Chapter Text
“Welcome back to After Hours, I’m Spence. Tonight’s kind of a chill vibe, at least for now. Feel free to call in and shoot the shit for a while. We’ll be taking calls until 4, and the upside of late night radio is that we can talk about whatever the hell we want to. We’re going to open the line back up in a few minutes, but I’m going to hit you with some Soundgarden first. Here’s The Day I Tried to Live.”
Tommy refuses to admit to anyone at work that he’s been listening to the night show on his own time. It’s become kind of routine the last few weeks for Amanda to put it on while they close, and half of the reason seems to be that Tommy complains about it. He’s never one to deny a bit, so he keeps it up, even though he’s started actually enjoying himself when it’s on, and has actually called in and left a couple requests: Kate Bush and SOPHIE — both of which Spence gave him a hard time for, even if they didn’t actually speak to each other. Spence is, just as Amanda said, a normal guy , but he’s also crazy funny and really smart. He’s always saying something that makes Tommy laugh, making him look like some kind of douchebag fool on his walks home. He doesn’t really mind as much as he probably should, but a big part of that is likely that there are rarely any people around to witness it.
Tonight, Tommy stops in front of a well lit pharmacy, and pulls up the number for the radio station on Google. He stares down at the number for the first half of the song, debating the pros and cons of dialing, and then calls it anyway. It only rings once before an automated system — different from the one that takes the requests — connects and asks him to hold. He doesn’t start walking again until he gets patched through to the board operator, Alex. He’d been hoping Spencer would pick up, but, because he isn’t sure how exactly he works on the show, he’s not quite disappointed yet. Maybe he’s a producer or sound engineer. It’d make sense, he definitely gives the vibe of someone who’d prefer little to no interaction with the public, and, at any rate, he’ll know Tommy called in.
Alex seems super friendly, and Tommy can practically hear their smile through the receiver when they speak. “Thanks for calling into After Hours on 94.3 KLMZ, ” they say brightly, “I'm Alex, can I get your first and last name and a short synopsis of what you’re wanting to talk about?”
“Uh, yeah, hi. I’m Tommy Bowe, I—” okay , so Tommy’s an actual idiot, because what does he want to talk about? He hesitates for a second, but then he says, “I wanted to talk to Spence about, uh, how he got into radio.”
“Tommy?” Alex says and then laughs and says, “well I’ll be damned , okay. There are a couple people queued up before you, so we’ll patch you in in about ten minutes. Spence will introduce you, say “hi,” and then you’re good to go, alright?”
“Alright,” Tommy says, “thank you.”
“No problem,” Alex says, “thanks for participating!”
The hold music is some jazzy rendition of Für Elise, saxophone and drums instead of piano, and Tommy makes it to his apartment before he gets on air. It’s as he’s unlocking his door that Spence starts talking in his ear. “Alright everyone, our next caller is Tommy B. Hi, Tommy, how are you doing tonight?”
“Hi, Spence, I’m doing great — just got home from work. How are you?”
“I’m, uh — holy shit, Tommy? I’m fantastic.”
Tommy laughs, ignores the emphasis on his name, and says, “That’s great, I’m glad to hear it.”
“Yeah,” Spence says, “so what brings you to After Hours tonight?”
“Oh, I was wondering, um,” Tommy closes the door softly behind him and then retrieves his phone from where he’d wedged it between his shoulder and ear to put it on speaker, “how you got into radio in LA , of all places.”
Spence breathes a soft laugh and says, “Kind of a weird choice, huh?”
“I mean, kind of. Most people come here to act or sing or something.”
“Well, what did you come here for? Unless you’re a California native.”
Tommy can’t help the way he smiles, and he shakes his head as he answers, “Well, I wanted to be an actor, but, hey , bartending is what pays the bills.”
“Ah, a young starlet,” Spence teases.
“Shut up,” Tommy laughs as he makes his way into the kitchen and pulls himself up to sit on the counter, “I asked about you.”
“Well, I’m not interesting,” Spence snorts, “You, on the other hand, you’re an interesting guy.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Tommy asks, “I’m just a voice on the phone.”
“And I’m just a voice on the radio.”
Tommy rolls his eyes, “You’re deflecting, and you’re the one with a radio show — both of those things lead me to believe you’re interesting.”
