Fic: How to Survive a Recession 5/5

[piecesof_reeses]

“He’s going to try to find out more about the actual embezzlement. And then we’ll go from there trying to find the real culprit. So,” Brendon tries to smile reassuringly, “it’ll be fine.”


“Yeah?” Spencer says, raising an eyebrow. “But what if Ryan doesn’t find out anything? And people still think I’m the one who embezzled the money?”


“That won’t happen,” Brendon says resolutely. “I mean—even if that did happen, like—you’re still innocent! We’ll, I don’t know, we’ll get the police to look into it. Somehow. And the police won’t be able to dig anything up on you, so your name will be cleared. It’s not as though you have any, like, secret Swiss accounts hiding millions of dollars. I mean. You don’t, right?”


Spencer rolls his eyes. “Of course I don’t.”


“I know you didn’t, I just felt like I should probably get a verbal verification,” Brendon says loftily. “I am putting my trust in you, and all.”


“Thanks,” Spencer says dryly. And then, quietly, “You’re sure we’ll get this sorted out?”


“Of course we will,” Brendon says firmly.


“I still can’t believe this is actually happening,” Spencer says after a moment, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Embezzlement? False leads? It’s so…ridiculous.”


“Yeah, it is,” Brendon says. Then he adds, “But also kind of exciting.”


Spencer cracks a small smile at that. “I’m glad to hear you’re getting so much out of this.”


Brendon frowns. “I’m not; not really. I mean. Even if this didn’t involve espionage and speculation and secret missions—“


“Secret missions?” Spencer says.


“In a manner of speaking,” Brendon says. “Ryan is totally a great secret agent. But anyway.” He coughs. “Even if this didn’t involve any of that, I’d still do whatever I could to help. Because…”


“You’re my friend,” Spencer finishes for him.


“Yeah,” Brendon says, and beams like a proud teacher.


Spencer’s gaze turns oddly intent, and he says, “You’ve got some chocolate on the side of your mouth,” eyes studying Brendon’s lips. Brendon blushes vividly before clumsily rubbing his mouth.


“That it?”


“No,” Spencer says, “it’s on the other side.”


And then he reaches in and gently wipes at the corner of Brendon’s mouth with his thumb, rest of his hand barely brushing Brendon’s face. Brendon’s caught; he feels like he can’t breathe, doesn’t want to breathe, but that’s a dangerous thought, and Spencer isn’t moving away, and Brendon’s confused. He feels like he’s missing something—why isn’t Spencer moving his hand?—and then suddenly, they’re kissing.

Brendon can’t think when this is happening, can’t even remember what he was going to say when Spencer is cupping the back of his neck, reeling him in, sucking on his bottom lip and urging his mouth open, tongue tracing a light pattern and then stroking against his own.


And Brendon’s responding; he can’t help it, letting Spencer lick him open and pull him closer and drown out all the reasons why this is a bad, bad idea. But as Spencer moves to drag his mouth along Brendon’s jaw, press wet, open-mouthed kisses against him, Brendon gulps in a breath of air, and then wrenches away violently, suddenly acutely angry.


“What the fuck, Spencer?” Brendon gets out, forcing himself to step a few steps away because Spencer’s proximity does things to him, and the fucker probably knows that.


Spencer’s looking at him, surprised, and walking forward to try to regain the distance, but Brendon scoots backward, only stopping when he feels wall behind him.


“You can’t do that!” Brendon says, voice high-pitched and, okay, maybe slightly panicky, but fuck, Spencer does not get to do this, screw with him and screw with his head.


Spencer’s blinking, and he’s saying, “I’m not—what do you—“


“You can just pull shit like that! We’re just friends, we’re not—“


“But I thought you wanted…more.” Spencer’s furrowing his brow, and he’s blinking at him, blinking those stupid blue eyes inquisitively.


“That’s not—That’s so not the point,” Brendon snaps, reddening. “What’s going to happen, after this is all over? If we get all the embezzled money back, and if Island Electronics gets back on its feet, and we get all our jobs back, what are you going to do then, huh? Do a nice reenactment of the scene in the supply closet where you shouted at me, blamed me for everything, and then left me there?”


“Brendon, I am so sorry for that,” Spencer says, and he reaches out to run his hand down Brendon’s arm, back and forth, a distracting warm weight.


“I know you are,” Brendon says, breathing out. “But it’s just going to happen again. Because our circumstances aren’t changing, Spencer. We’re still going to be coworkers, which means you’re still going to be constantly looking over your shoulder because you’re worried about your job.”


“Brendon, I—“ Spencer begins, leaning in closer to him, but Brendon cuts him off.


“No, it’s fine. I mean, I can’t blame you for it. You need your job; you’ve got your sister, and your mom, who’s sick and—oh, shit.” Brendon realizes what he just said, and knocks his head against the wall behind him.


“Who told you about my mom?” Spencer asks, an unreadable look in his eyes.


Brendon bites his lip and looks away.


“Ryan,” Spencer fills in with a sigh.


“It wasn’t his fault,” Brendon quickly says, swallowing, “I made him do it. Nagged him about it until he told me. Because I was worried, freak,” he adds, mouth twisting.


“It’s okay,” Spencer says. “I mean. It’s not really a big deal.”


“But don’t you see? The whole thing’s just going to happen again, and I can’t—I can’t do that.” Brendon says it slowly, clearly, so that Spencer can understand and move away from him, stop crowding into his space and fanning warm breath across him and making it embarrassingly hard to think.


