Chapter Text

Ryan has been at the National Conference of Forensic Science in Seattle for exactly forty-five minutes when someone trips in the aisle right next to where he's sitting in the large auditorium and manages to knock both their cups of coffee over Ryan's favourite shirt.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry," the guy says, looking frantically in his pockets for something to help clean up the mess. "I'm such a klutz, seriously. Jesus. Let me—okay, you've got it, good, okay, then I'll just—you're Ryan Ross."

Ryan looks up from the stain on his shirt (completely ruined, fucking perfect). The guy is looking at him like he can't decide whether he wants to say something else or just die from embarrassment. Ryan raises an eyebrow. "And?"

"Oh," the guy says, a blush spreading across his face. "Sorry. Just... you're Ryan Ross," he repeats, a clear note of reverence in his voice that has Ryan simultaneously very flattered and not really knowing what to do with his hands. "I've read every single one of your articles. Like, a million times. That one you wrote last month on the second instar for Piophilidae flies? God, that was so awesome. Like, how did you even find a two-month old pig carcass to use for the experiment? I—"

The guy breaks off, and Ryan realises that he might have been staring a bit. The guy ducks his head and mutters another string of apologies while he gathers up the empty cups from the floor.

"I hid it in the desert," Ryan says, and the kid—because it is a kid. Ryan, at twenty-nine, is definitely among the younger people in the auditorium, but this guy is in his early twenties at most, everything from red glasses to worn jeans and sparkly (oh God, they're actually sparkly) pair of Converse on his feet positively screaming 'college student'—looks up, clearly taken aback.

"About three miles out of Vegas," Ryan continues, watching how the guy's expression goes from stunned to intrigued in the span of a sentence. "Just went out and dumped it in a small cave, put up some netting to keep scavengers away and marked the spot. Then I came back two months later with my equipment. I wanted to bring it back to the lab and study it there, but Spen—my colleagues said that they would dump my body in the desert if I ever did that again after the experiment on larvae development in dead mice, so—"

"That was such a cool study!" the guy cuts in, almost bouncing in his crouched-down position. "Like, the way you demonstrated that arrested development is possible in specific, ionised environments was just genius, and... um... could I buy you a cup of coffee?"

"Um, what?" Ryan says, which—really—Ryan's own eloquence astounds him sometimes.

"Coffee," the guy repeats, indicating Ryan's shirt with a kind of flaily, embarrassed gesture. "Since I spilled yours and all. Like, there's this really good place over by the Philosophy building? And I'd really like to ask you more about that last paper—" He breaks off again, looking at Ryan with an uncertain expression. Ryan blinks. "Um, unless you're busy, of course," the guy says. "Which, God, fuck, of course you are, you're here for the conference, and I'm keeping you from that, and Jesus—I'm sorry. I promise I'm not this lame in real life. Like, I don't normally go around accosting people and spilling coffee all over them, and shit, yeah, I'll just—really, really awesome meeting you. Love your work. Um... have a nice stay in Seattle?"

He scrambles up from the floor and hurries away down the aisle towards the auditorium exit. Ryan stays in his chair, blinking another couple of times, feeling like a small tornado just hit him.

"Wait!"

The guy is almost out the door when Ryan catches up with him, trying to balance a stack of papers, his briefcase, a hat, a scarf, a pair of gloves and a jacket in his arms without dropping any of it. "Coffee would be great," he says, a sense of shock setting back in when they guy looks at him and breaks into an absolutely blinding smile. "Um... what's your name?"

"Brendon," the guy says, smiling even wider. "I'm sorry, Brendon Urie. I'm doing my Masters degree here. Micro-biology and Criminalistics." He holds out his hand for Ryan to shake, and Ryan does so without thinking, which means that most of the things he's holding slide out of his grasp and fall to the floor.

Brendon laughs and ducks down, helping him gather everything and put most of it back in Ryan's briefcase. They talk about entomology and decomposition cycles all the way to the coffee shop, which somehow turns into a long debate on the pros and cons of potassium permanganate staining to identify fly species from harvested eggs. And then Ryan's stomach makes this kind of growling sound, and it just makes sense to move from coffee to lunch together at this great hole-in-the-wall place that Brendon knows, and before Ryan knows it, it's nearly midnight and they're making plans to meet up at the morning lecture on new methods in forensic DNA analysis.

He takes a long shower before going to bed, unbuttoning his shirt with a grimace, wondering at what point during the day he completely forgot about the giant stain that now covers most of the front. He checks his phone when he gets out of the bathroom, noting two missed calls from Spencer and one text that's 'just checking in'. The words make something undefined twist deep down in Ryan's stomach, growing steadily stronger as the image of Brendon's smile slides across his mind.

He writes three texts in reply and gets into bed, pulling the sheet up and counting down from a thousand to help his body relax.

He falls asleep at four-hundred and sixty-two.

***

Ryan doesn't mean to spend the entire week in Brendon's company. It just sort of happens. They meet up for a lecture in the morning on the second day, Brendon walking up to him in the crowd with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder and a brown paper bag in his hand.

"Hi," Brendon says, a little breathless, like he's been running to make it on time. "Here, I figured, um, you're staying at a hotel, right? And my friend Janie works extra in one and says the breakfast usually sucks, so I picked up a bagel for you. I mean, I picked up an extra one, when I was getting one for myself, not like—God, I'm babbling. Sorry. Um. Pumpkin seed?"

He picks up a bagel from the bag and holds it up to Ryan, who accepts it, out of surprise more than anything. The bread is warm between his fingers, obviously fresh from the oven, and has a filling of cream cheese and some kind of lettuce. Ryan stares at it.

"It's from a place half-way between here and where I live," Brendon says, biting into his own bread and giving Ryan a huge smile when Ryan follows his lead. "It's run by this Iranian guy, and he has the whole shop covered in fluff pieces from the family pages in The Seattle Times. It's awesome. You can just sit in a chair all day and read about someone's dog saving the day or look at pictures of old ladies blowing out eighty candles on a cake."

Ryan takes another bite of his food and nods, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of energy Brendon seems to have in the morning. The bagel is really good. He tells Brendon as much and gets another blinding smile in response.

"We could go there for lunch if you want?" Brendon says, leading them both through the doors of the auditorium, choosing seats on the left side, just the right distance from the podium. "They have great sandwiches. And you get tea in these amazing painted glasses..."

They spend the whole afternoon at the coffee shop, drinking tea and reading news items off the walls, and this somehow turns into more lectures the following day, and lunch and coffee to discuss the lectures, and a trip on the ferry boats when Ryan says that he's never been on one, and more talking, and dinner, and tickets to a college production of Much Ado About Nothing because they happen to walk past a poster for it and Ryan's been meaning to see it forever. And then.

And then it just keeps going. One day turning into the next until it's Thursday evening and they're standing outside the front door of Ryan's hotel, talking about formaldehyde.

"Do you want to come up?" Ryan says, remembering a conversation they had earlier that day. "You said you didn't get the chance to read the latest issue of Forensic Quarterly yet, and I have an extra copy you could borrow, if you wanted to check out that article on invisible trace before tomorrow morning."

Brendon looks at him, surprised, and then he smiles—that open, blinding smile that Ryan still doesn't entirely know how to handle.

"Yeah," he says, ducking his head and tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "I mean, sure, I'd like that."

They make it up the elevator and down the corridor to Ryan's room. Brendon is still smiling. And walking a little too close, like he's nervous someone will call him out on not being a guest and try to make him leave or something. Ryan leaves the door open behind him as he walks inside, hearing it click shut as he hangs up his jacket and goes over to his desk to shuffle through the pile of magazines lying there.

He finds the right issue and turns around with a smile—only to see Brendon's face fall and his neck flush a bright red as he sees the magazine in Ryan's hands.

Oh.

Ryan's mind flashes back to a million moments during the week, registering things he brushed off then that he really shouldn't have. Like how Brendon's clothes changed from a found-next-to-the-bed look to things in bright colours that fit him like a glove. Or how the smell of soap and day-old shirt changed to something interesting and a little spicy. Or how Brendon's thigh brushed against Ryan's when they were trying to read an article in the same lecture booklet. Or like—

Fuck.

Ryan knows that he isn't really this much of an idiot. Or maybe he is, history sure doesn't give him many good arguments to counter it. He looks at Brendon, really noticing what he looks like for the first time, and liking what he sees far too much to be comfortable with it. It would be so easy to take a couple of steps forward, pull Brendon into a kiss and spend a night just enjoying themselves and not thinking about possible complications.

Brendon's eyes are brown, not blue. But he's young, not to mention smart, gorgeous and interested. Ryan already likes him. And, well, the sum of those things didn't work out so well last time.

"Meet you at the coffee shop at 8:30?" Ryan says, handing over the magazine and hoping that his face didn't just show everything he was thinking.

Brendon launches into something rambling and nervous that still manages to convey 'goodnight' and heads for the door, closing it quickly behind him.

Ryan follows, leaning against the door and looking out through the peep hole. Instead of seeing Brendon disappear down the hallway, Ryan sees him slow down to a stop a few yards down the corridor, almost turn around, stop himself again and then slowly bang his head against the wall, calling himself an idiot. It's been a long time since Ryan wanted anything as much as he wants to just open the door now, pull Brendon back inside and show him just how much he didn't misread the situation.

But.

There is a but. And that's enough to stop him.

He goes to bed, closes his eyes and starts counting down. He makes it all the way to negative three before his head finally lets him sleep.

***

Brendon stops and almost turns around to go back home three times on his way to the coffee shop on Friday morning. He hasn't slept much and probably looks like shit. Not that it matters much, since Ryan isn't interested anyway.

He decides to smile and pretend that the night before never happened. Ryan doesn't question it; he seems relieved more than anything when Brendon walks up to him in the queue and jumps straight into a conversation about dragonflies. It is a little awkward at first, but once they're through the first lecture, things are more or less normal again. Except for how Brendon still can't keep his eyes away and has to fight with himself not to reach out and brush off it off when Ryan gets a chocolate smudge at the corner of his mouth from an afternoon brownie.

But other than that, the day goes pretty smoothly. At least until the end-of-event cocktail party that night.

Brendon isn't much of a social drinker—between tuition, housing and his very limited income, he can't really afford to be—so the sparkling wine he's handed goes straight to his head. It makes him feel great—happy and free—and when he sees Ryan at the back of the room, talking to a small group of people, he slides up behind him and joins the conversation.

Ryan looks back at him over his shoulder. He looks surprised but happy, so Brendon decides to stay. More drinks are passed around, a buffet is opened, and without really knowing how he managed to pull it off, Brendon finds himself alone with Ryan at a table hidden between a pillar and a giant potted plant.

Their calves are touching under the table, and Ryan is picking out weird-looking things from his plate for Brendon to try, fingers brushing every time Ryan hands him the fork. They're still talking about forensics and bugs and biology, but the mood is different than it's been, and the jokes are dirtier. Brendon knows he's flirting and that he probably should stop doing it if he wants to avoid another embarrassing rejection later. But by any social standard Brendon's ever learnt, Ryan is flirting back—and even though something at the back of his head understands that Ryan probably doesn't mean to do it, Brendon's brain just isn't wired to deal with the signals he's getting in any other way than full speed ahead.

He gets some chocolate cake onto his fork and holds it up in front of Ryan's face, smiling expectantly. (Ryan filled his own plate with appetisers and entrees. Brendon went straight for desserts, as all normal people should.) Ryan gives him a look but takes the bite anyway, eyes closing as he eats.

Brendon stares. Ryan's tongue darts out to catch a crumb on his lower lip, leaving it all wet and pink and completely irresistible.

Brendon is only human.

He lets the fork drop and grabs the back of Ryan's head, pulling him closer and leaning in, feeling Ryan's hitched breath against his lips right before he makes contact. The rush of it is crazy, too many new sensations all at once, adrenaline flooding his system for fear that Ryan might pull away, followed by relief when he doesn't. Ryan carefully parts his lips, inviting Brendon closer. And then he's kissing back. Brendon is in friggin' heaven.

It doesn't last for more than a few seconds, just long enough to give Brendon a hint of everything that might come after. He opens his eyes, painfully aware that he's probably smiling like an idiot, but completely unable to help it.

"Wow," he manages, raising his focus from Ryan's mouth to his eyes, hoping, praying that he didn't get it wrong.

Ryan isn't looking at him.

"I—um—I have to go," he says, and Brendon feels his heart plummet. "Early flight."

"Oh."

Ryan pushes his chair back and gets to his feet. "I'm really sorry," he says quietly. "Can I—would you walk with me back to the hotel? I want to try and explain."

Brendon thinks of all the times people have brushed him off. All the empty excuses. There are not-so-empty ones as well, of course, and he imagines whatever Ryan wants to tell him to be in that category, but the valid ones usually hurt just as much. Sometimes more.

"It's fine," he says, voice as light as he can manage as he gets to his feet. "Really, you don't have to say anything."

"Brendon..."

"It's fine," Brendon repeats, adding a hand on Ryan's shoulder for emphasis. "It was just a kiss. Don't worry about it."

Ryan looks like he wants to argue, and Brendon hates himself for the spark of hope that immediately springs to life inside his chest. Because, no, that wasn't just a kiss, and the way Ryan puts his own hand over Brendon's on his shoulder, weaving their fingers together before letting go shows that he knows it too.

"I've had a really great week," Ryan says, stepping a little closer. "You're—I mean, you've been—and, God, I wish that—"

"Ryan, it's fine."

Ryan lets the unfinished sentence drop. "Will you write to me?" he says instead, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a business card. "My e-mail is on there. If you have questions, you know, about something you're studying. Or any articles you want to discuss. I like talking to you."

Brendon takes the card with a nod. They shake hands, fingers lingering for too long before they break apart.

Ryan leaves; Brendon watches him go.

One perfect kiss.

Brendon already wants more.

Chapter Text

Dave Sloan, who's been working on Ryan's team for longer than Ryan can remember, wants to leave the lab to work with the NSA. Has already left, in fact. Ryan is running behind on interviewing for someone to replace him.

He wouldn't be if everyone who applied for the position wasn't a complete moron. Not unqualified, exactly, just... wrong in some way or the other. Ryan has seen more than thirty candidates, and the one he liked best so far was a girl who smiled politely when looking around Ryan's office and claimed to be interested in learning more about 'spiders and other insects'. Ryan wanted to drop her in a dumpster within the first five minutes of the interview. After half an hour, he wanted to kill himself. Luckily, Spencer was there to stop him on both counts.

He sends off an email to Brendon after an especially trying day, commenting on the draft of an article Brendon sent him for early review and adding a few choice words about how people might want to take the fact that they have haemophobia into account before deciding they want to advance from print tech to CSI.

Brendon's answer comes back a few days later—annoyingly overflowing with smilies as usual—with an adjusted draft of his article and the words maybe you should steal someone from another team?

Ryan reads the line three times. He already tried getting someone from another shift to move to nights—without success—but maybe he could get someone straight from another lab. One of the labs ranking just outside of the top ten, meaning high enough status to have attracted good candidates a few years ago and low enough for those people to be willing to move up the ladder. Like Phoenix or Chicago. Maybe San Francisco.

Or maybe Seattle.

Ryan picks up his phone. It rings for a very long time before someone finally answers.

"Hello?"

"You're hired."

"Um, great?" the person on the other line says, sounding very confused. "Who is this?"

Ryan frowns. "Aren't you at work?" he asks. "Wait. Were you sleeping just now?"

The line goes quiet for a while.

"Ryan Ross?" Brendon says finally, and Ryan confirms with a hum. "Um... you're—really? That's actually you?"

"I thought you would be working," Ryan says, still bewildered. "Um... should I not have—I just, your number was in the footer of your e-mails. And I thought—"

"No, no, it's okay," Brendon says quickly. "Of course you can call. Anytime. Um. I was just surprised, that's all. Shit, what time is it?"

Ryan checks his watch. "2:35. I'm sorry. I really thought you'd be at work."

Brendon launches into another string of reassurances, followed by a long explanation about triple shifts and people on sick leave and upcoming court days until Ryan can't do anything but grin ridiculously at the bouncy energy at the other end of the line.

"Sorry, me and phones," Brendon cuts himself off, sounding embarrassed. "I just—they make me babble. I'm sorry. Just cut me off, seriously. Like, just go 'Brendon, shut up' or something, because my mouth? Just goes off and then—"

"I want you to come to Vegas," Ryan says. "Work on my team. What do you say?"

The line goes very, very quiet.

"Brendon?"

"Um, yeah," Brendon says. "I mean, yeah, I'm still here. I'm just. Sorry? Could you repeat that?"

"You told me to steal someone away," Ryan says. "So I am. I want you. On my team. It's a great team. Smart people. You'd fit right in."

There's another long silence.

"I don't know, Ryan," Brendon says finally. "I like the Seattle lab. I'm close to making CSI-III here, and my boss told me that she'll be transferring next year and wants to put in a good word for me to replace her."

"We are the number three lab in the country," Ryan says. "And we have the most extensive forensic library anywhere outside of federal archives. You would be a CSI-III in less than a year. And you'd be able to do more research for your Ph.D."

"Yeah, but. My life is here, you know? I have an apartment. And friends, and—"

"A boyfriend?" Ryan asks, suppressing the small sting of something that comes with the word.