“Touché. Initially I came here to get into directing, but there are a thousand other white guys with Spielberg dreams that get off at LAX every day. Not as many want to be late night DJs.”
“So it was just process of elimination?”
“Basically,” Spence laughs, “and I had a killer recommendation. The station manager couldn’t refuse my wily charm when half the team for Musical Minute went to bat for me.”
“So you’re popular,” Tommy says, “how’d you get saddled with the night show?”
“I’m not appropriate for all ages,” Spence says, “I say ‘fuck.’”
“And we’re all thankful for it,” Tommy replies.
“Aw shucks,” Spence says dryly, “you mean it? ”
“Well I guess I can’t speak for all of Los Angeles, but I’m thankful for it.”
“That means the world, Tommy.”
“Oh I’m sure.”
“Alex is giving me the cue to wrap it up,” Spence groans after a brief moment where he wheezes a laugh, “I hate to cut this short, Tommy, because I’m having so much fun, but call back in on Sunday if you’re feeling chatty.”
“Aye, aye,” Tommy says, “have a great night, Spence. I hope Alex has someone more prepared waiting for you.”
“More prepared?” Spence parrots, “My God, you just wanted to talk to me, didn’t you?”
“What are you going to do? Sue me?” Tommy says, “Bye, Spence.”
“Bye, man,” Spence says, smile in his voice, and then the call switches back to the hold music.
Tommy feels like his skin has been ignited, like his insides are boiling. He’s never interacted with a celebrity crush, even an ultra minor celebrity like Spence is, and it seemed to go really well. It’s still a shock to the senses, and makes his head feel fuzzy. Alex picks up the phone a second later and says, “Okay, this is Tommy, right?”
“That’s me.”
“Thanks for calling in tonight. Spence enjoyed talking to you and we all enjoyed listening. Call back on Sunday or next week if you’d like. Let us know it’s you and we won’t keep you waiting as long, okay? Special instructions from the boss man.”
“You mean Spence?”
“The very same.”
“Wow, so I made a good first impression?”
“First impression,” Alex repeats, amused though Tommy can’t find the joke, “You did great, buddy. Nice to meet you.”
“Yeah, you too,” Tommy says, “thank you.”
“Thank you,” Alex says and then hangs up without any fanfare. The automated voice takes Alex’s place and asks him to leave a review by punching in a number, one through five, to let the station know how it went. He presses five and ends the call, opening his refrigerator door and surveying his dinner options, heat thrumming through his veins.
The house doesn’t seem big enough to contain the amount of people here, but he squeezes inside anyway, scanning wall to wall for any indication he knows anyone in attendance. He really should’ve said thanks but no to coming tonight, but when Amanda asks him for anything he usually obliges. Honestly, he had no idea it’d be this packed. He was used to wrap parties from high school and college, which, sure , had a fair amount of people and a lot of underage drinking, but this was on a completely different level. Throngs of people wall to wall. Cast and crew, partners, friends, and friends of friends. A far cry from the university theater department events or even a good portion of the frat parties he’d gone to. Maybe he should’ve expected it, what with living in one of the cultural hubs of America, but he just… really, really didn’t. It’s not like he’s a wallflower, but it’s hard to feel comfortable enough to be social with this many strangers milling around.
He steps around a pair of blondes with an apology, and they wave him off, laughing, before turning back to their excited conversation. He thinks he might recognize one of them, but, at this point, he’s kind of only looking for Amanda and doesn’t want to think about it. She’s tall enough that he should be able to pick her out fairly quickly, but as he sidesteps another group of people - who all seem ten years younger than him - he spots a makeshift bar, and briefly abandons his search to head that way. Even if he just finds Amanda to congratulate her and head out, he isn’t one to deny free drinks.
The woman at the bar seems frazzled, and the little box for tips isn’t very full, so Tommy shoves a ten inside before he even orders, leaning against the wall nearby to wait while she serves the five people ahead of him. By the time she turns to him, forehead beading with sweat, he’s all but decided he’s going to make a break for it. “Sorry for the wait,” she says, “my partner didn’t show. What can I get for you?”
Tommy’s request dies on his tongue, and he feels himself speaking before he knows what he’s about to offer, “Want me to jump in?”