“Brendon,” Spencer says earnestly, leaning down to stare straight into Brendon’s eyes. “I made a mistake. I know I made a mistake.”


Brendon’s shaking his head, pressing his fingers against his temples. “No, no, it wasn’t a mistake. You were reacting naturally.”


“Yes, it was a mistake,” Spencer insists. “I was being stupid. Irrational. Fuck, if my own manager is having an intra-office affair, then I sure as hell can. And—and even if it did turn out to be a problem, it would still have been okay. I would have made it work, Brendon.” He’s got both large, warm hands on Brendon’s shoulders now, and he’s rubbing his left thumb into the sensitive space right below Brendon’s collarbone, and Brendon takes a gulp of air, turns his face to stare at the ground.


“I mean,” Spencer says, and then stops for a moment before continuing. “There’s always going to be a way for me to get more money, Brendon. I could have found more work; it’s not like I’m unemployable, at least not if we get this whole embezzlement thing sorted out, and even failing that, I can ask any one of my relatives for money if I really need it, for my mom. But…” He pauses, and bites his lip. “I can’t do something like that when it comes to you.”


“Spencer,” Brendon says, not sure what he’s going to say, just that he needs to say something, but Spencer quietly shushes him, index finger pressing gently against his mouth.


“I kind of really like you,” Spencer says, quietly, like it’s a secret. “I didn’t realize that, you know, until after. But…I do. An embarrassing amount.”


“Yeah?” Brendon raises his head to peer up at Spencer, just briefly, and tries to stop his stupid cheeks from blushing. “Enough to…”


“Yes, Brendon,” Spencer says, slightly exasperated, and then he kisses him again, mouth covering his own and sliding one hand back behind Brendon’s head and the other scrabbling at Brendon’s waist, flipping his shirt up to smooth across Brendon’s back.


Brendon gasps, a little bit, then weaves his hand into Spencer’s hair, holding for leverage, and he kisses Spencer back, tongues sliding against each other and spreading a warm, melting feeling throughout Brendon’s entire body. He feels bonelessly euphoric yet blindingly aroused at the same time, Spencer pressed up against him, hard and scorching along Brendon’s thigh, and he shifts, slipping to the right to line them up better, and the first touch makes Brendon’s head swim, embarrassing needy noises coming out involuntarily, but then Spencer slides his hand into the back of Brendon’s pants, and he groans.


“Wait.”


“What?” Spencer says, immediately taking his hand away. “What?”


“I’m not. I mean.” Brendon blushes even harder, and he says, “I’m not easy, you know that, right? Like, I don’t do this with just anyone.”


“Only people you especially like?” Spencer says, smirking.


Brendon nods, quickly, and Spencer takes that as permission to slide his hand back in and start sucking at Brendon’s earlobe.


“But also,” Brendon says, as Spencer makes an amused noise and starts taking Brendon’s shirt off, “this isn’t a one-off, I just want to establish that. I expect dates, and oh, gifts…” He trails off as Spencer makes a line of long, sucking kisses along his chest, and the hand on his ass moves to press intriguingly against him, and Brendon makes a high-pitched, gasping sound against the curve of Spencer’s neck and shoves up against him further, legs falling apart obligingly when Spencer’s hand cups him.


“And also,” Brendon says later on, as Spencer takes his pants off and slides warmly against him, “I can’t keep giving you those free caramel macchiatos; those things cost money, you know, and there’s a recession going on, if you haven’t realized.” He kind of forgets where he was going with that train of thought, though, when Spencer finds the lube and presses one slicked finger inside of him; Brendon bites his lip and moves against it, his breath catching and his voice breaking as he babbles something along the lines of “Spencer” and “more” and “please,” his entire focus narrowed down to the image of Spencer gasping, blue eyes even bluer and hair falling across his eyes as he concentrates, brow furrowed and sweat-shiny, and then he can’t think of anything besides the movement of Spencer’s fingers inside of him, sparks running through his body and his mouth open in one, continuous inhale.


“I’m kind of a nut about anniversaries, too,” Brendon says as Spencer grabs a condom, “so you might want to write this date dow—oh shit,” he says, voice cracking while Spencer finally pushes inside him, spreading his legs further and biting the inside of his cheeks to stop himself from whimpering.


“Dude,” Spencer says a few moments later, “you are such a girl,” as he wraps a hot, sweating hand around Brendon’s cock.


“Am not,” Brendon counters indignantly, but then Spencer’s hand twists, and he has to swallow hard and concentrate on not coming in three seconds, so he lets go of the argument for now, whining slightly at the combined sensations—Spencer hot against his back and his hand jacking him off.


A few minutes later, Brendon can’t even formulate words anymore, Spencer whispering low and dirty in his ear and then smirking against his neck as a flaming blush works its way from his cheeks down his neck and his chest and back. So he closes his eyes and gives himself up to it, letting himself ride it out.


* * *


“So,” Brendon says, later, as he sprawls against Spencer and lays a sweaty cheek against his chest. “I tend to babble during sex.”


“I noticed,” Spencer says, a smile in his voice.


Brendon turns his face in against Spencer, turning red, and mumbles, “Sorry. I can try to stop, if you want.”


“No, it’s fine.” The tone of Spencer’s voice is fond, affectionate, and Brendon smiles at it, until he remembers something.


“Hey. Wait. I am so not the girl in this relationship,” Brendon says, sitting up.


“Oh, yeah?” Spencer says.


“Of course not. You’re the one with the—with the cheeks, and the hips, and the hair,” Brendon says triumphantly.


“You’re the one with the eyes, and the lips, and the ass,” Spencer counters.