"Um, kind of," Brendon stutters. "Or, I don't know. Boyfriend-ish-type...thingy. We've been on two dates. He said I was 'really intense'. I don't think he meant it in a good way. Hey, maybe Vegas wouldn't be so bad."

"I like intense," Ryan says.

"Do you now?"

"Yeah," Ryan replies. And then shakes himself, because, um, that came out a lot lower and huskier than he'd intended. "I mean, lots of energy is pretty much a requirement," he says quickly. "We work long days. Nights, I mean. And days, sometimes. It's good if you don't need a lot of sleep."

"Yeah, well," Brendon says. "I guess I'm perfect for you then. I don't really sleep."

"So, will you come to Vegas?"

"I don't know," Brendon says. "I need to think about it. It's not something I can just—"

"I'll let you play with my bugs," Ryan says. Blurts really. And then promptly wishes he could turn back time, or at least fix his brain-to-mouth filter so that he can get through a professional phone call without saying things that are completely weird.

Brendon laughs.

"Really, Ross? Your bugs?" he says, voice low and totally teasing. "Even the big ones?"

Ryan feels himself flush. And really, how is that a dirty joke? There is no reason it should be.

"Um," he says. Brendon laughs louder.

"Let me think about it," he says. "The job thing. Not the bug thing. Obviously. Unless you wanted me to—oh God. Um. Forget I said that. Career. Yes. I'll think about it and call you back? Tonight? Is tonight okay? Or I could probably give you an answer this afternoon if you needed me to? Except I'll be in court until five. After five? Oh God, please just shut me up. I'll call you, okay?"

"Okay," Ryan says, smiling again, feeling things settle back into balance. "Let me know?"

"I will," Brendon says, and Ryan can practically hear the smile through the land line. "Talk to you later."

He sounds happy. Giddy almost. And Ryan suddenly knows what the answer will be, even if he has to wait another day for confirmation. They say goodbye and hang up. Ryan puts his phone down, stares at it, wondering if he just made a really big mistake.

Brendon feels like he's still up in the air as he walks through the airport hallways on his way to baggage claim two weeks later. He's in Las Vegas. Ryan Ross singled him out to be a part of his team at one of the top three labs in the country. Brendon can't feel his feet.

They've kept in contact through email. Nearly all of it was professional stuff, but any writing comes with personality, and Brendon has spent more hours than he's willing to admit re-reading the little comments thrown in here and there. Ryan has a dry sense of humour that Brendon always enjoys, even if he sometimes doesn't get it completely.

Four years.

He's got a whole colony of butterflies in his stomach that are only partly from job-related nerves. He had hoped to be back on his feet by now from when he fell head over heels when they first met, but it hasn't really happened. Brendon is set on handling it though. Ryan might be married or something for all he knows. Or dating someone. Or simply not interested in Brendon in a romantic way. Brendon hasn't exactly been sitting at home gazing longingly out of a tower window, but the thought has always been there at the back of his head—an annoying and emotionally crippling spark of hope that just refuses to go out.

He doesn't see Ryan anywhere when he enters the arrival hall, so he gets a trolley and starts looking for his bags. They're huge, neon-coloured beasts in a sea of conventional black and grey, and Brendon spots one of them immediately. He's just managed to get it down from the conveyor belt when a guy shows up with the other one, smiling as he puts it down.

"Hi," he says, and Brendon feels himself echoing the smile. "Sorry if I'm butting in, but I saw this round the corner, and I thought—um. Your bags are really cool."

He gives Brendon another blinding smile, and Brendon's eyes automatically flicker up and down his body. Helpful Stranger Guy is quite a bit taller than he is. Light-brown hair and a close-cropped beard, gorgeous smile, blue eyes, nice build. Kind of burning hot, actually; very much the type of guy Brendon likes to go for when he's in a certain mood.

"Thanks," he says, going into flirt mode without really thinking about it. The guy holds out his hand.

"I'm Spencer," he says. Brendon adds 'really nice hands' to the list.

"Brendon," he replies. "Nice to meet you."

The guy freezes, looking Brendon up and down like he just realised something really awkward. Brendon is just about to ask when Ryan Ross comes up to them, looking about fifty times better than even Brendon's rose-coloured memories prepared him for. Hot Stranger Guy steps aside a little but makes no move to leave, looking from Ryan to Brendon, and, um. That's also a bit awkward.

Brendon manages some kind of greeting that hopefully doesn't make him sound like a moron, and he and Ryan shake hands and make small talk about the flight. Ryan is friendly, if a little distant. Professional. Brendon does his best to hide his disappointment.

"I'm sorry," Ryan says suddenly, turning to the guy who is still standing next to them. And who is now, Brendon realises, watching the two of them with a very guarded look on his face. "Brendon Urie, Spencer Smith. Spencer's the Assistant Supervisor on our team. We've been working together for—

"—almost seven years," Spencer says, finishing the sentence seamlessly. "Ryan tells me you're good. Nice to meet you."

Their second handshake is considerably cooler than the first. Spencer smiles, but it's smaller and doesn't really reach his eyes. He keeps looking between Ryan and Brendon, growing steadily stiffer at Ryan's side. And yeah, realising that you've just accidentally tried to hit on your new colleague in front of your boss is pretty awkward—Brendon's a bit embarrassed too—but the way Spencer is closing up completely feels like an exaggerated reaction, especially since he seems to gravitate closer to Ryan the longer he and Brendon talk.

Brendon feels something cold and uncomfortable start to trickle down his spine.

Seven years is a lot longer than four.

Ryan leads them out to his car. Spencer throws Brendon's bags into the back, and Brendon tries to lighten the mood by making a stupid joke about valiant knights. For a second, the smile Brendon saw before Ryan came up to them returns, and Brendon thinks he even sees a small blush creep down Spencer's neck. A moment later, the expression changes to guilty, and then to hurt when Ryan opens the passenger door and asks Brendon to jump in.

Spencer gets in the back seat, slamming the door. Brendon watches him and Ryan have an almost five-minutes long conversation consisting entirely of looks, eyebrow-movements and shrugs, all communicated through the rear-view mirror. It ends up with Ryan looking apologetic but somehow closed off (Brendon doesn't really get all the nuances) and Spencer heaving a sigh. Moments later, they're both smiling—really goofily, like they have the world's best secret to share—and Brendon looks from one to the other, feeling his stomach sink.

The ride continues with Brendon offering polite answers to the equally polite questions Ryan and Spencer (mostly Spencer, actually) ask, while pretending to be fascinated by the desert stretching out in every direction. A lot of things about the kind of hot-and-cold treatment Brendon's been getting since he met Ryan are starting to make a lot more sense. Others just get steadily more confusing, like how Ryan and Spencer spend ten minutes bickering about mops like a married couple but seem to live in different apartments. Or how Spencer drops his wallet when they stop for gas and a couple of condoms fall out—which makes Spencer blush and not meet Brendon's eyes while Ryan cracks a joke about how he can't believe Spencer still only uses black ones. Or how Spencer obviously has a habit of flirting with strangers in airports, while at the same time, there is something about how he looks at Ryan, and leans into his space to point directions, and lets his fingers brush over Ryan's arm when he draws back, that clearly says mine.

Brendon can't figure them out, but he's pretty sure that whatever the two of them have going on, it's not something he wants to get in the middle of in the first week at his new job.

Ryan and Spencer drop him off at his hotel, and Ryan gets out of the car with him while Spencer switches places to sit in the passenger seat.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Ryan says, reaching out to shake Brendon's hand again. Their fingers linger a moment too long, and Brendon wonders if he's alone in feeling like a current of electricity just went right through him. From the way that Ryan takes an extra breath when they break apart—slow and carefully measured—he doesn't really think so.

Less than two months after Ryan manages to get Brendon to join their team, the fourth CSI on it announces that she's pregnant and won't be able to work for much longer. She and her husband have decided that they both want to spend quite a lot of time at home, and for Gemma, that means finding a job with less overtime and more sociable hours.

Which means Ryan has to start interviewing people. Again.

Someone up on a higher plane must seriously hate him.

He's sitting by his desk and feeling sorry for himself when Brendon steps into his office. If the smell is anything to go by, he pulled the short stick with Spencer and got to spend some quality time with the decomposing body Wentz's team found in a duffel bag.

Ryan wants to touch him anyway. He really doesn't want to know what that means for his mental health.

"Hi, Ross," Brendon says. "I was thinking of calling it a night and going down to Lucy's for breakfast. You wanna come?"

One of the main problems working with Brendon—seeing Brendon when you talk to him—that Ryan's discovered in the past weeks is that everything he says turns to innuendo in Ryan's head, even when it's obvious that Brendon didn't mean for it to.

Which is pretty much all the time, so far; Brendon has been professional to a T from day one. He's friendly and attentive, but he doesn't flirt on the job. At least not with Ryan. Or with Spencer, for some reason. The rest of the night shift gets a dirtier version of him: a joking, smiling Brendon who likes to pout and wink a lot. Most of the techs fell madly in love with him within the first week.

(Ryan isn't jealous, exactly. Or disappointed. It's not like the fact that they kissed four years ago and might have flirted a little bit over email since then made him think that Brendon would start working at the lab and instantly try to seduce him. He certainly wasn't worried about it. Definitely not to the point where he had outlines to speeches in his head along the lines of 'we shouldn't because we work together'. Because even though Brendon is, admittedly, really, really hot, Ryan is not a person who is controlled by his dick, and once his brain starts getting that, things will be just fine.)

He gives himself a mental shake. Brendon is looking at him. Waiting for an answer to his question. Right.

"Lemons," Ryan says.

"Sorry?"

"Use lemons in the shower," Ryan clarifies, even though he's pretty sure that Brendon asked him about something completely different. "To get the smell out of your skin and hair. From the decomp?"

Brendon visibly pales, then lifts a hand and presses the back of it against his face. He's out of Ryan's office so fast that Ryan wonders if he teleported away. Then he realises what what he just said must have sounded like.

Fuck.

He's still slumped over his desk with his face in his hands when Detective Wentz comes in, whistling.

"Bad night?"

"No," Ryan sighs, leaning back into his chair while Pete takes the one across from him. "Not exactly. I'm an idiot and the universe hates me, but other than that, things are great."

"Good," Pete says, choosing to ignore the sarcasm. "Then you can help me out with something. I need an idea for a date. Special occasion coming up. I need something low-profile but still romantic as hell."

Ryan groans. "Ask someone else."

"I probably will," Pete admits happily, "because, frankly, your track record is kind of shitty, but come on, humour me here."

"How about this," Ryan says, annoyed. "Make dinner reservations for somewhere amazing, tell your date to put on high heels and and her favourite sparkly cocktail dress, pick her up in your best suit, give her roses and then tell her she smells like death. How's that?"

"Depends," Pete says, and Ryan can't tell if he's actually considering the idea or if he's trying to keep from laughing himself sick. "Would there be role-playing involved? Beautiful dead victim left at the mercy of the enamoured coroner? That kind of thing?"

Ryan just looks at him.

"So," Pete says, leaning back in his chair. "Other than solving high-profile cases and failing at life, what are you up to?"

Ryan gives him another dirty look. This time Pete does laugh.

"I'm trying to muster the energy to start interviewing people for Gemma's position," Ryan says once Pete quiets down. "You don't happen to know anyone wanting to transfer, do you?"

He expects Pete to say no. Maybe pat him a bit consolingly on the shoulder.

"I actually might," Pete says instead. "A guy I know from way back. Jon Walker. He's great. Works in Canada right now and is doing really well. A promotion he was working for fell through last week back because the department couldn't get the funding, and with the way he bitches about the cold, I think he could probably be persuaded to move south for a while. Want me to give him a call?"

"Please," Ryan says. "Ask him to come down for an interview. I'd love to meet him."

"Okay," Pete replies, getting out of his chair. "Will do. And now I'm going to go find Urie and see if he has any ideas for my special date. He seems like a guy who'd have a flair for romance."

Ryan thinks of how Brendon is probably in the showers right now, rubbing lemon juice into his skin instead of sitting happily in a booth with a stack of pancakes in front of him. It makes him feel like the world's biggest asshole.

He gets out of his office shortly after Pete leaves, heads down to the local diner, asks for a double breakfast order on take-away and places the cartons carefully on Brendon's desk before going home to try and get some sleep.

He might not be able to take back all the stupid stuff he does, but at least he can try to apologise with processed sugar.

Three months after Brendon moves to Las Vegas, a young woman is found dead in the mountains. The body is in bad enough shape that the case stands and falls on whether they are able to prove the time of death by the state of development of various insects, and since Ryan is the resident expert on all things that crawl, the case is handed over to the night shift. From what Pete tells them, they need five days. So far, Brendon knows that Ryan's been able to prove three, and the way he's handling it is making Brendon worry. Ryan always talks about the importance of impartial, objective evidence. He's the one telling Brendon to accept and let go if his results end up telling him something he doesn't want to hear. And now, Ryan is sitting in the spare parking lot in the middle of the night, studying a dead pig wrapped tightly in the blanket originally found around the victim for hours on end, with nothing more than hope backing up his research.

Brendon doesn't know what to think.

It's shortly after 2 AM. Brendon finds Ryan on a bench, eyes focused on the pig about ten yards away. He walks up to him slowly, sits down. Ryan isn't wearing a jacket.

"I brought you some coffee."

Ryan doesn't look up. "Thanks."

"Here," Brendon says, unscrewing the lid of the thermos and pouring some coffee into it. "How are you holding up?"

Ryan shrugs. "Twelve hours down, about a hundred more to go." He doesn't make any attempts to take the cup. Brendon moves a little closer.

"Seriously, man, you okay?"

Ryan shrugs again. "Fine."

Brendon holds up the cup directly in front of Ryan's face. Ryan starts and looks at the cup, then at Brendon, like he's registering both of them for the first time. Then he takes the cup and drinks deeply, seemingly not caring that coffee that temperature should logically scald his mouth.

"You got more?"

"Sure," Brendon says, filling up the cup. He folds out the blanket he brought as well and wraps it around Ryan, who gives him a grateful smile.

"Thanks. I guess it is pretty cold out here."

"Forty-two degrees," Brendon says. "It's friggin' November, Ross."

Ryan shrugs. Again. "I guess I didn't think about it. Got wrapped up in the case. You know how it is."

Brendon wants to argue, but something about the way Ryan grips a little too tightly at the edges of the blanket makes him hesitate.

"It's just. This victim was found by chance," Ryan continues. "If the climber who found her hadn't taken a fall, she most likely never would have been found. That's what I hate about the desert and the mountains here, sometimes: they just swallow the evidence. And people never know what happened to someone they loved."

Ryan keeps looking down at his hands after he's done talking. His shoulders go up under the blanket, and the fingers of his left hand twitch uncomfortably. Brendon feels like Ryan is trying to tell him something, like a penny should be dropping somewhere in his head. Maybe it would if he knew Ryan better, or if he had Spencer's ability to look at Ryan and just get things. As it is, Ryan just confuses him.

He leans his head back, looks up at the sky. The city lights are a bit too bright for him to be able to see many stars, but Brendon makes out a few of his favourite constellations.

"You know, when I was a kid, my parents used to say that every star was a wish or a prayer that God had fulfilled for someone," he says. "I used to think that was really cool."

Ryan looks up at him, smiles a little. "I thought they were considered to be the unfulfilled ones?"

"I know," Brendon says. "The other kids were pretty quick to point that out once I started school. I guess the version my parents used worked better with the message they were trying to teach."

"They're Mormon," he clarifies, when it becomes clear that Ryan is waiting for him to continue the story. "They're all back in Salt Lake City. I moved to Seattle on my own after High School."

There's so much more he could say about that, things he never tells anyone and that he realises that he kind of would like to tell Ryan. Maybe it's getting to know each other at a distance—through email and a short chat session here and there—leaving room for Brendon to imagine a level of intimacy in their words that might not have been there. Or maybe it's just that Brendon is realising more and more that he really, really likes this guy.

"Do you see them a lot?" Ryan asks. "Or, like, talk on the phone, that sort of thing?"

"Not as much as I'd like."

It's not a lie, but it feels enough like one to leave a bitter taste on Brendon's tongue. It's been over two years since the last time he went back to see his family. It's not like they don't welcome him home, because they do, but it's not the same, and he hates walking around the house feeling wrong, hates seeing hope light up in their eyes at the dinner table every time he mentions one of his female friends. Like maybe he'll change. Maybe he'll be saved.

Brendon knows they care. Knows his mom and sister still pray for him at night.

Somehow, that makes it even worse.

He shifts a little closer. Ryan doesn't protest, and when Brendon shivers a little, he lifts the edge of the blanket for Brendon to share. They huddle together through the night, Ryan's watch beeping at hourly intervals, telling him to get up and collect new samples. Somewhere after 6 AM, Spencer comes to look for them.

"Breakfast run?" he says, raising an eyebrow at the two of them. "I need to stay for another few hours until the day shift comes on, but Carden's team is here if one of you wants to take a break and maybe bring back bagels."

He's looking at Brendon as he says it, so Brendon gets up from the bench and gives Spencer what he hopes is a friendly smile. "Sure. What kind do you want?"

He makes a run through the lab and picks up orders from some of the techs that are staying on as well and then makes his way out to his car. When he passes by the main building, he sees a glimpse of the spare parking lot in the distance. There are two people on the bench, sitting close together with one of them resting their head on the other one's shoulder.