She frowns and starts to speak, probably to say no, but bristles when she notices there are more people approaching. Her thought process plays out quickly across her features, and then her shoulders slump and she says, “You don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” Tommy says, aware distantly that he really doesn’t. If he can shift into Work Mode, this whole thing will probably end better anyway. He’ll have something to do with his hands, won’t have to engage in meaningless conversation with people he doesn’t know, and will probably find Amanda quicker this way.
He falls into place at her side, and gestures over to one of the party goers in line, “What’re you drinking?”
Together, they make easy work of the queue, sending people away contented with their drinks. Every once in a while, Tommy catches the bartender looking at him from the corner of her eye, but they don’t speak to each other as they pour, mix, and stir orders together. He isn’t sure how long he’s at it — maybe an hour, maybe two — before the line gives way to something much more manageable, and the bartender is able to relax and breathe for a moment. He finishes up with the grasshopper he’d been making, and hands it over to a woman with dark hair. A quick look around the room reveals that most people have a drink in their hand by now, so Tommy rubs at a damp spot on his shirt and steps around to the other side of the bar.
The bartender looks at him with bright eyes for the first time in the night and says, “Thank you so much. I was drowning out here.”
Tommy gives her his least patronizing sympathetic smile, “It’s no problem,” he says, “I know what that’s like.”
She nods, “Can I get you that drink now?”
Tommy lets her make him a gin and tonic, leaning against the front of the bar and digging his phone out of his pocket. There are a couple texts from Amanda letting him know, at first, that she was outside, and then that she was heading in to look for him.
He starts typing a reply, but stops when a hand finds his shoulder and squeezes, “There you are,” Amanda says, pulling him away from the bar to wrap him in a hug. “Where were you hiding?”
“Here,” Tommy says, “I was helping, uh—” he grimaces and looks at the bartender, “I’m so sorry, what was your name?”
“I’m Jackie,” she says passing him his drink, “Sorry, we were so busy I didn’t catch yours either.”
”Tommy,” he says, lifting the glass at her in thanks, “yell if you need me, I’ll be around for a bit.” She smiles and shoots him a thumbs up as Amanda takes his arm and gives her a wave.
“Sorry,” Tommy says as they head back into the crowd, “you weren’t looking for me long, were you?”
“Not really,” Amanda says in that voice that means ‘yeah, but don’t worry.’ Tommy wraps his arm around her middle and lets her steer him outside. “I wanted to introduce you to some people.”
“Oh,” Tommy says, stomach twisting with nerves. He lifts his glass to his mouth and downs most of it in one go. Amanda laughs at him, jutting an elbow out to graze across his ribs.
“This isn’t a set up, you can relax,” she tells him, and Tommy can hear the accompanying eye roll, “I know you’ve already got your sights on someone.”
“I do not,” he argues incredulously.
“Sure, hon,” she teases.
Tommy narrows his eyes and drops her waist and arm simultaneously so she laughs. He starts to defend himself more as he follows her over to a covered area of the patio where several people are perched in lawn chairs around a small enclosed fire pit, but falls silent as they actually cross into the space. He does recognize a couple of the people here, even if he can’t recall their names at the moment. The way they’re looking at him, he kind of assumes the feeling is mutual. Amanda either doesn’t notice or notices too well, and moves right into introductions. “Tommy, this my girlfriend Angela, Chanse, and our set designer Erin.”
“What, I don’t get a fun title?” Chanse asks, feigning hurt.
“Okay, Tommy, this is Chanse, Angela’s boyfriend,” Amanda says, laughing before she can even finish speaking.
Angela laughs, too, and leans over as if she intends to kiss him, and he protests, pushing her away with an exaggerated, “Ew- uh!”
Tommy smiles and sinks into one of the empty chairs, giving Erin a smile when she glances over at him. He recognizes her from earlier in the night. She’d stopped at the bar to collect four drinks, which he can identify in the hands of the others here. “How do you know Amanda?” She asks.
“We work together at Kitchen Sink ,” Tommy tells her, and Erin grins a little wider than he’d expected her to.
“Oh! You’re the bartender I bet,” she says, eyes twinkling with mischief.
Tommy frowns, eyebrows pulling together, and asks, “What?”