“You like my ass,” Brendon says, smiling stupidly for a moment before frowning again. “Whatever. If we were—if we were—“ Brendon casts his gaze around the room, and it lands on the Han Solo and Yoda action figures. “If we were in Star Wars,” Brendon continues smugly, “you would totally be Princess Leia. You have the cheekbones.”


“If we were in Star Wars?” Spencer repeats, lip twitching. “Is there something you want to tell me, Brendon? Some kind of obscure kink?”


“N-no,” Brendon says, cheeks flaming again.


“It’s okay,” Spencer says, squeezing Brendon’s shoulder reassuringly. “I would totally dress up as Princess Leia for you.”


He starts laughing as Brendon sputters, only stopping when Brendon’s phone starts ringing. Spencer picks it up and peers at it.


“Nonfat vanilla latte is calling,” Spencer informs him, sounding nonplussed.


“Oh, Ryan!” Brendon quickly grabs the phone, pushing his hair away from his eyes.


“Is he still with Greenwald? Put him on speakerphone,” Spencer demands.


Brendon obeys, pressing the speakerphone button. “Ryan?” he says.


“Hey, Brendon,” Ryan says in a whisper. “I’m in his house, dude.”


“Good job,” Brendon says, grinning. “So, he brought you home, huh? How was it?”


“How was what?” Ryan says, and then, “Shut up, motherfucker. Nothing happened. Yet, anyway. Just—listen up.”


“What is it?” Brendon asks, alarmed by the unusual urgency in Ryan’s voice.


“I’m in his office—he thinks I’m in the bathroom—because I thought I might find some clues to who he suspected, you know? I couldn’t pry anything out of him at the bar, so I was getting desperate. And—I’m finding shit here, Brendon, in his office.”


“What?” Brendon says impatiently.


“Bank statements!” Ryan says. “He’s been withdrawing money—huge amounts of money, and I don’t think he’s been reporting it, Brendon. I think he’s our guy.”


“Oh my god,” Brendon says, rocking back. “Greenwald? But—he’s our CEO, why would he—“


“I’m just going to grab these statements and run,” Ryan says hurriedly, and then, “Oh, shit. Shit, shit, motherfucking shit.”


“What is it?” Brendon immediately asks, hand clenching around the phone. “Ryan?”


“I can’t—“ Ryan says, and then there’s a clatter.


“Ryan?” Brendon almost yells into the phone, Spencer echoing him frantically.


It’s no use. The line’s dead.


Brendon and Spencer stare at each other for a moment, mouths open in horror.


“Oh my god,” Brendon says. “Oh my god.”


He quickly redials, but it goes straight to voicemail, and keeps doing that the second, third, and fourth times Brendon tries.


“Should we—we need to do something,” Spencer says, pulling a pair of jeans on and then standing up and pacing, back and forth.


“Call the police?” Brendon offers half-heartedly.


“But if they get there and nothing’s going on…” Spencer sits back down on the couch with a thump. “Greenwald might even spin it so that Ryan gets arrested for some shit like breaking and entering. Shit, I can’t believe he’s the one who’s been…behind this. All this time.”


“How could he do that?” Brenon asks, feeling stricken. “He’s already making ten times what we are, just by being a CEO. Why the hell did he feel the need to steal from us?”


“Fuck,” Spencer says. “He probably spun it so I got fired, too, so that I would stop investigating the records. That fucking jackass.”


“He’s not going to…I mean,” Brendon says, licking his lips, “he’s not going to do something to Ryan, right? He’s not that crazy.”


Spencer stares at him for a second and says, slowly, “He couldn’t. They—I don’t…I don’t know.”


“We have to go there,” Brendon says abruptly. “We’ll just—check it out ourselves. Do we have his address? We can just drive over there, and knock on the door, and see what’s going on. There’s nothing wrong with that, right?”


Spencer blinks, and furrows his brow. “No, yeah, that should be okay, I think. Do you know his address?”


“Shit.” Brendon runs his hand through his hair, thinking rapidly. “We have to call Jon. He should know; didn’t he go drinking with Greenwald at one time?”


“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. Jon’s probably gone out to drink with everyone in the greater Chicago area at one point or another.”


They move quickly, worry for Ryan sharpening their movements, and soon enough, Brendon’s got Jon on the phone and he’s telling the story as quickly as he can, rushing through bits and fumbling others until Spencer grabs the phone from him and tells Jon just to come over, immediately.


“Shit,” Jon says once he’s there. “Shit.”


“So do you know where he lives?” Brendon persists.


“Yeah, yeah—huge house, takes up tons of fucking space. Come on, I’ll drive.”


And then, when Brendon and Spencer look at him, he rolls his eyes. “Of course I’m coming along,” an edge apparent in his usually mellow tone.


Which is how Brendon and Spencer and Jon end up crammed together in Jon’s tiny pick-up (he won’t drive Spencer’s car, he says, because he’s too used to stick shift). Brendon and Spencer are pressed together, a warm line running from shoulder to thigh to knee, and Brendon can’t even enjoy it because he’s too busy biting his lip, and tapping his fingers, and basically going out of his mind with worry.


Ryan had sounded distraught over the phone, just panicked. Brendon closes his eyes and tries not to imagine what might have happened in the hour it’s been since Ryan’s call cut off. (Anything might have happened, his mind supplies unhelpfully.)


Beside him, Spencer’s even tenser than he is, hands clenched on his knees and eyes staring straight ahead.