Brendon swallows down his disappointment and puts his focus back on the road.

***

"Watch your head."

Ryan ducks under a low-hanging beam and moves his flashlight back and fourth to try and make out the way back to the ladder. They're in an abandoned mine shaft just outside of the city, heading back to the surface after finishing with a scene. Construction workers found a body buried in the wall of one of the passages when they went through the mine in preparation for digging for a new mall. The only way down is on foot, so Ryan and Brendon have been getting quite a work out. Ryan tries to keep his eyes off the way Brendon's shirt is clinging to his back. Every time he forgets, he manages to stumble on something.

"Over here," Brendon calls from somewhere to the right. Ryan moves in the direction of the voice, forgets to keep his eyes on the path and falls head-first to the ground when there's a rock suddenly in the way.

"Ow!"

He clenches his jaw around most of the pain, feeling embarrassed more than anything. His hands sting where he used them to break his fall, and the knees of his pants probably aren't in great shape either. He pushes himself up to a sitting position, wincing.

"Jesus Christ, you okay?" Brendon is there before Ryan even has time to get to his feet, crouching down beside him and moving his flashlight over Ryan's body. "God, Ross, don't scare me like that. I thought you'd fallen off a ledge or something."

"I'm fine," Ryan says, getting up and starting to dust himself off. And stopping a second later when he realises that apart from hurting like hell, it's probably getting blood from the cuts all over his clothes. "Just scraped my hands a bit."

"Here, let me see," Brendon says, grabbing one of them and holding it up to the light. "Shit, that doesn't look good. Hold this?"

He hands his flashlight to Ryan, who tries to balance it between his upper arm and the side of his body. Brendon pulls a bottle of water out of his bag, cleans off his own hands as best he can, then starts to carefully wash away the blood and grime on Ryan's.

Ryan hisses at the contact, forcing himself to keep his hands still. Brendon stutters out an apology, and the touch turns even gentler. Ryan keeps his eyes down.

"We don't have any bandages," Brendon says, sounding worried. "I usually keep a first aid kit on me, but I left it in the car when we had to take a backpack instead of the kits so that I could fit the extra brushes and stuff. Fucking stupid."

"It's okay," Ryan says, pulling his hands back and rolling down the cuffs of his shirt as far as he can. "I'll manage. Let's just get back up."

They get to the ladder without incident, but once there, the progress stops. Ryan can't hold on to it. Every time he tries, the rungs press against the cuts on his hands, and it hurts like a son of a bitch. After the fourth attempt, Brendon steps close again.

"Use your wrists," he says. "Like, hook them under the rungs. Yes. Like that. And then stay close to the ladder to keep your weight off them. Good. And I'll climb with you for extra balance, okay?"

Ryan nods and hooks his right wrist under the first rung, pushes himself up. He almost falls down again when Brendon follows. Not beneath him but literally behind him, pressing his whole upper body against Ryan's back and reaching around him to grab the ladder with both hands.

"You okay?"

Ryan closes his eyes, takes a couple of calming breaths. Maybe if he focuses on the pain in his hands, he won't think about how perfectly Brendon's body moulds itself to his back. Or how hot Brendon's breath is at the side of his neck.

He looks up. The ladder seems practically endless. Fuck.

He hooks his left wrist around the next rung, pushes up. Brendon's body slides down his and then all the way up again, and Ryan clenches his teeth to keep himself from making a sound. He takes another step and falters a little. Immediately, Brendon is there, pressing into him, steadying him.

"Relax, I've got you."

Ryan takes another deep breath and manages a nod.

It takes them a while to get to the top, and once they're there, Ryan keeps his eyes firmly on the ground as they walk towards the exit of the mine. The construction team and the couple of officers that answered the 911 meet them at the entrance, and Ryan is quickly whisked off to the first aid station.

He gets back to the car and finds Brendon packed up and ready to go. Ryan gets in the passenger seat and takes out his phone to have something else to think about than how easy it felt to climb out of the mine with Brendon. How natural it was to just let go and trust him.

Ryan doesn't trust people like that. It takes months, years. And Brendon just put his arms around him and slipped under Ryan's skin like it was nothing. Ryan has no idea what to do with his head.

His phone beeps. And beeps. And continues to do so for at least a minute. Ryan frowns and checks the log. Spencer has called him almost twenty times. And left several messages.

JACKIE HAD HER BB!!! the first one says. ROOM 986 @MOUNTAINVIEW. GOING NOW, MEET ME THERE. And then a quick HURRY THE FUCK UP, followed by a request for Ryan to bring flowers.

Ryan stares down at the screen, trying to catch up with the emotional reaction that is making his head spin until he's dizzy with it. There's excitement and surprise, mixed with confusion and a heady dose of guilt that he doesn't fully understand. A baby. Ryan's an uncle. He doesn't know whether to be happy or terrified.

"Everything okay?" Brendon asks. Ryan almost jumps in his seat, and the swirling thing inside him throws him for another one-eighty.

"Yeah," he says. "Or I think so. Spencer's sister just had her first baby. Can you drop me off at Mountainview before heading back to the lab, please?"

"Oh," Brendon says, and then he breaks into a smile. "Sure. That's great!"

"Yeah," Ryan says again, feeling things inside of him start to settle a little. "I guess it's pretty cool."

"Are you kidding me?" Brendon says excitedly. "Kids are the best. You'll see. Especially other people's kids, because then you get to do all the fun stuff and then give them back when they're all screamy and smelly."

Ryan chuckles. "Good to know."

"So, you're pretty close with Smith's family, huh?" Brendon says, turning his eyes back on the road. "Do you spend a lot of time with them?"

"I guess," Ryan says. "Christmas, every year. Thanksgiving. The twins' birthday, his parents' birthdays—Spencer's birthday, of course. We actually—usually we combine our birthdays, because they're really close together, so there's that. Um. Easter. Fourth of July." He trails off, shocked at how long the list actually is.

"Wow, they really treat you as part of the family, don't they?" Brendon says. "That's pretty cool." It comes out sounding... off, somehow. Ryan can't tell what the underlying emotion is supposed to be.

"I hadn't thought about it like that," Ryan says honestly. Now that he does though, he thinks that maybe he should have. Spencer's family is something that has just been there over the years. A constant support that's just grown to be more and more a part of his life. And it—

It shouldn't be. Ryan was invited into the family eight years ago as Spencer's boyfriend. With their relationship long over, Ryan doesn't really have a valid reason to be part of it anymore.

There's a weird feeling in his gut as the thought crosses his mind. He tries to ignore it and turns his attention back to Brendon, starts talking about the evidence they found in the mine. And does his best to forget how Brendon practically carried him out of there.

That works pretty well for another thirty miles. And then the next epiphany hits:

The day Spencer does find someone else—someone who means more to him than just hooking up—Ryan really will be 'just a friend'.

He can't fucking breathe.

It makes no sense. It's not like Spencer finding someone else would mean that he and his family would never talk to Ryan again. He'd probably still get invited to dinner. Probably not as much as he has—and maybe not Christmas and Thanksgiving, because Spencer's new boyfriend might be uncomfortable with that—but things should be just fine. Ryan doesn't need candied yams and caramel fudge. And he never wanted a family. Actively never wanted one, even. He's been fine on his own. He doesn't want—he just—

He's not an uncle.

"Can you pull over, please? Like, right now?"

Brendon gives him a worried look, but does as Ryan says. Ryan gets out of the car and walks away from it, putting his arms over his head and trying to get himself back under control.

"Ross, wait!"

Brendon catches up with him after about a hundred yards, grabbing his elbow and spinning him around. Ryan shrugs him off, turns around, keeps walking.

"Ryan!"

This time, Brendon grabs both of Ryan's arms, forcing him to keep still until he slows down.

"I'm just," Ryan says, not really sure what words he's using. "I'm not supposed to be there anymore. Or maybe I am and I've just been really fucking stupid! And what if it's like that? Jesus, what if I just—what if—God. And what if I could fix it, and it works out and it turns out I'm crap with babies? What if I drop it? What if I still can't be all the things he—? What if—"

"Ryan," Brendon says again. Ryan shuts up. Takes a deep breath.

"I don't know what's going on here," Brendon says. "But family should be about belonging somewhere, having someone who loves you enough that you don't need to be all the things people say you should be."

Ryan stares at him, and after a couple of seconds Brendon looks away, bites his lip. Ryan swallows. Hard. There's something about the look on Brendon's face Ryan can't pin down, that makes him want to reach out, pull Brendon to him and get the feeling back of being far too close that has nothing to do with getting each other naked. And that's just—

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

He swallows again, pushes it down. He really can't afford to add idiotic fucking feelings for Brendon to the mess inside his head right now.

"Thanks," he says, pulling himself away carefully from Brendon's grip and starting to walk back towards the car. "I'm sorry. I just—They're so small, you know. Babies. Like, you could break them by just—I'm sorry I freaked."

Brendon looks up at him, and Ryan imagines that the answering smile is about as real as his own.

"Any time."

They drive back into town in silence, and Brendon drops him off at the hospital entrance. Ryan takes the elevator to the ninth floor and walks down the corridor, heart beating faster in his chest when Ginger Smith spots him and waves him into a room where everyone knows his name, smiles at him and lets Spencer hug him first.

Ryan can't believe he never noticed how everyone automatically leaves him a spot at Spencer's side, just like they always move aside to let Cliff in next to Jackie. It's what Ryan's been avoiding and fighting against for most of his life, and now he's here—in the middle of it and without having realised that it happened—feeling sick to his stomach at the thought of losing it again.

He gives Jackie the flowers he picked up on the way: pale and deep pink roses in full bloom, for gratitude and joy. She takes them with a huge smile and gives him an extra hug. Spencer wraps an arm around his waist when he steps back again, fusses over his bandaged hands and then goes back to the conversation he was having with his dad about helping him build a new deck in the back yard. Ryan carefully lets his head drop to Spencer's shoulder, focusing on the warmth of him and doing his best to ignore the fear, guilt and confusion that is still making his head spin.

The fact that he still hears Brendon's voice inside of his head isn't really helping.

Chapter Text

Jonathan Walker joins their team on December 1st. He's from Chicago, which means he shares Brendon's views on things like seasons (Brendon misses the way fall looks in Seattle; Vegas is kind of... too sunny all the time) and how a perfect cup of hot chocolate should taste. On top of that, Jon is laid-back and fun, really good at his job and generally just kind of awesome.

Brendon loves him.

So does Spencer, as it turns out.

"Smith and Walker seem to be hitting it off," Pete says with a grin, nodding his head towards the other end of the room.

Brendon looks up from his clipboard and watches Spencer laugh at something Jon just said. They are setting up infrared light to mimic the trajectories of bullets, Spencer showing Jon how to work the settings of the central control.

"This is awesome," Jon says as three of the twenty or so beams turn a few degrees to the left. "We had equipment like this in Edmonton, but the beams had to be configured manually. I should email one of my colleagues up there, tell them to get one of these babies. What make is it?"

"It's not on the market," Spencer says. "I had a friend who works in electronics help me put it together."

"You're kidding," Jon says. "You made this?"

"I was a Physics major in college," Spencer says, shrugging. "And sure, this is handy, but it's nothing to be impressed by. You should see some of Ryan's stuff."

"Is that a blush?" Pete whispers, leaning closer to Brendon. He looks absolutely delighted. Brendon scoffs.

"It's not a blush," he says, though when he looks closer, Spencer's neck and cheeks do look a little redder than normal.

"You should stop teasing Spencer every chance you get," he adds. "Did you know that one of the first things he showed me when I started here were the complaint forms for unprofessional conduct? He's got a whole stack, pre-filled in for stuff you do."

Pete laughs. "Can't, it's too much fun," he says. "No one gets pissy like he does. Not even Zack. Besides, Walker's been straight as a rod for as long as I've known him, so it's not like messing with them would risk fucking something up and ruin anyone's chances."

"If you say so," Brendon says, filing away the new information. It's not a surprise. Jon reminds him a lot of his older brothers, easy-going and very much a traditional all-American guy. He also smiles a lot at the cute girl in the reception. Brendon assumed they weren't batting for the same team. "Maybe he just hasn't met the right boy yet."

Pete chokes on another laugh, which turns into a coughing fit, and then looks back up.

"Yeah," he says, "maybe so." He looks content, almost a little smug. Brendon gets a weird feeling that Pete's not talking about Jon anymore. "See you later, Urie."

At the other end of the room, there's another laugh. Jon's this time, loud and happy. Brendon watches Spencer's face brighten in response and bites his lip, wondering.

***

Brendon spends most of January and February in a state of constant confusion. Spencer definitely likes Jon; Brendon has never seen anyone try so hard to appear unaffected by another person before in his life. Brendon hasn't seen Spencer flirt with anyone but Ryan since the weird moment at the airport where Spencer tried to flirt with him, and what he's doing with Ryan is more of an old-married-people kind of flirting than anything else. The kind Brendon's parents would get into around their anniversary, where there'd be a lot of bad jokes that only got told half-way through, mixed with smiles and eye-rolling.

This is very different from how Spencer is flirting with Jon. Nothing is open or acknowledged. Spencer is... showing off, for lack of better words. He gets wittier around Jon, more confident, more provoking. Brendon's never thought of Spencer as a bitchy person before, but when Jon and he get into one of their discussions—ones that make Brendon think of mating dances on Animal Planet—Spencer is pretty fierce.

Ryan is very, very quiet about the whole thing. Brendon spends a lot of his time watching him, learning to read the signs of hurt and confusion and flat-out jealousy in the way he moves around. Ryan has a fantastic poker face, but there are tells in his hands, little twitches sometimes that Brendon would probably never have noticed if he hadn't had an embarrassing weakness for watching them when Ryan talks.

Spencer is flirting with Jon, and it is hurting Ryan. That part is easy enough. What Brendon doesn't understand is why. Why Spencer is doing it. Why Ryan lets him. What all the guilty and hurt looks between the two of them are about, seeing as they go in both directions. And why they both keep looking at Brendon when they think he isn't aware of it.

Brendon has tried really hard to keep his distance from both of them. One reason being that he likes to think that he has some pride, another that he still doesn't know just what their deal is. And if they are together, or getting back together, or having a dysfunctional version of an open relationship or whatever else they're doing, Brendon is probably not supposed to know about it. One of the first things the people from HR went through with him was the paragraph in his contract where he had to declare himself free of family or romantic ties to any of his colleagues. It's a standard policy. The Seattle lab had it too, and of course it doesn't stop relationships from happening, or gossip from flying around. But there's a difference between innuendo and openly acknowledging that the shift supervisor is obviously married to the guy who is second in command. Brendon gets that.

Also, Brendon just hasn't wanted to ask. As long as Ryan and Spencer don't officially confirm it and Brendon doesn't catch them making out in the DNA Lab, he can sort of keep that happy, dreamy place inside his head where things went differently when he and Ryan met and there are vague hopes of maybe.

Ignorance is bliss, after all.

So Brendon waits. Another month, two. And things find a way back to normal on their own. Spencer doesn't stop flirting with Jon, but the way it's done turns from mating dance to a comfortable-looking friendship that reminds Brendon of two lion cubs wrestling in tall grass. There's obvious tension lingering between Ryan and Spencer, but they still find their way back to sitting with their foreheads too close together, smiling and talking with their eyes. And Brendon—

Brendon takes a deep breath and decides to let the fantasy go. It's been almost eight months, and even though he's pretty sure that Ryan is interested, and even though it took Brendon very little time to confirm that, yes, he's fucking in love with the guy, he doesn't want to be in second place. Not with Ryan.

So.

Brendon goes into his bedroom and pulls the tightest pair of jeans that he owns out of the closet. He finds a black and sparkly baby tee, puts on a little bit of eyeliner and makes sure to pass the pharmacy on his way to the Strip.

Time to get back on the horse.

"I need another idea for a perfect date," Pete declares towards the end of May, walking into Ryan's office without knocking and dropping into his usual chair. "And if you can somehow incorporate cotton into it, I will buy you an extra beer next time we go out."

Ryan has had a really bad night. It started with two teenage bodies found in the trunk of a car and got worse from there, to the low point where Brendon stretched his arms over his head to get a kink out of his shoulders and Ryan noticed a purple hickey right above his hip bone.

He really doesn't want to talk to anyone. Least of all Pete, especially not about dates.

"Sorry, can't help you," he says, not caring that his voice comes out tired and dejected. "Come back when you need ideas for how to completely fuck up your life."

"Wow," Pete says. "You know, Travis asked me the other day where all my melodrama and self-loathing had disappeared to. I'll let him know you have them so he can get a dose from time to time."

"No problem," Ryan says. "I'll keep them on a shelf next to your intelligence and wit."

Pete leans back in his chair, watching Ryan through narrowed eyes.

"You know, just because you think you have yourself figured out, it doesn't mean that someone amazing can't come along and pull the rug out from under your feet," he says. "Remember Lizzy?"

Ryan does. Everyone at LVPD remembers Lizzy. She was Pete's girlfriend when he joined the force, and their breakup some four and a half years ago was dysfunctional and fucked up enough to bring about three policy changes with regards to visitors, filing procedures and handling of department property. As far as Ryan knows, Pete hasn't dated anyone for longer than a weekend since then.