“Erin,” Angela says before she can explain. Her voice is heavy with an unspoken warning and when Tommy looks over at her, her expression is creased with something severe and serious. She catches his eye a second later, and her face smooths into something more welcoming. Chanse buries a snort in his drink, and rolls his eyes when Angela shoots him a glare.
“Okay,” Tommy says with a raised brow, “uh, congratulations, you guys. The show was really great. I’m sad I only saw it the one time.”
“Aw,” Amanda says, “I’m just glad you got to see it. I was fully prepared to raise hell with Ian if he didn’t let you off for it tonight.”
“Thank you,” Tommy says, pushing a hand to his chest and batting his eyes at her. She shoves at him playfully. He turns to face more of the group and says, “Seriously, it made me miss performing.”
“You should come by and audition for something,” Angela says, waving her hand between the two of them, something splashes from her glass and she looks mournfully at the drops it leaves on the pavement between their feet. “We haven’t started anything for the next one yet, but ‘Manda can totally fill you in on details when we get closer,” she goes on, drawing her eyes back up and smiling at him. She sips at her drink, and follows Chanse up with her eyes as he stands.
“Anyone need a refill?” He asks.
Erin swallows the rest of hers and gets to her feet as well, “I’ll join you.”
“I think Ang and I are done for the night,” Amanda says, hint of amusement in her voice.
“Tommy?” Chanse asks, pointing at him with his empty glass.
“Sure,” he says, starting to stand. Escape route forming in his mind like a sweet reprieve. He can get another drink, see if the bartender needs any more help, and then take off with an apologetic smile to the two people he heads in with. It’s perfect, he couldn’t have done better if he planned it. Before he’s all the way up, Amanda tugs on his sleeve and pulls him back down.
“He’s probably drinking the most basic thing they have,” Amanda says over her shoulder to Chanse, “just get him a vodka cran or something.”
“Excuse you,” Tommy says to her, and then, directing his attention behind her, “Sorry, I’m coming.”
“No,” Amanda says, and eyes his drink for about half a second, “it’s a gin and tonic.”
Chanse cackles and says, “You got it,” and, by the time Tommy looks away from Amanda again, Erin and Chanse are across the yard.
“Amanda, come on,” Tommy says and she pokes her tongue out at him.
“Last time you went in there you literally started working. I’m not letting you out of my sight,” she says.
”Gross,” Angela adds, “working on your night off? Gross.”
Tommy sighs, “She needed help. There were like ten people in three minutes and she’s all by herself.”
“Who’s going to pay you?” Amanda asks.
“That’s so not the point,” Tommy says, fully aware that Amanda knows this and is likely just trying to get a rise out of him.
Angela just grins and takes another drink, beckoning over someone behind Tommy. He wants to twist around to look, especially when Amanda raises her eyes over his head and they crinkle with a smile, but he doesn’t, fully aware that the only people he’ll be able to recognize are with him right now.
“Hey,” Angela says, “was Alex super upset they had to go to work?”
“Nah,” the person — a guy, apparently — says at Tommy’s shoulder. Despite himself, Tommy flinches at the proximity, and tilts his head back to look. It’s… fuck… it’s Spencer . Maybe he should’ve pieced that together when he heard Alex and work in the same sentence, but he didn’t , and now he’s gaping up at the man — eyes wide. Spencer blinks down at him, looks over at Angela, and then settles into the seat Chanse had abandoned. The one directly across from Tommy. Jesus . He’s dressed in all black, hair pent up under a baseball cap with white embroidery along the crown that says, of all fucking things, daddy. Spencer must catch him looking — because of course he does, he’s right across from him — and he shifts in his seat, crossing his legs and raising an eyebrow. "They took it like a champ,” Spencer tells Angela, eyes moving over to her suspiciously.
“They’re better than me,” Angela says, “if I had to go to work and Amanda got to hang out without me, I’d be pissed.” Amanda starts to say something, but Angela flaps a hand in her face and says, “Not at you.”
“I don’t think Alex is happy with Anthony, but a few hours is better than nothing,” Spencer says.
“Not our Anthony?” Tommy asks Amanda quietly, trying very hard not to draw Spencer’s attention again. The odds are low, but — as he’s started to figure out with the insane overlap between his friend group and the radio station — never zero.
“Yeah,” Amanda says, either missing or outright ignoring his vie for privacy, “he’s the station manager at KLMZ. I thought you knew that.”