Swallowing, Brendon slowly reaches out and curls his hand around one of Spencer’s, cautiously. He relaxes when Spencer opens up his hand and folds them over so that they’re clasping each other loosely.


“We’re here,” Jon says suddenly, pulling over.


The house really is gigantic, painted an ostentatious white that seems to glow in the shaky light of the streetlamps. Some lights are on inside, but Brendon can’t see any silhouettes, Ryan, Greenwald, or otherwise.


“Should we—should we go in?” Brendon asks uncertainly. Now that they’re here, right in front of Greenwald’s house, Brendon feels almost hesitant to. The giant archway looms over them, casting long shadows.


There’s a momentary pause, and then Spencer says, sharply, “Of course we are. Ryan’s in there.”


“Yeah, no, you’re right, I was just…” Brendon flaps a hand uselessly.


“Come on,” Jon says softly. “Let’s go.”


They walk slowly up the pathway, even Spencer looking slightly tentative. The pathway had seemed longer from farther away, stretching out for ages, but now that they’re actually on it, they find themselves in front of the door before Brendon’s had remotely enough time to mentally prepare himself.


Spencer doesn’t seem to have that problem, though, because he reaches out firmly and rings the doorbell. Twice.


They can hear footsteps coming closer, and Brendon’s heart begins to pound, his palms sweating. The footsteps get louder, clacking against some kind of wood floor, and then stop, and Brendon can hear the distinct click of the lock turning. Then, slowly, the door is pulled open.


It’s Greenwald. Sweat’s dripping from his forehead, and there’s an ugly bruise growing on his right cheek. He looks disheveled, and tired—like he’s been in a struggle. Brendon’s heart leaps into his throat, and he can’t get himself to stop thinking, awful pictures running through his head; Ryan hurt, Ryan bruised, Ryan bleeding. Oh, shit.


“What’s going on?” Spencer asks brusquely, his voice ringing out loudly. “Where the fuck is Ryan?”


Greenwald’s face darkens, and then, after a visible effort, his expression smoothes out. Brendon tenses, feeling nauseous; his pulse is thrumming in his ears, and every muscle in his body feels coiled and ready to go.


But before Greenwald can answer, Brendon hears more footsteps, and then, a moment later, he sees Ryan walking up from behind him, and Brendon sucks in a breath, involuntarily.


“R-Ryan?” Brendon stammers out, blinking. “Are you o—“


“Yeah, I’m ready to go,” Ryan says, cutting him off. “Thanks for picking me up, guys.”


Jon’s the only one out of them who recovers enough to say a relatively smooth, “Yeah, dude. No problem.”


Ryan turns back to Greenwald.


“Nice playing Mario Kart with you,” he says in a flat monotone. “Sorry about, you know. Smashing my controller into your face during that one turn. It was a really sharp right turn,” Ryan explains to them.


Greenwald’s hand comes up to touch the bruise on his face before he snatches it away. “It’s fine,” he says stiffly. “I won, anyway.”


“Yep, you did.” Ryan turns back to them. “Let’s go, guys.”


They walk back down the pathway, Brendon wobbling slightly, feeling like he’s fallen into some kind of surreal dream.


“Dude,” he says. “What the hell happened?”


Ryan jerks his head. “Let’s wait until we’re in the car.”


Finally, when they’re all inside, Ryan starts explaining.


“So, I found the bank statements on his office desk, right,” Ryan begins.


“What happened during the call?” Spencer interrupts.


“The call?” Ryan furrows his brow, then blinks in understanding. “Oh, yeah. The one to you guys, an hour ago? Right. Sorry about that. Turns out I forgot to charge my cell these past few days. And then I dropped the phone.”


“You forgot to charge your cell,” Spencer repeats flatly. “Are you fucking kidding me?”


“What?” Ryan says defensively. “It’s an easy mistake to make.”


“Do you have any fucking idea how worried we were?” Spencer bites out. “Why the fuck do you think we’re here, Ryan? We didn’t come to pick you up for shits and giggles. We thought something was wrong.”


“Dude, nothing would have happened,” Ryan says slowly, looking at him like he’s crazy. “It’s Alex. And anyway, I could have taken him.”


Brendon can see Spencer balling his hands into fists, so quickly, he steps in before the argument can escalate.


“What happened after?” Brendon asks. “Do you have the stuff? The records?”


“Oh, yeah,” Ryan says, and begins undoing his fly.


“Dude, what are you doing?” Brendon says, alarmed. He puts his hands up to shield his eyes from potential trauma as Jon swerves, swears, then tells Ryan to keep all his bits inside, thanks.


A couple of cars honk, and Jon waves at them.


“Stop freaking out, Jesus,” Ryan says grumpily. “I just shoved them down my pants because I didn’t have a bag, or anything.”


“Well, you can show them to us later,” Jon says diplomatically.


“What happened after you shoved the bank statements down your pants?” Brendon asks.


“Oh, then I just went downstairs and played some Mario Kart with Alex,” Ryan says. “He doesn’t suspect a thing, don’t worry.”


“And what was up with smashing the controller into his face?” Jon asks curiously. “A wave of self-righteous rage come over you, or something, and you had to take revenge for the company, for everyone in Island Electronics who’s been screwed over by that greedy bastard?”


Ryan blinks. “Oh. No. I was okay with that. He was just getting kinda handsy, you know, inching closer, trying to put his arm over my shoulder, putting a hand on my knee, shit like that. So I pretended to have to turn really sharply with the controller, and smacked him in the face with it. I think he got the message after that,” Ryan says thoughtfully.


“…Cool,” Brendon says.