"Losing her fucked with my head," Pete says. "I had it all figured out. She'd been the fucking One, and we still couldn't make each other happy. So I gave up on love. Any of this ring a bell?"

"No," Ryan says. "Maybe because Spencer never broke into my office in a jealous rage and set my desk on fire. Sorry."

"No, he just made you so scared of hurting someone again that you haven't dated anyone who was even remotely interested in any part of you other than your dick or a free dinner since I started here," Pete says. "You broke his heart, he broke yours back, and the two of you are in each other's faces all day, every day, reminding yourselves of that. I kind of think that's more fucked up than me slashing Liz's tyres. Or her posting pictures of my dick on the Internet."

"It wasn't like that," Ryan says. "Isn't. Whatever." On some level, Ryan almost wishes it were. Then at least he would know where to start in order to work his way through it.

"Come on, Ross," Pete says. "It's exactly like that. You even explained it to me in detail that time we went out drinking after you'd been on one of your conferences. The one where you managed to fall in love with a student or some shit? How did that turn out, by the way?"

Ryan closes his eyes and breathes in. He told Pete about Seattle because he couldn't bring himself to tell Spencer back then. That doesn't mean that Pete actually understood what he was saying or that Ryan is going to tell him the other half of the story now. And fuck Pete for twisting Ryan's words around and exaggerating things, anyway.

"Point is," Pete says slowly. "Even if you've never loved anyone even a fraction of how much you loved the one you fucked up, it doesn't mean that there won't be someone else one day, who you'll love even more. And who will fit you better. And make you want to do the fairytale thing instead of just tearing everything apart. So there. Think about that."

Pete walks out the door, leaving Ryan at his desk, staring after him. He doesn't want to think about it. Even if Brendon's workspace wasn't decorated in pictures of his nephews and nieces and he didn't spend most of his free time playing guitar for sick kids at the local hospital, it's obvious to anyone who's known him for more than an hour that Brendon wants a family of his own more than anything. And Ryan can't want that. Not when he wasn't able to want it with Spencer. And not with the guilt of knowing that he's clinging to his place in Spencer's family while getting increasingly unsure about his actual feeling for Spencer himself. He just can't.

For a minute, he feels like lying down and giving up altogether. Then he takes a deep breath, reaches for his files and forces himself to go back to work.

Brendon is approaching the end of a double shift and has been working the same crime scene for seven hours straight. Triple murder in a hotel suite during a very busy party. Everything is trashed, dirtied up, spilled on, touched; gathering evidence is like looking for a needle in a haystack.

"Got anything for a poor reporter?"

Brendon looks back over his shoulder and sees a familiar guy with dark hair and a press pass around his neck. Shane Valdés. They've been running into each other a lot lately.

"How the hell did you sneak in here?" he asks, grinning. "I thought McCoy and Marshall were immune to your charms."

"Nope," Shane says lightly. "So what have you got? Looks like quite a party."

"You know I can't talk about a case," Brendon says, bagging another hair sample. "And I know that you know that I know that you know that, so what are you really after?"

"Well," Shane says. "I was kind of hoping to do this in a much smoother and more romantic way, but, um, would you like to go out for a drink?"

Brendon takes a moment to look him up and down, considering. Shane's got a dorky grin that Brendon kind of loves, expressive eyes, nice body. Slightly unfortunate hair, it's true, but the fact that he's giving Brendon a wink that hints at a ton of humour behind it more than makes up for that. Shane is hot, no question about it, and the offer is straight-forward enough. Brendon could use a distraction. "I don't know," he says slowly, even as a smile spreads across his face. "Fraternising with the press? I might get my fingers slapped."

"I could kiss them better afterwards," Shane offers with such an innocent look on his face that Brendon chokes on a laugh. "Jackson's Pub on Emerson?"

Brendon checks his watch. "Two hours okay?" he asks. "I need to finish up here and get everything back to the lab. And, well, shower and doll myself up for my big date, obviously."

"Fine by me," Shane says, smiling back. "See you then."

He leaves the room, and Brendon turns his attention back to work, wrapping up the scene as quickly as he can without neglecting anything. Ryan's still at the lab when he gets back, deeply immersed in a thick file that takes up most of his desk. He's wearing the same shirt as the day before, and Brendon hates himself for noticing, not to mention for the fact that his brain immediately jumps into wondering if that means that Ryan spent the night with someone or if he just forgot to do his laundry again.

He hits the showers and does his best to put everything related to Ryan and work out of his mind. He's meeting a hot reporter for drinks. A real date, with clear intent and simple enough rules to follow. Brendon picks out a clean shirt, looks in the mirror and takes it off again, realising that it's one he got about a month back because Ryan made an off-hand comment about blue being his favourite colour.

He picks out another one and thanks the universe for making him lazy enough to keep a fairly big chunk of his wardrobe at work to avoid having to go back home and change when something gets dirty or damaged in the field. It's bright red, and while the colour might be a bit cliché for a first-date-slash-hook-up, at least the message is easy to read.

Brendon sighs and throws his locker shut, takes the back exit to the parking garage instead of passing through the lab again. He could do with more easy things in his life.

Ryan doesn't believe in jealousy. It's irrational and petty and implies a need to control another person's feelings. Actions. Both—whatever.

"You know, if you want to kill the guy, there are more effective ways than staring," Spencer says from the opposite side of the table.

Ryan quickly looks away from where Brendon and the the reporter he's been dating for a fucking month grind up against each other on the club's dance floor.

"I just don't trust him. There's something wrong, and Brendon isn't seeing it."

"No," Spencer says evenly. "You don't like Shane—there's a difference. And the thing that's wrong is the fact that you were a moron. A slow moron. Do something about it or get over yourself."

Ryan glares. Spencer rolls his eyes and gets to his feet. "Jon, you want another drink?"

"Sure," Jon says, looking up from the house of cards he's trying to build out of coasters, giving Spencer an easy smile.

Spencer looks at Ryan. "You good?"

"I'm fine," Ryan says pointedly, stabbing at the ice in his almost full glass with the end of his straw. On the dance floor, Brendon's hands disappear up the back of Reporter Guy's shirt.

"Uh-huh," Spencer says, sounding entirely unconvinced. "Jon, remind him not to use anything that shows up on trace, will you?"

"I'm not sure what to be more offended by," Ryan throws back. "The fact that you believe me capable of pre-meditated murder or that you doubt my abilities to do a perfect cover up."

"I need more alcohol to deal with this shit," Spencer says flatly. He stalks off towards the bar. Ryan turns to Jon and raises an eyebrow. Jon pretends to be absorbed in the building of his awesome coaster structure, trying and failing to hide a grin.

"You look like you're in a good mood," Jon says, reaching past Brendon to get a cup down from one of the break room shelves.

Brendon sips his coffee and nods. "I had a good weekend."

"Yeah?" Jon says, grinning. "You and Shane get up to something fun?"

Brendon can't help but smile. "Oh, things were definitely up," he says, feeling even happier when Jon laughs.

He's got friends who'll laugh at corny jokes, a steady hookup who enjoys watching movies in bed and a job he really likes. Brendon's life is fucking good.

Or it would be, if his heart could just decide to get with the program.

"Hey," Spencer says, stepping into the room. He looks tired, Brendon thinks. Jon obviously agrees, because he takes one look at Spencer and then hands him the coffee he just poured for himself.

"What's up?" Spencer asks, accepting the cup with a grateful nod.

"Brendon was just about to tell me about all the dirty sex he's been having," Jon says. "It sounded promising. I was gonna take notes."

"Sounds good," Spencer says. Normally, a comment like Jon's would have sparked something wittier in response. Brendon and Jon share a puzzled look over Spencer's shoulder.

"You okay, dude?"

"Fine," Spencer says, yawning. "Just tired. We had Jackie's baby over last night. He's loud. And he got mashed banana on one of Ryan's books. Is there any more coffee?"

"Do you think Spencer's been acting weird lately?" Jon asks once Spencer leaves. "He hasn't been over at my house to watch a game for almost three weeks, just tells me he's busy. And he and Ryan are so closed off. Like, more than usual, you know? I hope no one in Spencer's family is sick or anything."

"I don't know," Brendon says, feeling vaguely guilty. He's been doing his best not to notice, actually, telling himself that whatever is making Ryan and Spencer behave even more like an isolated unit is none of his business. "I haven't, um—Spencer and I don't talk that much. And, you know, there's Shane, and..."

"Yeah, but they're our team," Jon says. "Shouldn't we, you know, try to talk to them or something?"

Brendon shrugs. "I need to get back to work."

"But," Jon says, "Brendon. Come on, don't you—"

Brendon closes the break room door behind him and escapes to one of the labs. There is a hollow feeling in his stomach telling him he knows what's different about Ryan and Spencer recently, and he doesn't want to talk about it. He's probably wrong, anyway. And even if he's not, well.

Brendon's moved on. It's none of his business.

***

"Are you coming to bed?"

Ryan looks up from the report he's working on. Spencer is leaning against the doorway, wrapped only in Ryan's favourite dressing gown. Ryan manages a smile and tries to will his pulse to speed up at the sight.

"I'll be there in a minute."

Spencer nods and goes to bed. No argument, no real disappointment. Ryan presses the pen he's holding more firmly agains his notepad and hates the sense of relief that trickles through him.

Their current relationship is strange. They're not exactly back together, and apart from agreeing that whatever they've been doing for the past month or so is a stupid idea, they don't talk about it. They're closer than they have been in a long time, though, and Ryan likes that. Being with Spencer on a physical level again is bittersweet and familiar. The sex is good—they know each other's bodies far too well for it not to be—and Ryan sleeps better than he has in years.

It's different than it was, though. Ryan misses the feeling of walking through the door, seeing Spencer and having his heart miss a beat. Misses being caught up in the moment and wanting Spencer so much he can barely breathe.

They're not in love. Ryan wonders if they could be again if they tried hard enough. He and Spencer are a good match. Best friends and practically family. Already tangled up in each other enough not to give up and change the game the second someone tall, dark and handsome walks by with a press pass and a smile.

So maybe Ryan just needs to get over the stupid ache in his chest that longs for something more and be fucking grateful for what he already has.

He goes to bed an hour later, slips between the sheets carefully and spoons up against Spencer's back. Spencer mumbles something in his sleep and pulls Ryan closer, tilting his head forwards to give Ryan better access to the back of his neck.

Ryan soaks up the warmth and presses a couple of kisses to Spencer's shoulder before settling in to sleep, matching his breathing to Spencer's and drifting off to the feeling of Spencer's heart beating slow and steady under the palm of his right hand.

This part, at least, still feels the way it's supposed to.

***

"Check this out," Jon says, sliding up to Brendon and holding up a pair of tickets. He's looking ridiculously pleased with himself. Brendon pulls off his gloves and protective goggles and takes a closer look.

"You got tickets for Cirque du Soleil?" he says, turning them over in his hands. "With... a Le Tapis Rouge VIP package! That's awesome, man. Did you meet someone special?"

"Sadly not," Jon says, grinning. "A friend offered them to me. I was thinking we could give them to Ryan and Spencer. They both have birthdays coming up in about a week, right? It'd probably be good for them to get out of the lab for a night."

Brendon does his best not to let the automatic spark of jealousy he feels show on his face. He looks back down at the tickets. The show in question is the one playing at the MGM Grand; critics have been raving about it for weeks, calling it 'a sensual adventure' and 'an intimate wave of colour'. Ryan would probably love it.

Brendon should want to see him happy.

He wonders if the idea of a combined gift and the way Jon worded it means that he has the same suspicions as Brendon about why Ryan and Spencer seem to be sharing a lot of clothes these days—if this is Jon's way of asking how Brendon feels about it. Looking at Jon's open face, he doubts it.

Maybe Brendon should tell him anyway.

"Do you think—" he says, biting his lip and trying to figure out how to start.

Jon's pager beeps.

"Shit. 419 from Pete," Jon says. "I have to go. Wanna meet up for pizza later?"

"Sure." Brendon puts his goggles back on, feeling torn between wanting to tell Jon about the mess inside his head and being relieved that he doesn't have to, at least not now. "Call me when you're done. I can pick it up on my way over."

"Is this a bad time?"

Ryan looks up. Brendon is standing in the doorway, clutching a stack of papers to his chest. Ryan shrugs and nods at the chair in front of his desk.

Brendon sits down, giving him an uncertain look. Ryan turns his focus back his hands. He's playing with a striped carnation that Spencer left him earlier, rolling it slowly between his fingers. It's too pretty, he thinks, all white and pink.

Rejection should be represented by an uglier flower.

"Are you okay?" Brendon asks. Ryan closes his eyes and moves the carnation closer to his face. It smells wonderful.

Ryan nods. "Was there anything I could help you with?"

"I don't—um. It's not important," Brendon says. "Some paperwork. We can do it later, when—are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. Thanks for asking."

"Is it Spencer?" Brendon asks, sounding worried. "He's okay, isn't he? Nothing's—"

"Spencer's fine too."

Brendon is silent for a minute. Ryan can feel him watching, probably wondering what's going on and whether there's anything he can do to fix it. Ryan wishes he would leave.

"Okay, well," Brendon says as last. "If you, you know, want to talk to someone? I'm—I mean, me and Jon both, we're, um. Here. So."

He pushes out of the chair and moves towards the door. Ryan raises his head and manages a smile, hoping it conveys some sort of thank you.

Right before he leaves the lab the following morning, he passes by his office and finds a Tupperware container waiting for him on his desk. It's filled to the brim with red ants (Ryan's favourite seasoning on scrambled eggs) and comes with a note saying, Breakfast makes everything better! :).

Ryan can't help but smile.

"So, I was thinking," Shane says. Brendon snuggles close and bites lightly at Shane's shoulder until he gets the hint and starts carding his fingers through Brendon's hair. "Maybe next time you have a night off, we could try something new?"

"Yeah?" Brendon says, mustering up the energy to open his eyes. "Like bondage?"

"Like dinner," Shane says, grinning. "You know, go out on an actual date. I hear it's the new cool thing."

He says it casually, but the underlying question is there. Brendon takes a moment to think about how to answer. He's not really surprised. It's been four months, and with the kind of relationship they have, he figured they would hit a fork in the road sooner or later. He just hoped it wouldn't happen yet. And that he wouldn't be the one who had to pick a path.

"I don't think it's a good idea," he says, deciding to just go with the truth. "This thing we have? I can do that, and it's totally awesome. But emotionally, I'd be a really shitty boyfriend."

Shane is quiet for a moment. Then he turns half-way around and uses the hand in Brendon's hair to tilt his face up, pulling him in for a long, deep kiss.

"Damn," he says, a little wistfully, once he draws back again. "I was kind of hoping that the last few months would have just fucked Ross right out of your head."

Brendon shakes his head and tries to smile. If he's completely honest about it, so was he.

"Okay," Shane says eventually, once the silence has gone on for quite a while. Brendon wraps his arms closer around Shane's body, trying to somehow make up for his lack of romantic feelings with really tight hugs.

"I'm sorry."

Shane hugs him back. "Don't be. I get it. Kind of sucks, but yeah."

"So what now?" Brendon asks. The question has made steady rounds in his head for quite some time. He doesn't really know how these things are supposed to go. Usually, with him, people just stop answering their phones one day. (Brendon hates that.)

"Well," Shane says, moving one of his hands down to rest lightly on Brendon's hip. "Bondage sounded kind of fun."

Brendon looks up, surprised. Shane laughs. "What? You think the only reason I was sleeping with you was so that I'd get you to marry me one day?" he says, leaning in to kiss a path down the length of Brendon's neck. "I just wanted to know where we stood. It's fine." He says it like it's that simple, and Brendon thinks that maybe it could be. They kiss. It feels good. Maybe that's all it needs to be.

"Also, there's another thing," Shane says, drawing Brendon's attention back to his eyes. "I got a job offer from a magazine in New York."

Brendon blinks.

"And I'm not saying I'm madly in love with you and would have turned it down in a heartbeat if you had wanted to take our thing further," Shane adds quickly. "But that's one reason I asked. I figured it was good to have all cards on the table. Eliminate the unknowns, you know?"

Brendon nods. Even through the light spinning of his head, Shane's words make a lot of sense. Brendon wishes that he had the balls to do the same for himself a lot of the time. "When would you be leaving?"

"In about a month," Shane says. "Nothing is decided yet, though. The guy I would be replacing is retiring, and he's flexible about how long he stays on. I could start next month or in another four. Or I could stay here. I haven't really made up my mind yet."

"Okay." It seems like the thing to say.

"So," Shane says, hands starting to move again. "Until then, or as long as we still feel it's a good idea, you wanna keep doing this?" His hand is stroking its way over Brendon's hip, down the outside of a thigh and around the knee, inching closer in small circles.

Brendon tilts his head back for a kiss.

"They broke up," Spencer says one night when they're making dinner in Ryan's apartment. "Shane's moving to New York after Christmas."

Ryan nods. He guessed. Not about New York, obviously, but he noticed how Brendon was growing quieter in the last month or so. How the lazy smile went away gradually, together with occasional mouth-shaped bruises on his throat.

"So," Spencer says slowly. "What are you gonna do?"

Ryan throws a handful of chopped onion into the frying pan and wonders the same thing.

Christmas Day is usually very quiet in the lab, since almost everyone is off duty. So when Ryan sees a light on in the break room, he goes to check it out. He finds Brendon there, slumped over the table with his back to the door, trying to put together a small gingerbread house from a million pieces spread out in front of him.

