel Jon's hand shaking. "Tell me you want this as much as I do, because fuck, you make me so goddamn hard I can't even think, and you taste so good, so good, better than I imagined − " He trails off into a moan and licks Spencer sloppily, and Spencer suddenly notices the way Jon's pushing his hips up against the couch, and the way his breath is turning rough and shallow.
Spencer did that to him. He made Jon lose control, without meaning to or trying, and it's honestly the hottest thing Spencer's ever seen in his life.
It makes the last threads of his restraint snap and disappear. He sags against the couch, head rolling back as his mouth falls open and he moans, loud enough for the entire floor to hear, "Jesus fuck, Jon, you're so fucking good at this, don't ever stop or I'll kill you, I swear." It's the first time he's ever called Jon by his first name, but Spencer's too far gone to care.
He hears Jon's breath hitch, and then he's suddenly engulfed in wet heat and suction, fingers twisting inside him deep, bordering on the edge of pain, and Spencer gives in. He melts into the couch as his hands paw blindly at Jon's hair, holding on as he rolls his hips up. There's a moment of panic when Spencer thinks he's gone too far, but Jon just whimpers and sucks harder, pumping him faster as everything goes slick and hot. He's conscious of babbling nonsense over and over again ("Jon, god, your mouth, I can't − shit − ") as he scrapes his nails over Jon's scalp.
It lasts longer than Spencer expects, but it's still embarrassingly short, and when he comes, a small part of his brain is stupidly relieved no one from the office is there to hear him yell until he's hoarse about how much he loves Jon's mouth. He feels Jon shudder under his hands a few seconds later, and then he's groaning deep in his throat as he grinds against the couch and finally goes still, letting Spencer slip from his mouth. He pulls his fingers free and braces both hands on Spencer's thighs, head bowed as he gasps for air, his cheeks bright pink and damp with sweat.
Spencer can't form the words to even describe how gorgeous Jon is in this moment. He stays sprawled over the couch cushions, utterly boneless, panting and watching Jon come back down to earth. He starts to reach his hand out to trace a finger down Jon's nose...
...and then blinks. What the fuck, seriously? He's acting like a starry-eyed teenager who just got blown for the first time. He should be zipping his jeans back up and getting the hell out of there, not staring down at Jon while his heart does weird, scary things in his chest.
"I − " His voice sounds like he's the one who's just gotten through sucking cock. Spencer swallows a few times. "I..." Should really be going, thanks for the head. "...think the food is fucked."
Jon's laugh is slow and sleepy-sounding. He doesn't look up at Spencer right away as he says, softly, "Yeah. We can nuke it if you want." He leans down and kisses a bare spot on Spencer's stomach where his shirt has ridden up. "Are you still hungry?"
Instead of getting to his feet and giving Jon some quip about getting what he came for, Spencer grins shyly − shyly, god, what's going on here? − and scrubs his fingers through Jon's hair, making it even more mussed and unruly. "I'm good. I had half a breadstick before I chucked it at your head." His stomach chooses that moment to growl loudly, making Jon bark out another laugh.
"I feel like a shitty host. I'm letting you starve, Spence." And whoa, okay, Spencer always knew Jon had a hint of a lisp before, but he's never noticed it curling around his name like that until now. It makes his stomach go all warm.
"It's okay, really. It's not like I'm gonna waste away or anything." He winces as soon as the words have left his mouth; his weight isn't something he talks about with anyone but Ryan, and even then it's very, very rarely. It's been a sore spot for him since he was in high school.
Jon smirks and leans over again to skim his teeth lightly over Spencer's stomach, right over his bellybutton. "If you're asking me if you're fat, I'm not falling for it." Then he groans and sits back on heels. "Sorry, my knees are killing me. This is why I need to get an apartment with carpet."
So it's easier to give head? Spencer thinks, and almost laughs out loud. He finally glances around the apartment and notices all the wood flooring and the exposed brick walls, various black-and-white photographs hanging throughout the room.
"Did you take those?" he asks as Jon stands up slowly; there's a very distinct wet spot on the front of his slacks that Spencer carefully ignores.
"Most of them. Some of them Conrad took and gave to me." Jon offers his hand to Spencer and pulls him up, and Spencer also ignores the sharp little twinge of something resembling jealousy. It's stupid; Conrad and Jon had been friends for years before they ever dated, so it's perfectly reasonable that Jon would have his pictures hanging in his apartment. In really nice frames.
But said frames are forgotten when Jon tugs Spencer closer and whispers against his ear, "I'm gonna go change, okay? If you're not hungry anymore, you can either hang out, or go check out the hot tub. I took the cover off a few hours ago, it should be ready to go."
Spencer snorts. "You have a hot tub?"
"Yeah, I like to relax sometimes, so what?"
"It's fucking January, Walker. There's an inch of snow on the ground."
"Live a little. It's fun, I promise." And with that, Jon smacks Spencer on the ass and heads down the hall to his bedroom, leaving Spencer standing in the living room with his jeans still hanging open.
~
part two