They’re silent for a moment, and then Brendon starts grinning uncontrollably.


“Dude,” he says. “I can’t believe we actually did it.”


“I’m the best secret agent ever,” Ryan says, and they high-five.


Jon’s shaking his head, eyes on the road. “This is so insane,” he says. “Feels like I’m still high, or something. Can you believe it? Our CEO was fucking stealing from us, and we caught him at it.”


“We’re totally superheroes,” Brendon says smugly, and Spencer cracks a smile beside him, which only makes Brendon beam harder, and, well, chain reaction and all, so by the end of it, they’re all grinning like idiots as Jon turns onto a smaller street.


The car’s headlights shine out ahead of them, two perfect beams lining down the empty road.


* * *


“What?” Pete says. “No way. What?”


“I know you don’t think so, but there is an embezzlement going on,” Ryan says earnestly.


“Oh, yeah, no, I know about that,” Pete says, waving a nonchalant hand. “But Greenwald?”


“You know that there’s an embezzlement going on?” Brendon says, eyes narrowing. “And you still told us to tell everyone else that there wasn’t anything going on? What the hell?”


“I was figuring it out on my own,” Pete says. “I couldn’t have everyone freaking out and then alerting the embezzler that we were onto him.”


“It doesn’t seem like you were doing a very good job of figuring it out on your own,” Brendon tells him bluntly, still feeling a little hurt.


“I was looking into it,” Pete says defensively. “I thought for sure it had to be one of the other branch managers, like Jay-Z or something. But—are you sure it’s Greenwald?”


“Positive,” Ryan says. “I’ve got the bank statements right here, if you want them.”


“But he’s such an idiot,” Pete says, looking disgusted.


“Yeah, well,” Brendon says and shrugs.


Pete sits there, thinking for a few minutes, before lighting up.


“Greenwald doesn’t know you guys know, right?” Pete says urgently.


“I don’t think so,” Ryan says.


“Great. So he should still be coming in this morning as planned,” Pete says. He’s smiling now, and Brendon is pretty sure that if he were alone, he’d be rubbing his hands together.


Quickly, Pete whips around and grabs the phone. “I’m going to call the police, have them be ready waiting in an inconspicuous area. As soon as Greenwald comes in, you tell him to go straight to my office, okay?”


“Okay,” Ryan says, and they walk out of his office.


Spencer’s waiting outside, leaning against the wall in a really distracting slouch.


“Hey,” Brendon says, smiling.


“Hey,” Spencer says back.


“You guys are disgusting,” Ryan says.


“We weren’t even doing anything,” Brendon defends.


“I could see it all in Spencer’s eyebrows,” Ryan grumbles.


Spencer says, “I really have to guard those better.”


Brendon figures this is going to be one of those things he’s never going to understand, and actually? He’s kind of okay with that.


“Is that Greenwald?” Ryan says suddenly.


There’s a dark figure coming through the front doors, and it definitely looks like their CEO.


Brendon starts walking faster. “C’mon, let’s go head him off. Pete wants us to take him to his office,” Brendon tells Spencer.


“This is going to be fun,” Spencer says, starting to grin.


Greenwald looks confused, and then suspicious when they approach. “What are you doing here?” he addresses Spencer.


Spencer shrugs. “Just grabbing some stuff I left here. You know, staplers and shit.”


“Okay,” Greenwald says slowly, still wary.


“Pete wants you in his office, Alex,” Ryan says.


“Did he say why?” Greenwald asks, frowning.


“Maybe. I don’t remember,” Ryan tells him blithely.


They walk with Greenwald to Pete’s office, trying not to look too obvious about flanking him from all sides, but Greenwald’s looking jumpy all the same.


“Why are you guys coming in?” Greenwald asks when they enter Pete’s office along with him.


“We just have a few questions for him,” Ryan says. “About our last few days at work, you know, since this company’s failing.”


“Right,” Greenwald says uncomfortably.


“Hey, Alex,” Pete says when he sees him, smile widening. “Take a seat, will you?” He turns to Ryan. “Close the door.”


Ryan does, and that’s when Greenwald starts getting really alarmed. “What’s going on, Pete?” he asks, eyes sliding from person to person, and lingering on the windows as though trying to scout for all possible escape routes.


“I have to talk to you about all those millions of dollars missing from our company,” Pete says calmly.


“Right!” Greenwald latches onto his words like a lifeline. “I was getting concerned about that, too, so I fired everyone who had access to the financial records without official permission, like Mr. Smith over there.”


“Yeah,” Pete says, drawing it out. “I bought that when you fed me that line the first time, Alex. But I’ve got some papers here that tell me you might be a little more personally involved in this than you’re letting on.”


“What? Are you accusing me of embezzling?” Greenwald says rapidly, eyes still darting from person to person. “But that doesn’t make sense, Pete. This is practically my company. Why would I do that?”


“Why don’t you tell me?” Pete says. He sounds as calm as ever, but his jaw’s clenched, Brendon notices.


“Look, Pete, this is kind of ridiculous; I think we both know that. If you really want to look for all those lost millions, I would suggest turning to Mr. Smith. He’s just another receptionist, just dissatisfied enough in his bottom-tier job to be tempted into embezzling when faced with all those already disorganized financial records. You know the type, Pete, come on.”


Spencer’s face starts to redden, but he doesn’t say anything, just grits his teeth.


Pete leans in closer to Greenwald. “Shut the fuck up, Greenwald,” he says quietly. “Cut the bullshit, okay? These bank statements prove beyond a doubt that you’re the disgusting fucker we’re looking for. So just start talking, or I’m calling the police.”