"I thought you were in Salt Lake City?"

Brendon almost jumps out of his skin, turning around with a guilty expression. "Yeah, um. My plane. It got cancelled. Some kind of strike."

"Really?" Ryan says, brow furrowing. "I didn't hear anything about that. Was it on the news?"

"Um, not so much," Brendon says, fiddling with with a small rectangular piece that might be a door. "It was just a local thing. That one airline. With—it was just stupid, okay? It's fine. I needed to get some paperwork done before the end of the year anyway."

It's obviously not the truth. Brendon is a terrible liar, and the gingerbread house in front of him is half-way done, glued together with sugar that Brendon has to have melted on the break room burner before he placed the structure on a tray filled with cotton balls to simulate snow. Brendon must have been working on it for hours.

Ryan wants to ask, but doesn't know how to start. Before he can figure out a way to broach the subject, his phone rings. Spencer. Ryan takes it.

"I found Crystal's present. It was lying in your kitchen," Spencer says at the other end of the line, sounding like he's equal parts amused and exasperated. "You want me to come pick you up or do we meet over there, because, seriously, we're really fucking late now. Mom's called me, like, four times."

"I'll meet you there," Ryan says, trying to suppress the surge of guilt he feels when Brendon's shoulders slump. "Make sure Jackie doesn't eat all the yams, okay?"

"Deal," Spencer says. "See you in a bit."

The call disconnects, and Ryan puts his phone back in his pocket. Brendon has turned his attention back to his gingerbread house, trying to fit the four parts that make up the chimney together.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Ryan asks. "I could call Spencer back. His family's the best, I'm sure they'd be happy to set an extra plate."

Brendon shakes his head. For a moment, it looks like he's about to say something else, but then he presses his lips tightly together, following the expression with an unconvincing smile. "Thanks, but it's fine," he says. "I don't want to mess up your plans. And I really should get some work done."

Ryan wants to argue. Brendon's hands are practically shaking—he's clearly not fine. At the same time, Ryan knows what it's like to hide from other people's pity, and if Brendon needs him to pretend that everything is fine, then Ryan should be able to handle that.

"Okay," he says, attempting a smile of his own. "Well, Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," Brendon says. "Give my best to Smith, okay?"

"Sure."

Ryan leaves. He makes it roughly half-way to Summerlin before turning his car around.

"Hi," he says when Spencer picks up his phone. "Um. I'm really sorry, but something's come up. I won't be able to make it."

"Ryan, what are you talking about?" Spencer says. "It's Christmas. I just got here, and we're all waiting for you."

"I know," Ryan says carefully, a lump in his throat. "But, Spence. I—I just ran into Brendon down at the lab. And he's all alone, and it's—he shouldn't be. So I'm going to go back there, and, I don't know, get pizza or something."

"What?" Spencer says. "Didn't he say he was flying out last night? What about his family?"

"I don't know," Ryan says. "He said something about his plane being cancelled, but... Just, I'll see you tomorrow, okay? Wish the family a Merry Christmas for me?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Spencer snaps. "Invite him here. I'm sure mom wouldn't mind. Or if he doesn't want to, I can be there with you in thirty minutes. We'll go out tonight and then have dinner here tomorrow. It's fine."

"No," Ryan says softly. "No, I think—Spence, you didn't see him. He's really torn up about something, and I don't. I don't want to push. Or make him feel awkward. Just. Please? Stay? Spend Christmas with everyone, and I'll handle this. Please."

Spencer is quiet for a really long time.

"Okay," he says finally. "I guess. If you're really sure. But call me if you need me, okay?"

"I will," Ryan says gratefully. "Thank you. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," Spencer says quietly. "And seriously, call. I mean, I love you, you know?"

"Yeah," Ryan says, swallowing hard against the increasing tightness in his throat. "Love you too."

They end the call. Ryan can't help but feel like something significant just happened. He stops by a restaurant and gets take-out. An Italian one, because he doesn't know what Brendon likes apart from the fact that he's a vegetarian, and he doesn't want to come back to the lab with a whole set of Christmas food.

Brendon is still in the break room when he arrives. The house is finished, with frosting and M&M's decorating the roof and powdered sugar dusted all over to look like more snow. Ryan clears his throat.

"You hungry?"

Brendon twists around, startled. "What are you doing here?"

Ryan shrugs, holds out the take-out bag. "Having dinner. You wanna join me?"

Brendon stares at him as though Ryan's speaking Chinese. Ryan walks to the other side of the table and starts unpacking boxes of food, along with some bread and a bottle of red wine. He gets plates from the cupboards next, along with cutlery and glasses, and starts scooping out wild mushroom papardelle in two equal serves. Brendon keeps staring.

"What—what about your Christmas?" he says at last. "I don't want you to—what about—You didn't have to do this."

Ryan arranges some salad next to the pasta on the plates. "I wanted to," he says quietly. He looks up, meets Brendon's eyes. "Brendon, will you have dinner with me? Please?"

Brendon opens his mouth and closes it again. Then he ducks his head, and Ryan can see him blink several times. "Um, yeah, sure. Thanks," he says, pushing out of his chair. "Let me just go wash my hands. The sugar got them all—I'll be right back."

He's gone for over five minutes, even though the bathroom is just down the hall. Ryan carefully doesn't mention it when he gets back, and after another ten minutes of awkward silence, Brendon looks up from his plate and smiles at him. Ryan smiles back.

"I passed Ceasar's on the way back," he says, fumbling for a conversation starter. "Decorations are even tackier than last year's. They put elf costumes on all their statues."

"For real?" Brendon says, giving him another small smile. Ryan nods. "I think the Bellagio is the worst, though. They've turned their main fountain into a cranberry bog. With floating stars in it. I mean, you can't beat that."

"I don't know, I think elf costumes still wins," Ryan says. "Especially when they have blinking lights on them."

Brendon play-argues the point for a while, segueing into a discussion about the North Pole and how many toy-making elves would reasonably have to exist per one thousand human children. Before they reach dessert, the mood has lifted completely, and Brendon is lying against the table, gasping for breath as Ryan launches into an impersonation of the Evil Singing Santa he saw performing at the art museum last time he went there for coffee. Brendon one-ups him by performing a Cinderella's-mice-sing-Liza-Minelli routine—complete with jazz hands—followed by a pretty disturbing limerick about Christmas stockings that he claims the kids at the hospital are responsible for.

It's a really great night, and Ryan doesn't want it to end. Eventually, they have finished the last of the food, wine and excuses, though, and have no choice but to head out to their cars. They end up standing awkwardly opposite each other in the dimly lit parking lot for another forty minutes, pretending like they're not trying to draw the moment out.

"Thank you," Brendon says finally, stepping close to Ryan and pulling him into a hug. "This was really awesome. Best Christmas in a long time."

It feels like an opening, like Ryan could ask about Salt Lake City if he wanted to. He chooses to wrap his arms tightly around Brendon's back instead, breathing in the smell of him. Brendon is beaming at him when they let go, and Ryan feels the smile connect somewhere deep in his chest.

He almost leans in. Stops himself at the last minute and settles for sending Brendon a shaky smile back. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Ross," Brendon says, stepping back easily and walking around his car to the driver's side. "See you in a couple of days."

He drives off, and Ryan gets into his own car, leaning his head back heavily against the head rest and wishing that his life wasn't so fucking complicated.

Chapter Text

Brendon goes out to party with his colleagues on New Year's Eve at a bar next to the university campus and wakes up the next day on a crowded bed with someone's arm wrapped tightly around his waist. For the first couple of moments of waking up, he thinks that it's Shane. Then he remembers that Shane is at the other side of the country and probably wouldn't be snuggling Brendon even if they were in the same city.

He opens his eyes carefully. It's bright. Way too bright. Brendon blinks. Spencer is lying about a foot away from him, facing away, with someone's arm around his back, holding him close. Brendon squints, looks at the hand. That's Jon's hand. Huh.

A loud snore comes from the foot of the bed, and Brendon looks down, sees Travis spread out over most of it. There is more snoring coming from the floor. Brendon hopes whoever owns the apartment put in carpet and not timber flooring.

The person holding him shifts a little closer, making a humming sound against Brendon's neck. Brendon carefully turns his head around, hoping very much that he isn't cuddled up against Pete or something.

It's Ryan.

Brendon's breath hitches in his throat.

Ryan hums again and brushes his lips over the bare skin on Brendon's shoulder. Because unlike everyone else in the room, Brendon isn't wearing a shirt. Which means that Ryan's hand is resting on Brendon's naked stomach. Low on Brendon's naked stomach.

He should probably move.

As though he can somehow hear Brendon's thoughts, Ryan tightens his arms around Brendon in his sleep. The hold feels intimate, but not really sexual. Despite his taller frame, Ryan feels somehow small behind him, huddled into every curve of Brendon's body like he feels safe there. Or like he subconsciously knows that he's doing something wrong but doesn't want anyone to call him on it and make him move away. Brendon closes his eyes and melts into the touch. His hips shift back automatically, just another inch.

Ryan isn't even hard. Brendon doesn't know whether to feel flattered or disappointed. Logic tells him that they were all several levels beyond drunk the night before and that alcohol is very destructive to the male anatomy.

His own body happily contradicts the last statement. Brendon really should get moving.

He can't bring himself to actually do it, though. He's on a soft bed, and Ryan Ross is spooning him. Brendon's pretty sure the number of dreams he's had featuring that exact scenario is well into the double digits.

Ryan nuzzles his neck again, and Brendon decides that the things he should do can go fuck themselves. He puts his hand on top of Ryan's, weaves their fingers together and pulls Ryan even closer. Ryan mumbles something in his sleep, and Brendon wishes he knew how to provoke people to sleep talk, because every time Ryan makes a sound, his lips ghost across Brendon's skin, and that feels really incredible.

He closes his eyes and tries to breathe, following the movements of Ryan's chest against his back and the hot puffs of air that skate over his neck. Ryan cuddles even closer, like he's somehow trying to get inside Brendon's skin, or at least merge with it. The buttons of his shirt are digging into Brendon's back, and Brendon is simultaneously annoyed and grateful. He wants to turn around, slip them out of their button holes and press up against Ryan's chest. Wants to feel Ryan's bare back under his hands and bury his face against his neck and rub their stomachs together like Brendon really likes and—

He takes a deep breath. Reminds himself that molesting people in their sleep is considered a Bad Thing To Do. He keeps himself perfectly still until he feels reasonably sure that he's not going to jump Ryan, and forces himself to relax. In a way, cuddling with Ryan feels even better when he finally does, all melting heat wrapped around loose muscles and Brendon's head leaning into the pillows so that Ryan's mouth ends up right against the side of his neck.

He takes another deep breath, closes his eyes and carefully brings the one of Ryan's hands that is now resting against his chest up to his face. He rubs his cheek against it, places a soft kiss on each of the knuckles and lets it drop back down. As moments go, it feels pretty perfect. Brendon wishes he could freeze it and put it in a box and just—

"Rise and shine, sleepyheads!"

From down the hall, Brendon can hear a door being thrown shut, and after that, there's movement everywhere. Spencer starts awake in front of him, pretty much slamming into Brendon when he jerks away from Jon. The impact pushes Brendon violently into Ryan's chest, making Ryan jerk awake and actually fall off the bed as he flails to get all his arms and legs sorted out. Somewhere in the chaos, Brendon manages to kick Travis in the face, and as the dust settles, everyone is looking around the room, making varying sounds of pain and turning towards the door with pissed-off expressions.

"Goooooood morning," Pete exclaims, bursting into the bedroom with a huge smile and several paper bags and coffee trays in his hands. "Who wants doughnuts?"

Brendon is pretty sure that at least Travis and Spencer would have killed Pete on the spot if it hadn't been for the trays of Starbucks in his hands. From the way that Pete holds the cups out in front of him like a shield and is smiling obnoxiously, Brendon has a feeling Pete knows it too.

"How the hell did you get in?" a voice comes from the floor, and Ryan's head pops into view, both his hands massaging his temples. "I thought you left early last night. And why is your hair wet?"

"Borrowed your key," Pete says nonchalantly. "I got it when we got back from the bar because someone was too busy showing Urie how to make shadow puppets under the street lamp to actually open his own door. And my hair is wet because I took a shower. Something you should all be doing, actually; it fucking reeks in here."

Ryan doesn't reply. He's also very carefully doesn't look at Brendon as he gingerly gets off the floor and walks out of the bedroom. Brendon watches him go, wondering if this is the part where he's supposed to follow and try to get Ryan to talk about... whatever it is they have going on. He's saved from having to make a decision by Jon, who reaches past him to grab a cup of coffee.

"Whatever, dude. Your mom reeks, okay?" Jon says to Pete, handing a cup to Brendon as well. "We should probably move into the kitchen though, if someone can get Marshall off the floor. Smith, you need help off the bed?"

Spencer makes a pained sound and buries his face deeper into the pillows. Jon grins and looks back at Pete. "Any chance you have a triple espresso there somewhere?"

"What do you take me for, an amateur?" Pete says, grinning back and handing over a smaller cup. "Okay, enough lovey-doveing. I need food."

Pete leaves the room. Brendon stays on the bed and sips his coffee while people slowly clear out. He can hear Spencer's voice, taking charge organising breakfast in Ryan's kitchen like it's the most natural thing in the world. It probably is, Brendon thinks. Ryan and Spencer are almost like one person sometimes. It makes sense that Spencer should fall into the role of the host when Ryan isn't there to do it. From the talking and laughter coming from the kitchen, it's obvious that Spencer is doing a good job of it, too. If Brendon tried to cook breakfast for a bunch of hungover cops and CSI's, he'd most likely end up jostling china too loudly and burning all of their food.

Fifteen minutes later, he's still busy looking down at his cup, tracing the brim with his thumb while his thoughts get steadily more pathetic, and doesn't notice the soft footsteps in the hallway until he feels someone's eyes on him.

Brendon looks up. Ryan is standing just inside the room, hair and skin damp from the shower and with only a towel wrapped around his hips. He looks younger without his clothes, thin body matching his face better than the suits he normally wears. Ryan's hair is curling around his face, darker than Brendon is used to seeing it, and the skin stretching over his chest and stomach is pale and flawless, begging to be touched.

"Hi," Brendon says automatically, trying to keep himself from staring and failing rather miserably. "Um. I'm sorry. I should—" He makes a gesture with his hand to mean 'leave you alone'. Ryan ducks his head. There's more laughter from the kitchen.

"It's okay. Stay. You're having coffee, I'll just—" Ryan replies, with a sort of flaily hand wave of his own that Brendon takes to mean 'put some clothes on'.

The second he thinks it, it becomes ten times more obvious that Ryan is standing in front of him not wearing clothes. And that Brendon is only wearing his jeans, which suddenly don't feel like they're covering much at all.

"Did—did you sleep okay?" Brendon asks. "Um, I mean—" he adds, trying to think of something less obvious to say, "sorry about all of us crashing in your room and all."

Ryan shakes his head, bites his lip. Brendon probably should do something abut the fact that he's still staring.

"No, it's fine. I didn't mind. I—um." Ryan looks up at him, blushes slightly and disappears into the closet before he can finish the rest of the sentence. Brendon stares after him, a trail of surprised awareness trickling down his spine.

Ryan comes back out, dressed in a full-on suit, fiddling to get a tie in place around his neck. It's a stark contrast to before; the only skin left uncovered is that on Ryan's hands and face, a little at the top part of his neck.

Brendon can still see the blush.

He slides off the bed and makes his way over without thinking, acting off a sudden need to push. To check. To know if the red creeping higher and higher on Ryan's neck is simple embarrassment or something more. He reaches for Ryan's tie, taking it in both hands. He adjusts it until the ends are the right lengths and starts to slowly redo the knot. They're close. Close enough for Brendon to see the fear in Ryan's eyes and the way his breathing catches a little.

He finishes the double Windsor and pulls it tight. Ryan swallows. Looks down.

"You're good at that."

"Learned early," Brendon says, keeping his hands on the silky material. They're even closer now. "Three older brothers and we all wore ties to church."

Ryan nods, like this is important information. Like they're having a normal conversation and the back of Brendon's hands aren't brushing against his chest. Brendon lets go of the tie and slides one hand up to cup Ryan's neck, leans in, hoping that what he's about to do doesn't turn out to be a horrible idea.

A door slams. Ryan pulls back and turns around so fast that Brendon loses his balance a little.

Spencer is standing in the doorway, looking at them with his arms crossed over his chest.

"You know what?" he says, looking from Ryan to Brendon and then back again with a blank expression that Brendon can't read but that Ryan seems to have no problem with from the way he stiffens at Brendon's side. "You can make your own fucking eggs."

He slams the door again on his way out. Ryan turns further away, leaning against the wall with his forehead pressed against it. Brendon reaches out carefully and touches Ryan's shoulder. Ryan pulls away.

"Ryan..."

"I'm sorry," Ryan says quietly, keeping his eyes closed and his head against the wall. "Could you please—? I'm sorry, I just can't—"

Brendon nods. He feels numb, like all the adrenaline rushing through him moments earlier just crashed and left him with nothing more than a tight feeling in his chest. He leaves the bedroom quickly, finds his shirt on the living room floor and is out the front door before anyone has a chance to call him back. He walks about five blocks before his phone rings. The surge of hope as he pulls it out of his pocket makes him feel even more pathetic.