Greenwald’s lips whiten. “You can’t blame me for this,” he says quickly, stumbling over the words. “Come on, Pete. You know how much I’ve invested into this company. You know how much of my life I’ve spent in this company, working long hours just to get this company where it is today. Do you have any idea how many relationships that’s ruined for me?”


“Do tell,” Pete says.


“This company was already going down,” Greenwald says, staring Pete straight in the eyes like he can make Pete believe him if he stares hard enough. “Nothing I took would change that! So I was just—I was just getting my fair fucking share.”


“Your fair fucking share,” Pete repeats. “Right. How many times did you have to tell yourself that before you could believe it?”


Greenwald sputters wordlessly.


“I’m just surprised,” Pete says, leaning back and looking more relaxed. “I mean, you’re pretty much the company idiot. I knew there was money missing, but I always figured you didn’t have the number of brain cells necessary for embezzlement.”


“Yeah, I know,” Greenwald says, starting to sneer. “You think I’m an idiot, they think I’m an idiot, everyone thinks I’m a fucking idiot. I knew it would never occur to anyone that the embezzler might be Alex ‘too-stupid-to-tie-his-shoelaces’ Greenwald.”


“What I want to know,” Pete says, ignoring him, “is how much you had to pay William and Carden to help cover up your ass. Were they actors, or something? I mean, I know they weren’t real efficiency consultants.”


Greenwald shifts, turning red. “I had to do something to get the fucking stockholders off my back. Had to do something to make it look like I was trying to save this goddamn piece of shit company. So I got efficiency consultants.”


“You got efficiency consultants,” Pete repeats. “That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard. I thought you didn’t want people finding out about your little embezzlement scheme.”


“I’m not actually stupid,” Greenwald retorts, bristling. “I got the worst, most incompetent consultants I could find, the ones least likely to actually go digging around in the financial records. Besides, I’m the one giving them access to everything. They would never have found any evidence linking it to me.”


Pete’s beginning to smile again. “And then they scammed you. That’s actually really fucking awesome. Scamming the scammer. And none of you guys knew about the other. That’s priceless, dude.”


Greenwald scowls, but he doesn’t say anything. After a few moments, he licks his lips. “Is that it, Pete? That all you wanted to know?”


“Yeah,” Pete says, reclining back in his chair. “You can go now.”


Greenwald stares at him a moment, sizing him up. “Yeah? Really? I can just—go?”


Pete smiles at him, baring shiny white teeth.


“You understand, don’t you, Pete?” Greenwald says, beginning to smile. “Because the company’s practically dead already. Nothing we could do would ever change that.”


“Sure,” Pete says.


Greenwald hesitates, and then says, quickly, “Thanks,” before turning around and practically charging out the door.


Casually, Pete opens his window blinds looking out into the street. They watch peacefully as Alex sprints outside, right into the arms of the waiting policemen. It’s a beautiful sight.


* * *


The news of the embezzlement and Greenwald spreads through the building like the swine flu, and before noon, everyone’s heard from at least three other people.


Brendon knows that a lot of it is in his head, but he still swears that he can feel the difference in the office after Greenwald’s arrest. People are smiling more, laughing more, even talking to each other more. Yet at the same time, their productivity pretty much skyrockets, people willing to put in more time and effort into their work now that they know that there’s a good chance Island Electronics will make it through.


And there is a good chance they’ll make it through. According to Pete, the prognosis is great for the company. If they manage to get back all the money they lost to Greenwald, they’ll definitely be in the black, and then some.


Brendon grins to himself as he walks over to Joe and Jon, who’ve been immersed in conversation for quite a while.


“What’s up?” he says, parking himself on top of Jon’s desk.


“Joe’s quitting,” Jon says, and Brendon’s eyebrows go up in surprise, but Jon’s smiling, so this must be a good thing.


“No way, dude,” Brendon says. “Why?”


Joe shrugs a little, and colors. “I kind of—I have an actual degree in computer engineering, you know? And yet I’m still here, talking to people who don’t know their USB ports from their headphone jacks for barely more than minimum wage. And it’s—it’s my fault. It’s not like I tried to look for other work; I just sat here on my ass all day and called it good.”


Brendon listens to him quietly, watching his hands move as Joe talks faster and gestures more animatedly.


“The whole lay-off thing kind of gave me the kick in the ass I needed, you know?” Joe says. “I had to start looking for work, and I realized that I was really overqualified for so many jobs, including this one.”


“So you’re going to cut loose? Take your chances out there in the great wide open?” Brendon says, smiling a little.


“Yeah,” Joe says, inclining his head. “I think I am. Giving my two weeks notice today, before I leave.”


“So soon?” Brendon asks. “You’re not even going to make sure you find another position, first?”


“Nah,” Joe says. “I figure if I don’t do it now, I never will. I mean, I’m scared half to death about it, but I’m also…”


“Excited,” Brendon fills in for him.


“Yeah.” Joe rolls his eyes at himself, but he’s grinning, in that wide, sloppy way like he can’t help himself, and Brendon smiles back.


“That’s actually really awesome, dude,” he says quietly. “I’m happy for you.”


“Thanks,” Joe says. “Hey, if you ever see me out on the street with an empty coffee cup because this didn’t work out, throw me a few Washingtons, will you?”


“Sure,” Brendon says, and claps him on the shoulder before getting up.


He has a sudden urge to just walk around the entire building, see what people are up to. It feels a like a new place, almost; people breaking out of their old shells and doing new, crazy, wild, fantastic things like quitting their jobs.


So he does. He strolls down to the Design wing, and it looks like the place has gone completely nuts. Frank has combed all his hair in front of his face and jumped onto his desk. It looks like he’s playing some…really, really awesome air guitar.


“Dude,” Brendon says to no one in particular. “What the fuck’s going on?”


“We’re starting a band,” Gerard says from behind him.


Brendon turns around and Gerard’s there, grinning and flashing all those tiny white teeth at him.


“A band,” Brendon repeats. He doesn’t think he heard Gerard right. “Like…a musical band?”


“Like a rock band,” Ray Toro says as he passes them to jump onto the desk along with Frank and join him in playing air guitar.


“Yeah,” Gerard confirms, blushing but still smiling hard.


“Wow,” Brendon says. “That’s—wow. Unexpected.”


“I always kind of wanted to, you know?” Gerard says quietly. “But I was always too chickenshit to actually do anything. I still live in my mom’s basement, did you know that? I kind of have some issues.”


Brendon bites his lip and doesn’t say anything, and Gerard goes on.


“The recession’s the perfect opportunity,” Gerard says, beginning to smile again. “There are people out there who have just lost their jobs, who have lost their entire livelihood. They’ve got to be so depressed about it. I know I was. They’re probably feeling hopeless and desolate and just—miserable. And our music could inspire them. We could save lives with our music. It’s—it’s what I really always wanted to do with my life,” Gerard says, nose scrunching up in an embarrassed smile. “I used to read all these comic books, and I wanted so badly to be any of those superheroes. And now…”


“And now you can,” Brendon says, starting to smile.


“Yeah,” Gerard says. “It’s going to be so fucking awesome.”


He gives Brendon one last manic grin before running off to crush Frank in a gigantic hug, whispering in his ear something that makes Frank blush and then kiss Gerard, hard, right out in the open for anyone to see.


Ryland catcalls, because Gabe isn’t there to do it—Brendon heard that he quit—and Brendon laughs delightedly. It’s a beautiful scene, and Brendon’s so happy for them, but he can also feel himself getting wistful. Frank’s kissing Gerard all openmouthed and dirty, their tongues visible from time to time.


Breathing in, Brendon decides to go find Spencer. Pete had called him into the office for a meeting, probably about the embezzlement, Brendon thinks. But it’s been an hour, so they must be done by now.


Brendon walks along the corridor to Pete’s office, smiling when he sees the door open and Spencer walk out. It’s a little odd, actually, because Spencer’s shaking Pete’s hand vigorously and grinning like he just won the lottery.


“What’s up?” Brendon asks curiously, going up to Spencer and catching his hand in his.


But Spencer doesn’t say anything, just grabs Brendon and kisses him. Brendon opens his mouth in surprise, and Spencer slips his tongue in, stroking against his until Brendon feels lightheaded and has to grab onto Spencer’s shoulder for purchase, leaning in and sucking on Spencer’s bottom lip.


Then Spencer pulls back, breathing hard and still grinning madly.


“Dude, we’re in the office!” Brendon squeaks.


“It doesn’t matter,” Spencer says mysteriously.


Brendon breathes out, exasperated. “What do you mean, Spencer? Is Pete taking away that intra-office fraternization ban?”


“No,” Spencer says. “It doesn’t matter because Pete made me manager, which means that I can’t fire myself, and I’m definitely not going to fire you for intra-office fraternization.”


Brendon blinks, stunned. “What? Pete made you manager?”


“Well, he will,” Spencer says, waving a hand in the air. “He’s going to train me, anyway. He’s leaving the company, so he needed a replacement, and—he chose me.” Spencer smiles brilliantly, and Brendon goes on his tiptoes to peck him on the lips, just once, because he can’t not.


“So, he chose you,” Brendon prompts.


“Yeah. Spouted off some bullshit about how I was too talented to keep being a receptionist,” Spencer says, but then Brendon cuts him off.


“It’s not bullshit,” he says firmly. “You are way too talented. You were totally wasted on that receptionist job.”


Spencer blushes, but doesn’t say anything to counter it.


“Why is Pete leaving the company?” Brendon asks. He can’t imagine Pete working anywhere else, somehow.


“You won’t believe this,” Spencer says, eyes bright, “but Pete says he’s had enough of the electronics business and working for idiots. He’s leaving with Ashlee to start a clothing line, some place where he’s his own boss. The line’s called Clandestine, or something? I have no fucking clue.”


Brendon frowns, euphoria suddenly dampened. “Pete and Ashlee? But what about Patrick?”


“What about me?” Patrick says from behind them.


“Pete and Ashlee are leaving the company, right? Why aren’t you going with them?” Brendon asks, brow creased. “Did something…happen?”


“Oh, that.” Patrick rolls his eyes. “They’re going to start a clothing company, did you know that? A fucking clothing company. Pete wants to make hoodies. And you know that tattoo on his stomach? The really stupid one?”


“I haven’t seen his stomach, dude,” Brendon says slowly.


“Oh, right.” Patrick blushes. “Um, yeah. He’s got this, um, really ugly tattoo of a bat thing with a heart in it. And he wants to print that thing on everything he makes, because Pete’s the type of guy who wants to make his customers suffer.”


“Oh,” Brendon says.


“Yeah,” Patrick says. “So I’m staying here, in a STABLE JOB,” he shouts in the direction of Pete’s office, “because those two losers are going to need a back-up plan. So, you know, when they GO BROKE because no one will BUY THEIR SHIT, I’ll be able to support their sorry asses.”