"Hello?"

"Hi, it's me," Jon says at the other end of the line. "Listen, we all just got kicked out of Ryan's place, and Pete and Travis are being really cranky about it. Meet me for breakfast at the coffee shop on Roosevelt?"

"Huh?" Brendon says, articulately. "What? Why?"

"I don't know," Jon says. "Ross and Spencer had some stuff they needed to work out. I'm sure it'll be fine. Come on, come to breakfast with me. I'll buy you a muffin."

Brendon doesn't really want to talk to anyone, but Jon keeps asking, and it's clear that he won't take no for an answer, so in the end, Brendon agrees.

"Wanna tell me what happened?" Jon asks once they're seated next to a window with steaming mugs in front of them. Brendon picks at his muffin, crumbling it on the plate.

"I tried to kiss Ryan."

"Wow," Jon says, taking a careful sip of his coffee. "That's pretty huge."

"I don't know what I was thinking," Brendon says, wincing. "Fuck, I was so stupid."

"I actually think that's brave," Jon says, offering him a smile. "I mean, you've liked him for a long time. At least as long as I've known you."

Brendon huffs out a laugh. "Spencer walked in," he says. "He seemed a bit pissed I was touching his boyfriend. Fuck, I didn't even think—I knew there was something going on with them. I should never have fucking—"

"Whoa," Jon says, leaning forward to put a hand on Brendon's arm. Brendon looks down. His hands are shaking. "Back up. Spencer's what?"

"Boyfriend," Brendon says flatly. "Or whatever they are. Co-dependent life partners? I don't even know. Fuck, Jon, Ryan's face, he—"

The shaking is getting worse. Jon gives him a worried look and takes the plate out of his hands. Then he pulls him into a hug, letting Brendon cling as tightly as he wants while rubbing soothing circles into his back.

"Hey," Jon says softly once the worst of it has passed. Brendon stubbornly keeps his face buried against Jon's neck. "Bren, listen to me."

Brendon reluctantly pulls back, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands. Jon hands him a napkin and disappears to the counter for a while, giving Brendon time to get himself back together. When he returns, he's carrying a piece of apple pie.

Brendon could seriously marry him.

"Here," he says, handing Brendon the plate. "Now, let's sort this out. First, Ryan and Spencer are not together."

"You didn't see their faces," Brendon says, feeling a wave of humiliation hit him. "God. This is such a fucking mess."

"No, they're not. I asked him," Jon says. "Last night, when we were chilling out in Ryan's room. He said they're not together."

"You asked him?"

"Yeah," Jon says, shrugging. "He was talking about the apartment, how they used to live together and what shelves he'd put up and stuff. And I was curious. So yeah, I asked."

"That makes no sense," Brendon says, muffling his words with a mouthful of pie. "Why the hell would he tell you that and then go all jealous spouse on Ryan the next day?"

"Because he loves him," Jon says simply, and—wow—Brendon pretty much knew that already, but the words still hit him like a punch to the gut. "He told me they met before Spencer was even twenty, and from what I understand they've been inseparable since, even after they broke up. It's kind of natural they never got over each other. Doesn't mean they're together now. Or going to be in the future."

Brendon nods. What Jon's saying isn't making him feel a whole lot better though.

"So where does that leave me?"

"Where do you want it to leave you?" Jon asks, giving Brendon's hand a small squeeze. "I'd say figure it out and go from there."

Brendon looks up, feeling a small smile tug at his lips for the first time since he left Ryan's place. "Screw you for being reasonable and trying to make me feel hopeful about this."

"What can I say?" Jon says with a grin. "I like making you smile. It's a character flaw."

Brendon shakes his head and returns his focus on his food and drink. The tight feeling in his chest doesn't exactly go away, but Jon's easy smiles and light conversation keep him distracted enough not to feel it too acutely. Jon buys him more coffee, two muffins, a sandwich and another piece of pie, and by the end of their breakfast (which by that time has become more of a late lunch), Brendon is so hyped up on caffeine and sugar that he can't concentrate on much of anything anymore. He ends up giggling at Jon's jokes and trying to keep himself from bouncing his knee, and it's soothing in a way, how his thoughts spiral far too fast for him to keep up with them.

"Come on, man," Jon says, pulling Brendon out of his chair and slinging an arm around his shoulders. "Let's go running. That always helps me clear my head. Leaves it all blank and mushy."

Brendon nods. He leans his head against Jon's shoulder as they leave the coffee shop, and Jon just smiles, pulls him a little tighter.

It feels good to have a friend.

In the weeks after New Year's, Brendon learns that spending most of his waking hours working together with two people he's trying to avoid is pretty awkward. And very difficult, especially when Spencer, at least, isn't trying to avoid Brendon back.

As a result, Brendon spends most of January clinging to Jon. Or Zack. Even Pete when he gets really desperate. Ryan is very quiet about it, closing in on himself in the same way he did after Jon started at the lab. It makes Brendon want to grab Ryan and hug him really tightly, or push him into a wall, or shake him or kiss him or bake him fucking cookies—whatever it takes to get the expression of stoic indifference off Ryan's face and make him react to something.

And at the same time, Brendon doesn't want Ryan to snap out of it. Even though he hates seeing Ryan unhappy—hates it even more when it's he himself who is causing it—it's a little like having a scab on his knee that he just can't stop poking at. (Brendon would like to think that he's sharing the responsibility of making Ryan unhappy with Spencer, but if he's to be honest with himself, whatever argument Ryan and Spencer had blew over within the first week, and they're back to their usual dynamic.)

Brendon hates himself for loving the small spark of power he feels whenever Ryan asks him a question and Brendon waits a few seconds to answer. Or when Ryan forgets himself and smiles at him, or brushes against him in the field, or gets excited by something entomology-related that only Brendon gets, and Brendon doesn't smile back, or pulls away or turns Ryan down in favour of listening to Jon talk about soccer (which Brendon doesn't even find very interesting, and Ryan knows it).

The list is long. By the end of the fourth week, Brendon pretty much hates himself.

It's also around that time that Spencer manages to finally track him down in the back of Archives, looking paler than normal but determined as hell.

"I need to talk to you," he says, without preamble. "And it's kind of a long story. You wanna go for breakfast or something? My treat."

Brendon really doesn't. He's been trying to avoid Spencer as well, which has been a lot more difficult since Spencer has both been actively trying to get Brendon to talk to him and developed a habit of hanging out with Jon like he's a man on a mission. But it's clear from the look on Spencer's face that he won't leave Brendon alone before he gets his say. And it goes against Brendon's instincts to turn down free pancakes, so. He nods. They go to a diner in an area Brendon hasn't been to much before. Spencer is obviously a regular; within five minutes at least as many waitresses have come by to say hi and ask how he's doing.

The pancakes are to die for.

"How did you find this place?" Brendon asks after he's wolfed down his third blueberry one. Spencer looks up from his scrambled eggs and reaches for his cup of coffee.

"I live right around the corner."

"Oh," Brendon says. He's been to Jon's place a bunch of times, but never Spencer's, and Ryan's only once. Privately, he thinks that it's pretty sad, especially since they all work so much that they barely have time for friends outside of the lab.

"So," Spencer says, turning the cup slowly in his hands. "I wanted to apologise for being a huge dick."

Brendon focuses on his pancakes, making a little tower at the side of his plate. "Okay," he says, shrugging, because he never really had a problem with Spencer to start with. Brendon honestly likes Spencer. It just hurts to be around him sometimes.

"Brendon, listen," Spencer says. "Please."

Brendon looks up at that. Spencer's eyes are incredibly blue. And really hard to look away from.

"Ryan's my best friend," Spencer starts again, sounding very much like he's launching into a rehearsed speech. "I met him when I was nineteen and he pretty much swept me off my feet. And it—it didn't—we didn't make it as a couple for more than two years, but he's my best friend and that means more to us than it does to most people; we're a bit fucked up and co-dependent that way. And he doesn't really date. And I don't either—not in the sense where it means something more—and sometimes that gets confusing."

Brendon makes some kind of hum to show that he's listening and puts some more pancake in his mouth so that he doesn't have to answer.

"Ryan's... difficult," Spencer says carefully. "He's not good at showing people what he feels. He's had too much experience of people hurting each other and tends to believe that the only way for him not to fall into the same patterns is to never get close to anyone. But when he does, it's... you just can't not love him. He's like this friggin' baby bird that's all fuzzy and trying to fly without knowing how, and you just want to hold him and keep him, and—" Spencer takes a deep breath. "And I know I—um—I mean, this thing with him and me—like, I realise how it must look, okay?" he says, quieter now. "But it's really not—like, we're not trying to get back together. It's not—I'm not—" Spencer takes another sip of his coffee, clearly having lost track of what to say next.

"He's my best friend," he says at last, looking at Brendon. "And I know you're in love with him, so if you can please stop avoiding him, I'll try to be less of a jealous bitch."

Brendon feels something cold grab hold of his spine. "I'm not in love with him."

Spencer raises an eyebrow. Brendon can practically hear the oh, please it implies. He focuses his attention on his plate, pretending to be absolutely transfixed by how the last pieces of pancake soak up the maple syrup when Brendon moves them around.

"I've known you liked him since the first time at the airport," Spencer says quietly. "And I've been trying to pretend it isn't true since back then, because it's confusing and it kind of hurts like hell, but. I think, um. You could be what he needs."

Brendon tries very hard not to react. He doesn't want to hope again. Hoping fucking hurts, and he's already used up too much hope when it comes to Ryan. But this is Spencer in front of him—who is Ryan's significant other in more ways than most actual husbands and wives are that Brendon knows—and Spencer is looking at Brendon like he is the one who lost something, or came in second, or missed the target, or some other stupid sports metaphor that Brendon can probably thank Jon for putting in his head.

It's crazy. Ryan has never—the most Brendon's been able to fantasise about without objectively having to call himself a delusional idiot is interest. Interest or attraction, maybe a crush on a good day if he's really pushing it. Spencer is Ryan's family.

Brendon crosses his arms. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because it's long overdue," Spencer says simply, meeting Brendon's eyes. "Me and Ryan have been clinging to each other for almost a decade. It's time to let go."

"You're insane."

Spencer shrugs and looks back down into his coffee. "I just—" he says, searching for words again. "I would like to go on an actual date with someone and feel nervous about whether they'll want to see me again. Sleep with someone I like and who actually knows me—I'm so sick of one night stands, you can't even imagine—" He breaks off, traces the brim of the cup with his thumb. Brendon waits.

"I'm sick of waiting," Spencer says. "And telling myself that I'm not waiting. I don't know, I just—I want to be happy. Not just telling myself that I am, I guess."

He sounds dejected, and Brendon feels a pang of sympathy. Spencer looks smaller somehow, and Brendon feels stupid for assuming that Spencer was always just as cool and confident as he pretended to be, and never actually thinking about how the whole not-thing with Ryan was affecting him as well.

"Hey," he says, reaching out to touch Spencer's hand briefly, offering a smile. "You know how it goes. Every little thing's gonna be all right."

The corner of Spencer's mouth curls a little. "Did you just quote Bob Marley as relationship advice? Like, for real?"

"Why not," Brendon says, grateful to follow Spencer's lead. "And I agree, waiting blows. Maybe you and I should cut our losses and make a break for it."

He means it as a joke, of course he does.

Spencer isn't laughing.

"I'm kind of tired of being someone's backup plan," he says, trying to soften the bluntness with a small smile. "But just for the record, if it hadn't been for Ryan, I would totally have asked you out for coffee the day we met."

Brendon smiles back. "If not for Ryan, I would have said yes."

The corners of Spencer's mouth start to twitch, and soon they're both lying down on the table, shaking with laughter.

"So, we're pretty much the most pathetic people ever," Spencer concludes once they get themselves together. Brendon hums in agreement.

"Are we good?" Spencer continues. "I mean, I know I've been a complete dick, but—"

Brendon looks at him. Spencer can really be a first-class bitch at times, and when he and Brendon clash, it's usually pretty painful. But he's also the guy who brings Brendon caramel lattes and chocolate chip cookies when they have to work triple shifts, and the guy who always has everyone's back in the field. He calms Ryan down and makes Jon smile, and Brendon is pretty sure that Spencer's never purposefully lied to him.

Brendon wouldn't mind having Spencer for a friend.

"Yeah," he says, reaching for Spencer's hand again and giving him another smile. "We're good."

It's March 17, and Ryan is in a crowded bar, surrounded by people holding pints of Guinness and Smithwick's ale and listening to five guys and a girl seriously rock out on a small stage opposite the bar. It was Pete's idea, a moment of So, listen. This guy I know told me about this bar... that turned into a long speech about how the event would be 'all legit and shit' and have 'actual Irish people playing tinwhistles and stuff'.

Brendon had been the first to fall, and once he did, Jon and Spencer quickly followed. And then they'd all turned to Ryan, who shrugged and pretended he hadn't already decided to go when he saw Brendon's whole face light up at the possibility of hearing someone play the uilleann pipes.

So here they are.

The music is mostly instrumental: two types of accordion, some kind of percussion, a guitar, the Irish pipes Brendon was raving about, and a tinwhistle. At regular intervals, the guy on percussion will grab a guitar for himself and liven things up even more by leading everyone into loud group singing with some seriously dirty songs.

Ryan looks over to his left. Spencer is leaning against Jon, gasping for breath from laughing at something Jon apparently said. Ryan feels a slight twinge at the bottom of his gut and reminds himself that Jon is straight. And that it wouldn't be any of Ryan's business even if he weren't.

The musicians finish another song and the guy with the tinwhistle picks up the mic, thanks everyone for coming yet again and starts introducing the other musicians. His name is Conor and he's got a pretty thick Irish accent. Ryan secretly loves accents, always has. And he finds that with every pint of beer he drinks, the guy becomes easier and easier to understand, which is a nice bonus.

"...and there aren't a lot of people left who play them, so we're really happy to have Andrew here tonight," Conor says, pointing at the guy with the instrument that looks a lot like Scottish bagpipes in his lap. "Andrew on uilleann pipes, everyone!"

A piercing whistle cuts through the air way too close to Ryan's ear. When he turns around, Brendon's there, about five feet away, clapping loudly and giving another whistle for the guys on stage.

Ryan waves without thinking and calls Brendon's name. Loudly. Spencer turns around and looks at him, surprise morphing slowly into a smirk before Jon whispers something else in his ear and Spencer collapses in a new bout of laughter.

Brendon turns around, spots Ryan and pushes himself through the crowd. He's carrying an almost empty glass and looks flushed and happy. Ryan thinks he was part of the group trying out Riverdance steps earlier with the blonde girl playing accordion. Not that he was looking or anything.

"That guy is just sick," Brendon says, nodding his head in the direction of Andrew the Pipe Player. "Like, seriously, did you see the wrist movement and finger coordination? I could marry that guy, right now. For real."

Something hot and uncomfortable curls itself in Ryan's stomach. "I play guitar," he says, out of the blue, and instantly wants to hit himself over the head with a heavy object. He drinks deeply from his beer, pretending that everything is perfectly normal and that he can't hear Jon and Spencer laughing themselves sick.

Brendon looks at him, eyes wide. For a moment, it looks like his whole body is on the verge of uncontrollable laughter as well. And then the corners of his mouth settle into a teasing smile. "Guitar, huh?" Brendon says, with what Ryan assumes is supposed to be a serious face. "I don't know, Ross. Marriage is a serious thing. You can totally be my dirty mistress, though."

He winks at Ryan. Actually winks. Ryan drains his beer and hurries to turn his attention back to the stage. Jon and Spencer are still laughing.

"...Shannon, give it up for her! And believe it or not, but the guy on guitar is actually called Patrick. So an extra round of applause for him since it's his day and all!"

A small guy in the back gives an embarrassed wave. He's wearing a newsboy cap on his head, pulled down low over his eyes. Ryan can't really see his face. At the other end of the bar, Pete whoops enthusiastically while Travis tries to keep him from actually climbing up on the bar.

The people Ryan works with are honestly insane sometimes.

"...and last but not least, we have Riley on percussion," Conor says, pointing at the tall, dark guy who was singing dirty songs a while ago. "Now, since this is an Irish night and no good Irish house party is complete without dancing, we're gonna do a bit of that. It's called céilí dancing," (he pronounces it 'kaylee dancing') "and first thing we do is get everyone up on the floor. Grab a partner. Any partner. Doesn't matter if it's a guy or a girl. Come on."

Ryan turns towards the bar, intending to flag down the bartender and order more beer.

Brendon takes his hand. Drags him up on the floor. Ryan is too shocked to do anything but follow.

"Oh, Jesus," he hears Spencer's voice from somewhere behind them. "Come on, Jon, get up. We need to see this up close."

Ryan opens his mouth to tell Brendon that he doesn't dance. Not in any way that requires him to do more than sway in a crowd at a dark club. The few times he's tried (all back when Spencer was in collage), things ended really badly. Which is no doubt why Spencer is pulling Jon in their direction with such a gleeful look on his face.

"Now form a circle," Conor calls out, and Ryan feels himself being pulled to the right. He ends up crowded between Spencer, who is smiling widely, and Brendon, who is still holding his hand.

Ryan swallows.