Pete opens the door. “Patty?” he says happily. “I thought I heard your dulcet tones!”


“Go to hell, Pete,” Patrick says, but there’s a smile playing around his lips, and he lets Pete pull him into the office without any fuss. When Pete starts closing the blinds, Brendon takes it as his cue to start walking away with Spencer.


“So,” Brendon says quietly. “Should I start addressing you as Mr. Manager?”


“Shut up,” Spencer says, shoving him.


“Whatever, you like it,” Brendon says, capturing his hand again and holding it, swinging their clasped hands between them. “Got any big plans, Mr. Manager?”


Spencer tries to swat him with his other hand, but Brendon ducks, and he quickly kisses Spencer on the cheek before leaning back again.


“I’ve got a few plans,” Spencer concedes, starting to smile.


“And so a new Hitler was born,” Brendon intones.


He lets Spencer shove him, laughing, because alright, he probably deserved that one. “I was just kidding, Mr. Manager!” Brendon says in a high-pitched voice. “Please don’t hurt me, sir.”


“I am so dumping you, loser,” Spencer says, but he’s grinning, so Brendon gives that statement all the consideration it deserves, and slings an arm around his waist, leaning in to nestle his head into the crook of Spencer’s shoulder.


“You’re going to do a good job,” Brendon says quietly after a few minutes.


Spencer smiles down at him, looking happy and excited and hopeful all at once, and Brendon, well—all Brendon can do is smile back and hang on for all he’s worth.


* * *


Brendon walks down the deserted street on his way home, humming to himself. It’s as quiet as ever, and the empty storefronts still sit silent and lonely, but it doesn’t disturb Brendon as much anymore. He doesn’t try to walk by as quickly as possible, avoiding looking at the bleak landscape and its all too obvious reminder that there’s a recession going on.


Because, yeah, there is a recession going on. But recessions end. And sometimes, good things can come out of it. Brendon bites down on a smile as he thinks about Pete and Ashlee and their little-hoodie making business, and Gerard and Frank and Bob and Ray and Mikey making their “inspirational” rock music. Brendon can practically see them already, decked out in black and eyeliner—they’re totally the type to do that; Brendon’s seen Frank on the weekends—and rocking out. And Gerard would probably stop in the middle of concerts, too, to devolve into rambling inspirational speeches with weird metaphors.


The cold October wind blows against Brendon, making him blink, and a newspaper flaps in the breeze on the pavement in front of him. It’s open to the Classfieds page.


Impulsively, Brendon picks it up and scans through it. One entry catches his eye, and he stops walking for a moment to read through it, carefully.


It’s an ad for a teaching position in the local elementary school—for a music teacher. On the bottom, in fine print, it says that it’s sponsored by an nonprofit organization—one of those Keep-Arts-In-School foundations. Brendon stares at it for what feels like long, long minutes, ticking away. His guitar is still sitting in the corner of his closet, where he left it after moving in two years ago. It must be gathering dust by now, strings rusting in the moist Chicago climate, in need of a good tune.


And you need certification to become a teacher. That means classes, and long hours of studying and working. Brendon hated school; he went through college as quickly as possible before slamming into the first job he could find, all to avoid grad school.


But…Brendon bites his lip. Maybe. It’s a maybe.


Slowly, carefully, not daring to think too much about it, Brendon folds the newspaper up into a small square and slides it into his pocket. It feels good there, snug and warm. Like it fits.


A loud squeak startles him, and he jumps as old homeless Annie comes strolling through.


“You still around, boy?” she says, frowning disapprovingly.


“Yeah,” Brendon says, shrugging.


“Did you liquidate all your assets like I told you to?”


“No. But..” he pauses, hesitant, and then thinks to himself, screw it. It’s not like Annie’s telling anyone. “I am thinking about switching professions,” he continues slowly.


“To what?” she asks, beady old eyes studying him closely.


“Elementary school music teacher. I, um. I used to really love music when I was a kid. And I know how to play a few instruments,” Brendon says, smile growing on his face.


“Pfft,” she says. “Kids. They’re little monsters, will drive you up the wall by your second day teaching.”


“Sounds like a plan,” Brendon says, and he grins.


She hmphs at him, and then walks off, wheels of the shopping cart squeaking every three steps.


Brendon walks on, strolling slowly and turning his face into the crisp breeze. He’s almost home when his phone buzzes, and Brendon jumps again, before reaching down to answer it. Caramel macchiato is calling, and Brendon’s heart rate speeds up involuntarily.


“Spencer?” he asks, putting the phone to his ear.


“Hey,” Spencer says. “I was thinking. I know we usually have an office Christmas party, but, like. What about a Halloween party?”


“Already taking advantage of your powers as the new manager?” Brendon teases.


“You know it,” Spencer says without missing a beat. “So? What do you think?”


“I think that sounds fantastic. And we’re totally going in costume,” Brendon informs him.


“In costume?” Spencer says warily.


“I seem to remember you promising to dress up as Princess Leia for me,” Brendon says, and then grins when Spencer groans. “Come on, Mr. Manager,” Brendon wheedles. “You are totally the Princess Leia to my strong, manly Han Solo.”


“I’m not even going to respond to that,” Spencer says, but Brendon can hear the smile in his voice.


“Embrace the truth,” Brendon sing-songs.


“Good bye, Brendon.”


“Bye, Mr. Manager,” Brendon says, smiling.


He laces his hands behind his head and continues walking, whistling to himself. They are totally going to rock the office Halloween party.


Epilogue