"Great!" Conor continues, joining the circle with Shannon-the-accordion-player. "Okay, so we'll start with some basic steps. It goes one, two, three, one, two, three. Left foot first, yeah?" he says, demonstrating. Everyone follows. Or tries to. From what Ryan can see, there are very varying levels of success around the circle. Spencer isn't so much stepping as he's hanging onto Jon, laughing openly now as Ryan's feet try to follow the pattern. Spencer's drunk. Really drunk. Ryan wonders if he should worry.

"Good! Now we'll add a jump to the first one, so jump, two three, jump, two three. Is everyone following?" Conor says. "Good, then clap your hands."

Everyone claps their hands. There are a lot more claps than the two that Conor and Shannon demonstrated. "Now, grab the hands of the people on either side of you. Hold them up like this. You've all seen this on Riverdance, yeah?"

Brendon raises their joined hands, and Ryan is suddenly very much aware of how they haven't let go since Brendon pulled him up on the floor. Brendon smiles, and Ryan feels his pulse start to race. He reaches for Spencer's hand on his other side and finds it after a bit of fumbling. He doesn't think much about it until Spencer's hand goes suddenly tense in his. Ryan turns his head. Spencer isn't looking at him.

"Hey," Ryan says, leaning in a little closer to Spencer's ear. "You okay?"

Spencer looks up, pulls his face into another wide smile. It doesn't reach his eyes. "Terrific."

He wobbles on his feet as the ring moves to the right, Conor calling out for them to cross one leg over the other. Ryan tightens his hold. On Spencer's other side, he can see Jon do the same.

"And then we'll swing our partners around!" Conor shouts. "Grab your partner. Take their left hand. And then put your right hand on their waist, on the inside of their left arm, yeah? Good. And then you spin. Round and round. Unless someone needs to throw up. Then you let them go. Fast as you can. And after that—the spinning, not the throwing up—we'll start over. Everyone all right with that?"

Ryan lets go of Spencer's hand and turns to Brendon, who is having some kind of silent conversation with Jon over Ryan's shoulder. Ryan sees him mouth 'he okay?', frown and—for some reason—blush, in the span of five seconds. Ryan looks behind him to see Jon leading Spencer off the floor with an arm around his waist. He's making some kind of joke, head bent close to Spencer's, and Spencer is smiling again, a real smile this time.

"Jon's taking him home," Brendon says, drawing Ryan's attention back to him and trying to lighten the mood again with a smile of his own. "He'll make sure he's okay. Now let's do this swingy thing."

Ryan is too confused and overwhelmed by conflicting thoughts and impressions to argue, so he does his best to keep himself from worrying about Spencer and takes Brendon's left hand. It's warm. Warmer than it was a minute ago. Ryan takes a careful breath and puts his other hand on Brendon's waist, making sure to relax his fingers to make the contact as casual as possible. He has to close his eyes for a second when Brendon mirrors him, warm fingers touching his back through the fabric of his shirt. He swallows again and tries to listen to Conor's instructions on how to shift his weight back during the spin.

Before they have a chance to actually try it, the musicians are starting to play, and Conor and Shannon are calling to everyone to get back to the starting position. Ryan struggles through the first steps, misses the claps, pretty much gets dragged through the seven criss-crossing steps in the circle and then, it's time to spin.

He doesn't have time to think this time. Brendon's hands just fall into place, and then they're moving, round and around. Brendon starts laughing after the first turn, looking back at Ryan with eyes that are practically shining from excitement.

Ryan feels light-headed.

The dance continues, going back to steps and claps and more of dragging Ryan around the circle. And every time they get to the part where Brendon takes his hand and slides his other one around Ryan's waist, Ryan loses a little bit of the feeling in his knees.

By the fourth time, he's turning before Brendon is, letting himself be swept up in the music and not caring about how his hand is tightening its hold at Brendon's waist. Brendon keeps laughing and smiling and fucking sparkling at him, and Ryan feels himself start to give in. He closes his eyes and leans his head back, lets the laughter in his chest bubble up his throat and stops worrying about how the two of them must look or what will happen when the music ends.

Brendon swings him faster.

It's Brendon's twenty-eighth birthday, and things are getting out of hand.

It started with a birthday party at one of the bars down town. Nice enough place. No strippers, good food. More people from the lab and some of the detectives joining up. Brendon happy and laughing beside him. Pleasant, comfortable conversations about firefly colonies.

Then there were shots.

And now there is this. Meaning Brendon hanging heavily on Ryan's arm, drunk and giggling and nuzzling at Ryan's neck while Ryan tries to get Brendon's keys out of his pocket and get the damn door open without letting his brain go anywhere near things like how hot Brendon's leg is beneath the fabric of his jean pocket or how close Ryan's fingers are to areas he really, really shouldn't touch.

He gets the door open and wrestles both of them inside, guiding them through the hallway towards the bedroom he knows must be hiding somewhere. Brendon isn't being any help at all, stumbling along and tripping over his own feet, and—fuck—sliding his free hand into the back pocket of Ryan's pants.

Ryan finally finds the bedroom and pulls Brendon over to the bed, considering how to get him under the sheets without having to take his clothes off. Or watch Brendon take his clothes off. Maybe Ryan can just dump him on top of the blankets? Get something else to cover him with? He thinks he remembers seeing an afghan spread out on the couch—

Brendon kisses him.

Ryan doesn't even have time to react. One moment, Brendon is nuzzling happily at the crook of his neck, and a millisecond later, there are hands in Ryan's hair, pulling him down, and Brendon's tongue is in his mouth, hot and wet, stroking against Ryan's.

Ryan panics, hands sort of flailing at his sides, brain suddenly having way too much to deal with at once to be able to guide them to where they should be. Which is at Brendon's chest, pushing him away. Or on his stomach. Stomach is fine, really—good leverage, easy to press on to create distance, all warm and solid and, fuck, when did Brendon lose his shirt?

Ryan's not drunk, not really, but he feels like he is; everything is reeling around him, Brendon's mouth and hands everywhere at once, and Ryan can't think.

Brendon backs them up against the bed, and then they're tumbling down on it, Ryan losing his shirt as well in somewhere in the process. The sheets beneath Ryan's back are cool against his skin, and he can practically feel what's left of his control slipping when Brendon starts kissing a hot trail down his throat.

"It's my birthday," Brendon mumbles, pressing down with his hips in a way that makes Ryan's vision black out momentarily. "Don't say no when it's my birthday. Please, Ryan, pleasepleaseplease."

Ryan grits his teeth and pushes back, rolling them over to get Brendon beneath him, trapping his hands and breaking the kiss, fighting to get some control back.

Brendon moans, arches up. He slides one of his legs up the back of Ryan's knee, over his ass, wrapping it around his back. Brendon is hard beneath him, rubbing himself against Ryan in a way that feels so, so good. Ryan hasn't got laid in months, and he's wanted Brendon for years, and Brendon is grinding up against him, panting against Ryan's neck, and—

He can't let this happen.

Ryan tears himself away and scrambles out of bed, doing his pants up with shaking hands, looking frantically around the room for the shirt he was wearing.

Brendon doesn't follow him.

Ryan's first thought when he looks over at the bed—still doing up buttons—is that Brendon has passed out.

Then he sees Brendon's hand.

Brendon's jeans are open, but not pushed down more than an inch or two. Bright yellow boxers are showing where the black material is falling back, and Brendon's hand is inside them, moving quickly up and down. His breathing is stuttered and sharp, pulling Ryan's eyes to how his whole upper body seems to tremble, how the rise of his chest is emphasised when Brendon tilts his head back against the pillows, showing off the long, pale column of his throat.

Ryan can't breathe. Can't move. Can't do anything but watch with his chin probably hanging half-way to the floor as Brendon jerks himself off right in front of him. Brendon opens his eyes, looking back at him, and Ryan isn't sure what Brendon sees right then, if he knows what's happening or if he's too out of it to notice.

Brendon smiles, mouths Ryan's name, and then his head is falling back, mouth opening in a strangled moan as he comes over his hand and lower stomach, mumbling things that are too incoherent for Ryan to make out.

Ryan stands there, frozen, long after Brendon's breathing slows down and a lazy smile spreads across his face. He's beautiful—holy shit, so beautiful—and Ryan wants. Wants so much it hurts to be someone who's allowed to slide into Brendon's bed, pull him close and just kiss him until they both die from it.

"Please don't leave."

Brendon's eyes are open again, still smiling but fading fast. Ryan should leave. He has seen the different stages of inebriation enough times to know what to expect. Brendon will fall asleep. Chances are he won't remember much of anything when he wakes up. If Ryan leaves, Brendon will wake up alone with no evidence of Ryan having been in his bedroom other than perhaps a few flashes of memory that will be easy enough to explain away as nothing but heated dreams.

Ryan should leave. He should. It will be easier for both of them if he does—so much easier to pretend that nothing really happened. They have lives to get on with, cases to solve.

There is wood beneath his hands. Brendon's dresser. Fuck.

He pulls out a drawer, shuffles through the piles until he finds a clean t-shirt and a pair of purple boxers. He goes back into the hallway, finds the bathroom, runs a wash cloth under the tap and brings it back with him.

Brendon is nearly asleep when Ryan starts to clean him up, but the smile stays on his face through the removal of his clothes and the small protesting noises he makes when Ryan pulls the clean shirt over his head. Ryan thinks of the Cheshire cat and then, in what he thinks is a quite reasonable jump, of losing his head in a croquet game.

He really, really shouldn't stay.

His shirt and pants end up over the back of a chair, another one of Brendon's shirts finds its way over his head, and then there are sheets against his back again as the bed moves under his weight. He stays on the far side, watching Brendon fall deeper into sleep. His dark hair is tousled and he's breathing through his mouth. He looks happier than Ryan's ever seen him.

Ryan closes his eyes and starts counting down, willing himself to go to sleep.

He gives up at negative thee thousand and thirty-five.

***

Brendon wakes up with a splitting headache and the distinct feeling that something is very wrong.

He opens his eyes, looks around. He's in his own bed, alone. Good. The sheets are a tangled mess but don't smell like someone has been having crazy monkey sex on them. Or thrown up anywhere. Also good.

He does a mental check of his body and reconfirms his headache, along with a queasy feeling to his stomach and general sluggishness. He's sweaty but not sticky; ass and throat both feel fine. So he didn't get fucked then. For some reason, there's a sting of disappointment as he draws the conclusion.

Something is floating at the back of his mind, just far enough out of reach that he can't tell if it's a memory or a dream or some kind of combination of the two. He can sense pleasure in it. Kissing. Bodies moving together. Even through the layers of confusion, it's enough to make his pulse speed up. He knows from experience that it won't get much clearer even if he tries to sort it out, though, so he doesn't bother, brushes it off as spoils of war.

He sits up in bed and pulls his t-shirt over his head. Freezes. Does a double-take.

This is not the shirt he was wearing to the bar last night.

Brendon only sleeps in anything at all under two sets of circumstances: when he's home at his parents' house and when he falls asleep in his clothes. And this is not the shirt he was wearing last night. He looks down. Those are not the boxers he was wearing either.

The feeling of something being wrong creeps back up his spine as he looks around the room a second time. His clothes from last night are nowhere to be seen, and when he turns to the bedside table, there's a bottle of ibuprofen waiting for him next to a glass of water.

Someone was here. Or helped him home at least. Brendon racks his brain, tries to remember what happened after Pete and Travis came back from the bar with a tray filled with shot glasses. He closes his eyes, concentrates. There's a smell, and then a brief flash of leaning against someone, breathing against the skin of their neck. And a voice. Low and soothing, a little unsteady over the sound of keys.

Ryan.

Oh God.

He hides his face in his hands for a good long while. Then he rolls out of bed, stopping half-way to take the pills Ryan was nice enough to lay out for him. The water feels like pure bliss running down his throat. He needs more. And coffee. God, next to hiding out in his apartment for the rest of his life and never showing his face down at the lab again, coffee would be the best thing ever.

He stumbles out of his room and down the hallway. The image of coffee is so clear he can almost taste it in his mouth already, the imaginary smell of it growing stronger with every step he takes towards the kitchen.

"Hi."

Brendon stops dead in his tracks, half-way through the doorway. Ryan is sitting at the table, looking up at him, one of Brendon's forensic journals on the table next to his cup of coffee.

The non-imaginary coffee that's keeping warm in its pot on the counter, sending out aromas to the rest of the apartment.

Brendon hasn't felt this stupid in years.

"Hi," Ryan says again, looking very nervous. "Did you, um, did you sleep well?"

He stands up and goes over to the counter, pours another cup that he puts down across from himself at the table. Brendon feels his feet move him there on their own, body sinking into the chair and hands gripping the cup like a lifeline.

Ryan still looks nervous as hell as he moves around to fiddle with the toaster. Brendon follows the line of dots from breakfast to coffee to Ryan not only helping him home but staying the night and standing in Brendon's kitchen now, asking, essentially, if he's feeling okay.

Oh God, what did Brendon do?

A thousand scenarios explode in his head, each more horrific than the next. He doesn't want to know, but Ryan already does, and having Ryan act weird around him without having a clue as to why would make Brendon go insane, so in the end, there's nothing to do but ask.

"Did we—" he starts, keeping his eyes firmly on the table. "I mean, did anything happen? Did I do anything stupid that—?"

"No, no," Ryan says quickly. Too quickly. "Um, I mean, nothing big. There was—we kissed," he admits quietly, not meeting Brendon's eyes. "But just—it just happened. Um, too much alcohol, I guess? And I'm really sorry, I shouldn't have, and—but nothing happened. I mean, we didn't—"

He trails off, taking a gulp of coffee, both hands clutching too tightly at the cup. The toaster pings, and Ryan turns around, looking through the cupboards for plates. Brendon swallows thickly, staring into his own cup.

Ryan kissed him. Or Brendon kissed Ryan. Or they both fell into it together, whatever. And Brendon doesn't remember it.

Five and a half fucking years waiting to get a second chance to kiss Ryan Ross, and when it finally happens—on Brendon's fucking birthday—he doesn't even remember doing it.

Brendon wants to curl up in his bed and die. Right after he bursts into flames from embarrassment.

Fuck.

"Here," Ryan says gently, placing a plate of buttered toast in front of him. "Eat. It will make you feel better. I promise."

Brendon takes a bite. The toast is perfect, all crispy and warm, covered in melting butter. Brendon feels it grow in his mouth.

"I don't remember." The words come out without permission. Brendon stuffs another piece of toast into his mouth, hoping it will help him shut the fuck up.

"Maybe it's better that way," Ryan says carefully. Brendon feels bile rising in his throat.

"That bad, huh?" he replies. It's supposed to come out light, break the mood. His voice kind of ruins it by cracking at the end.

"No," Ryan says, looking stricken. "Of course it wasn't. How can you even—it just—" Ryan cuts himself off, pressing his lips together. Brendon waits.

"It just made things a lot harder," Ryan says at last.

It's not funny. Nothing in this situation is. Brendon's lips curl up at the corners anyway.

"Oh, shut up," Ryan says, rolling his eyes. There's a small smile spreading on his face, however, and things immediately feel more manageable.

They start talking about other things. Work, articles they've both read recently. Ryan makes more toast, and Brendon digs the orange juice out of the fridge. As far as morning afters go, Brendon's definitely had much worse.

"I should get going," Ryan says at last. "You okay?"

Brendon nods. It's a big fat lie. He wonders if Ryan will call him on it or just take the out for what it is.

"Bren..."

Damn.

"I just wish I remembered," Brendon admits. "But I'll be fine. Don't worry about it."

"Why?"

Brendon shrugs. "Just... it was my birthday," he says, covering some of the hurt up with another smile. "It's a day when special things happen, you know? I would have liked to keep the memory, that's all."

It's not the whole truth of course. Brendon wants about a million things more from Ryan than a drunken birthday kiss, but if last night is any indication, Brendon's convictions to be more than someone who's willing to take what he can get are obviously a lot weaker than he thought they were.

He gets out of his chair and starts putting dishes into the sink, changing the subject back to one of the cases they've been working on.

Ryan stops him with a hand on his shoulder, just resting lightly there. Brendon turns around.

Ryan kisses him.

It happens so quietly that Brendon almost doesn't dare to breathe. Ryan lets the hand on Brendon's shoulder drop to his waist, pulling him closer. He keeps the kiss light at first, giving Brendon time to recover from the surprise and relax into it. Brendon makes a tiny sound against his mouth, kissing back, and Ryan tightens his grip, steadying them both as the kiss deepens.

It's the nicest kiss Brendon's ever got.

"Happy birthday," Ryan whispers when they finally break apart, brushing his lips across Brendon's cheek before stepping back.

Brendon smiles, the first real smile of the day. He can't not; Ryan just kissed him, just gave Brendon a little part of himself—of them—because Brendon wanted it. He gets that it doesn't change anything between them, but at the same time, the fact that it was a gift makes him love it even more.

"So," he says, talking mainly to draw out the moment just a little bit longer. "Was that how it was? Last night, I mean?"

Ryan has an expression on his face that Brendon can't make out at all; it's too many things at once; mostly, it just adds up to confusing. "It's how it should have been," Ryan says at last, leaning in quickly to steal another kiss, one that is short and wet and that Brendon feels all the way down to his toes. "Sorry, just—one for the road."

He leaves the kitchen with the speed of someone caught on fire, and Brendon is left staring after him. He touches his lips with one finger; they're still a little wet. He feels his whole face split into a blinding grin seconds later, pure joy bubbling up inside him so fast that he has to jump up and down and stomp his feet a bit to handle it.

Ryan kissed him. Twice. And if the first time was for Brendon, self-sacrificing and giving and an example of every other kind of pseudo-noble virtue that Ryan likes to pursue, then the second one was for himself, for no other reason than that Ryan wanted to do it.

Ryan Ross wants to kiss him.

Brendon needs a better victory dance.

Chapter Text

Kissing Brendon turns out to have been a really bad idea. Especially the part where it happened three times in less than twenty-four hours. Ryan can't stop thinking about it, and it becomes even worse when he walks into the part of the lab called the shop at the start of his shift a few weeks later and sees Brendon there, leaning over the hood of a car to get a sample of some blood off the wind shield, mid-laugh over something that Jon just said and a sliver of bare stomach showing where his shirt is riding up.

Ryan walks out again and goes and hides in his office. It doesn't help. After another three days of not being able to concentrate on anything other than Brendon, reasons for and against kissing Brendon and various doomsday scenarios where a relationship with Brendon utterly fucks up the lives of everyone Ryan knows and loves, he resolves to take drastic action.

He's going to ask Brendon out on a date.

(It is possible that not sleeping for 96 hours is not entirely optimal for Ryan's ability to form rational decisions.)

He means to do it straight away. Asking Brendon out. Doing something casual. Seeing if this thing they have that is driving Ryan crazy is something he could get out of his system or something he really needs to start worrying about. Problem is, he doesn't seem to know how to do it.

The first time he tries to ask, he leads with a gift.

"I found this in a thrift store over the weekend. I thought you might like it."

"Are you serious?" Brendon asks, holding up the drawing of four beetles, two done in cross-section, two from different angles. "This is awesome. Wow. Thank you."

He looks genuinely delighted. And kind of unsure, like he has a feeling that Ryan has something else he wants to say but no idea what it could actually be, or trying very hard not to think about it. Ryan steels himself.

"Listen, I was wondering if we could—"

Buzz

"Shit," Brendon says, reading the message on his pager. "419 from Travis. We should get going right away. Sorry, you were saying?"

"Um," Ryan says, losing his nerve fast now that Brendon is leading them out of the room and through the hallways of the lab. Where techs are walking around. Fuck. "Wentz wanted us to go over the report from the Henderson case with him before tomorrow."

"Oh," Brendon says, and Ryan thinks he hears a hint of disappointment in his voice before he breaks into his usual smile. "Sure, no problem."

The second time, Ryan gets distracted.

"Did you read the article in the paper yesterday, about this restaurant off the Strip where they let you pick out your food by smell?" Ryan asks, deciding to start off casually.

"I did, are you kidding?" Brendon replies eagerly. "And then I had to pass by there on my way to work, because gathering smells that complex into scent samples, which are to go on a menu? I just had to check what kind of absorbing materials they were using. Turns out they had started out trying to bind the scents into paper by holding them over the stove," he says, shaking his head. "Which obviously didn't work. I mean, seriously, even if you'd prepare the fibres with an appropriate solvent and then somehow managed to get the sample into a vacuum environment, the scent would be gone seconds after a customer opened the menu. They'd have to make thousands of samples, every night."

"So how are they doing it?" Ryan asks, intrigued.

"Mix of oils and synthesised scents," Brendon says. "Like, if they have a tomato-based pasta, they start by rubbing the sample paper with a tomato scent, then add basil, garlic, butter smell, whatever gives your brain the impression of the actual dish. Simplified, of course, and largely artificial, so it doesn't really emit the same scent. The molecular composition is all wrong—hang on, let me draw you an example on the white board. So, this enzyme..."

By the time Ryan remembers why he started the conversation, he's already in his car on his way back home.

The third time, Ryan gets even more distracted.

"Did you and Spencer swap shifts for Tuesday?"

"Sorry, what?" Brendon says, bending lower as he reaches to swab a suspicious stain in the back of the trunk of a car while Ryan holds up a flash light. "Um, yeah. Hope that wasn't a problem. He and Jon had some kind of game they wanted to watch."

"No, no," Ryan says, trying to keep his focus as Brendon wiggles to get a little further inside the narrow space, "I was just thinking that maybe—"

"Can you get the duct tape?" Brendon interrupts. "I think I just realised how the victim managed to dislodge the underside of the back seat from in here."

"Okay," Ryan says, walking around the car to pick up a roll from a shelf. When he gets back to the trunk, Brendon has managed to wedge himself inside, bent nearly in half with his back arched and arms held together in front of his face.

"Come on, Ross, tie me up," he says, holding his wrists out to Ryan with a dirty smile.

Ryan forgets what he was supposed to ask.

On the day that he plans to ask for the fourth time, Spencer walks into his office, looking very much like a cat who just caught the canary. Turns out that Jon Walker isn't quite as straight as Ryan thought. Or Pete told him.

He and Spencer get into a fight about it—a loud, painful one, where Ryan basically behaves like a jealous idiot.

He doesn't know why, even after it's all over. He wants Spencer to be happy; he should be glad that he's moving on. And it's not like it's the first time Spencer has hooked up with someone who isn't Ryan in the almost eight years since they broke up—far from it. Ryan's never had a problem with it before. And he likes Jon.

It gives him more things to think about.

Not even a week later, Jon shows up at work with a definite hitch in his step, telling the people who ask that he stumbled on a staircase. Ryan gives Spencer a look across the conference room table, which Spencer returns with a small smirk. Ryan sends him out in the field with Brendon and locks himself in his office.

He definitely needs to get his head figured out.

"Do you want to go out to dinner with me?"

They're in the middle of an autopsy when Ryan finally asks. Brendon's gathering evidence from under a victim's fingernails and freezes in mid-movement, then puts down the arm and meets Ryan's eyes. Ryan sees the smile spread across Brendon's face even before Brendon remembers to pull down the surgical mask covering it.

"I'd like that," he says. "When?"

The sense of relief is overwhelming. For about three seconds before all of Ryan's nerves decide to gather in his stomach.

"You free on Wednesday?"

It's one of the days where double shifts have moved the schedule around enough to create a free night for half their team. And even though he and Spencer are still not really speaking, Ryan is pretty sure that he can get him and Jon to cover for them.

"Wednesday?" Brendon repeats. "Yeah. Sure. Wednesday's fine."

"Great," Ryan says, doing his best to remember how to use his vocal cords. "So, pick you up at eight?"

"Eight is good."

Brendon beams at him, and Ryan has to look away to stop himself from grinning like an idiot. They go back to work, finishing up with the girl on the table before signing her over to Dr Hurley for the autopsy. Brendon keeps shooting Ryan little looks for the rest of the day—half-excited, half-nervous as fuck—and Ryan feels himself relax marginally.

At least he's not the only one who's nervous.

***

Ryan shows up at exactly eight o' clock, which is roughly three hours after Brendon opened his closet the first time to decide what to wear and two hours and fifty-five minutes after he started to freak the fuck out.

There's no real reason for him to be this nervous, except that this is Ryan Ross taking him out to dinner. Brendon can count the number of real dates he's been on on one of his hands. Half of them ended in disaster.

The bell rings.

Brendon goes to open the door. Ryan is standing on the other side with a shaky smile on his face, wearing a pair of nice slacks and a simple button down with a vest on top. For Ryan, anything less than a full suit is casual dress, meaning they're probably not heading somewhere with linen table cloths and French waiters. Thank God.

"Hi," Ryan says, holding out a single flower with a small tube of water clipped on to the stem. "Wow, you look really nice."

Brendon is wearing black jeans and a sapphire blue shirt with a scattering of rhinestones in patterns down the front—the final victors of the epic battle more or less his entire wardrobe participated in. He takes the flower. It's a daisy, long-stemmed and bright red in colour. No one's ever given Brendon flowers before.

"Thank you."

Ryan's smile turns a little more relaxed. "You ready to go? I've got a cab waiting downstairs."

Brendon nods, makes a quick trip to the kitchen to put the flower in some more water before grabbing his jacket and reaching for his keys. "Lead the way."

***

Ryan takes him to a small Mexican place on the outskirts of down town Las Vegas. They get their beer in iced glasses with a wedge of lime and their tortillas in wicker baskets. The atmosphere is intimate but casual, dimly lit tables and candles absolutely everywhere mixing with happy Mexican music from a guy with a banjo over by the bar. Brendon starts to relax.

"How do you manage to get so much stuff in there and still close it?" Ryan asks, motioning towards Brendon's perfectly folded tortilla while fighting to keep the food in his own from falling back out on his plate.

"I'm just magic that way," Brendon jokes, taking another bite. "If you're really nice, maybe I'll show you one of my tricks, though."

"Yeah?" Ryan says, distracted, swearing softly as the bottom fold slips out of his grip and everything falls out. "Please."

"Here," Brendon says, moving things around on the table until he gets a free space in the centre. "Give me your plate. Now watch."

Ryan catches on after the first demonstration. The smile that breaks on his face when he manages to do it on his own and take a bite of his tortilla with everything staying in place makes Brendon's knees go a little weak.

Picking up the conversation again is a little stilted at first—which feels strange since they talk to each other every day—but feels more comfortable as the evening wears on. They talk about completely silly things, joking a lot; Brendon's pretty sure he'll never get tired of making Ryan laugh—actual full belly-laughs that have him choking on his drink and crinkles come out at the corners of his eyes.

"I missed this," Ryan says. "Just stepping out of the real world for a while. Reminds me of when we met."

Brendon looks up, surprised. Ryan's never brought up the Seattle conference before, and the few times Brendon's made a reference, Ryan's been quick to change the subject. He's not sure where Ryan is going with it now, so he opts for a nod and another bite of the dessert they're sharing between them.

"I'm really sorry about how I acted then," Ryan says quietly. "I know it's way too late to say it, but I am. I shouldn't have kissed you."

Brendon doesn't really know what to say to that. On one hand, the apology feels kind of nice, belated as it is; on the other? That kiss is one of Brendon's best memories; hearing that Ryan regrets it kind of hurts.

Something of what he's thinking must be showing on his face, because Ryan's eyes widen. He puts his spoon down and reaches across the table, grabs Brendon's hand and squeezes it lightly.

"Not like that. I'm sorry I let you think I wasn't interested," Ryan clarifies, speaking quickly, like he's afraid he'll lose his nerve if he doesn't get all the words in his head out at once. "Because of course I was. I mean, Brendon, you'd have to be blind and deaf and missing half a brain not to notice everything that you are. But—"

The fingers tighten around Brendon's hand, and Ryan turns his face away, biting down on his lower lip.

Brendon laces their fingers together. "But what?"

"I don't do relationships well," Ryan says softly. "Especially not after Spencer and I broke up. A short thing here and there, no strings attached—I'm good at that—but anything more and I start to freak. So I have this rule?" He keeps his eyes firmly on the plate between them, picking up his spoon with the other hand. "About not dating people I like. And I get that that's kind of fucked up, but it's working. Or it's been working. I don't know."

"What are you saying?"

Ryan is silent for a while, all his focus seemingly on moving his spoon in little spirals through the caramel on the almost empty plate.

"I don't want to hurt you," he says. "You're making me want to forget about rules and responsibility and just throw any kind of self-control I have out the window. It's fucking with my head so bad, you don't even know. Like, sometimes when you—Jesus. I could just—"

He trails off, ducking his head. Brendon sees a blush start to creep down his neck.

"We work together," Ryan says, looking back up. "I don't want to risk messing that up, not for a fling. And I don't know what I could do beyond that, because right now, my head isn't really the part of me doing the thinking."

Brendon blinks. He still has no idea how to respond. There's a bizarre sense of gratification warring with the part of his brain telling him that Ryan is trying to reject him—which makes him angry, because, wow, way to ruin the best date ever—and on top of it all, a simmering want spreading from where Ryan's fingers are moving against his own, caressing the palm of Brendon's hand with little circles of his thumb.

If there was a contest for sending mixed messages, Ryan would win it blindfolded and with his hands tied behind his back.

Which is not something Brendon should be thinking about, Jesus Christ.

"I still don't get it," he says. "Are you trying to tell me that you don't want to date me? Because if you are, I think you could have chosen a less shitty way to do it than, you know, asking me on a date."

He pulls his hand away and puts his napkin on the table, preparing to get to his feet. Ryan stops him.

"That's not what I meant," Ryan says, letting go of Brendon's wrist once he sits back down.

"Then explain it again, because that's what it fucking sounds like," Brendon throws back, frustration spilling over.

"It's a pretty long story."

Brendon crosses his arms. "I've got time."

"I really don't want to tell it tonight, though," Ryan says, trying for a small smile. "It's not a happy story. I just—I promise I will tell you if you want to know, but tonight, I kind of just wanted to... have a happy night, I guess."

Ryan sounds tired all of a sudden, and Brendon hates himself for immediately wanting to reach out and comfort him.

"I'm sorry for bringing this up now," Ryan says. "But I've had a really amazing time, and I don't want you to think differently when I don't kiss you goodnight later. Because I know I'll want to."

"So why not?" Brendon says. And, great, now he's practically begging Ryan to kiss him. While he's still not sure whether Ryan is trying to brush him off or not. This conversation is just getting better and better.

"I need to figure out my head," Ryan says. "I've kind of been hiding it in the sand for the last eight years, and if we do this, I want it to be more than just a kiss. Or more than just sex. Because—God—you're so—you deserve someone who wants everything, okay? And I need to make sure that that's—um. That I can, you know, handle that."

Brendon is still not sure that what Ryan is saying isn't the world's most intricate 'I'm just not that into you', but Ryan is looking at him with those stupid, huge eyes of his, his face all sincere and vulnerable, and Brendon clearly doesn't have enough self-preservation to cut his losses and run.

He slides a hand back to the middle of the table, palm up. Ryan takes it.

"Okay," Brendon says. "So what happens now?"

"I was hoping we could take things slow," Ryan says. "Get to know each other more. As people, you know? Not just professionally. Figure out if this is something we both want. And I'll understand if you say no," he adds quickly. "I know it's a kind of fucked up, old-fashioned arrangement, and I can't even promise it'll be worth your while. But I just—I don't want to rush into something and fuck it up."

Brendon chokes on a laugh. "It's been almost six years," he says. "I don't even think the Victorians took that long to make up their minds."

Ryan cracks a small smile, looking embarrassed and serious at the same time. "I know. But at the same time, it's only been a few months since I actually allowed myself to think about this. Look, I know I don't have any right to ask, but you make me want to, and, well, I haven't wanted to try getting to know someone in a really long time. So. What do you say?"

"Starting over?" Brendon asks. Ryan nods carefully. "Would I need to spill coffee on your shirt again?"

"Um, I'm kind of hoping not, but if you feel the need... sure, go ahead?"

Brendon smiles. Then, in a fit of daring, he lets his hand slip from Ryan's, moving up to trace the underside of his shirt cuff with his index finger. "I kind of like this shirt."

Ryan sucks in a breath and pulls his hand away. "God, you're going to kill me with this, aren't you?" A smile is spreading on his face as well, however, slow and breathtaking. In his chest, Brendon's heart does a little flip.

"Maybe," Brendon says, low and teasing, quickly getting his confidence back. "But I'll try to be nice."

Ryan groans.

***

They finish up their dinner and leave the restaurant mostly in silence. It doesn't feel awkward; it feels... new. Uncertain and exciting. Like a first date should.

Brendon wonders when the next one will be and what it will be like. Deciding to take a chance on Ryan feels a bit like playing Russian roulette.

The cab pulls up to his building and Ryan asks it to wait before following Brendon out of the car and walking him to the door.

"So," Brendon says, unable to keep his smile back. "I had a really great time."

He leans against the wall, a little too close, head tilting to the side. Ryan visibly swallows.

And then he smiles.

"Me too," he says, capturing Brendon's hand with his own and bringing it to his lips. Brendon feels the soft brush of skin over his knuckles like fire travelling straight down his arm. "Goodnight, Brendon."

Ryan leaves. Brendon goes up to his apartment, gets in the shower and doesn't even pretend to be thinking about porn when he gets himself off.

Old-school dating. It's definitely a start.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face. When he wakes up the next day, it's because of someone ringing the doorbell. Brendon stumbles out of bed and pulls on a pair of sweats before going to answer it.

There's a delivery boy on the other side of the door, handing Brendon a clipboard to sign his name and then giving him a longish package, wrapped carefully in white paper.

Brendon takes it to the kitchen, opens it up from the top and finds a box with several layers of tissue paper inside, before uncovering a beautiful bouquet of small sunflowers. There's no card.

He puts the sunflowers in a vase next to the red daisy in his kitchen window, looks from one to the other before realisation strikes and a smile spreads across his face.

Brendon goes to find his laptop, pulls up a tab for Google. There are about fourteen million hits for 'language of flowers', so Brendon checks a few of them and picks one that is part of a Victorian history project that some university in England is putting together, scrolling down the list of flowers with his heart beating much too fast in his chest until he finds the ones he's looking for.

He reads the entries several times, opens about a million new tabs to cross-check with other sites and ends up actually hugging his computer with the most ridiculous smile on his face.

It's a lot more than a start.

A/N: The list of flower meanings used in this fic can be found here: http://victorianbazaar.com/meanings.html