“No way,” Tommy says, “Is everyone in Los Angeles obsessed with dying media formats suddenly?”
Spencer breaks the tense, transient moment of silence by laughing openly. Curling in on himself enough to earn an endearing look that Tommy definitely does not allow himself to give. Amanda and Angela join in, and he feels like he’s missed the real joke, able only to laugh at the absurdity of the situation he finds himself in. "It’s not exactly sudden,” Amanda says, “he and Ian did the morning show for like six years before Shayne and Damien took over.”
“Seriously?” Tommy asks, leaning forward in his seat. “I’ve known Ian for five years and he’s never mentioned it.”
“Seriously,” Spencer says, “there’s this awful poster of them in the office. Probably why he didn’t mention it.”
“I’m going to need to see that,” Tommy says, pointing at Spencer and receiving a wide smile in return.
“I’ll get a picture for you,” Spencer says around another laugh.
“That’s perfect blackmail for a night off,” Amanda tells them, clinking her glass with Tommy’s.
“I’ll owe you one, bub,” Tommy says and finishes his drink. He thinks back to Jackie at the bar, and wonders if he should go see if she needs anything.
Before he can voice this to anyone, he hears Erin, behind them, say, “Oh, good, he’s back!”
“Dude ,” Chanse says to Spencer, passing Tommy a fresh glass, “you stole my spot.”
Spencer raises both eyebrows in challenge and says, “Take it back.”
Chanse just heaves a resigned sigh, and squishes into the same chair as Angela, chorusing, “ Move, bitch, ” until she shifts enough for them to be nestled in comfortably. Or, at least, as comfortably as two fully grown humans can be in a single lawn chair. Erin takes her seat next to Tommy again and shoots him an intriguing kind of smile, halfway between a smirk and a grin.
“What?” He asks her, letting the corner of his mouth lift in a half smile at the expression on her face.
She starts to say something, but Angela talks over her, shooting a look between Erin and Spencer accusingly as she does. “Any insight on what the show will be for the next quarter?”
The rest of the conversation passes with relative ease, over the course of an hour and a half, and Tommy lavishes every laugh he’s able to draw from the little crowd around him. It’s nice. Fun, even. Something small and prideful settles in his chest and he realizes he’s glad he stayed. Glad he got to properly meet Angela and Chanse. Glad Erin keeps explaining their inside jokes quietly, like she wants him to feel involved. Very glad Spencer keeps catching his eye and offering him soft smiles.
Tommy leaves with the rest of them, letting himself shrink to the back of the pack as they head inside. He glances toward Jackie at the bar as they pass her and she waves at him with a kind smile that he matches as Amanda reaches for him with her free hand without turning to look. As if she has this superpower that lets her know what he’s thinking. He follows them outside, and, only then, does Amanda drop his hand. They disembark the stairs, Erin leading the way, Chanse dragging Angela behind him while she drags Amanda behind her. Spencer had been side by side with Angela until they hit the stairs, and, now, Amanda is pushing herself between the two of them, stooping to say something quietly to Angela that makes her laugh. Spencer falters slightly, stepping back and bumping into Tommy.
“Shit,” he says, “uh, sorry.”
“No worries,” Tommy assures as Spencer lurches down a step so he’s not as close.
The group of them spill out onto the sidewalk and start down it as a conglomerate force. Spencer doesn’t head back up to Angela’s side like Tommy had assumed he would, rather he wedges his hands into his jacket pockets and keeps pace with Tommy. He moves his arm until his bent elbow jabs at Tommy’s forearm and he looks over. “How are you getting home?” He asks and Tommy, God bless him, just blinks in response. Spencer’s eyes are curious but nonjudgmental, and he lifts his eyebrows at Tommy’s hesitance. “You aren’t planning on driving, are you?” Well, he was . He wasn’t actually drunk. Not even tipsy. He’d only had two drinks over three hours. Spencer frowns and elbows him again, “I’ll drive you.”
“What?” Tommy blurts and Spencer actually stops walking to turn and face him fully. Now maybe a little judgmental. “I mean,” Tommy wets his lips and ignores the way Spencer’s eyes follow the motion, “I’m not drunk. I can drive.”
Spencer looks at him dubiously and huffs, “Okay but I wouldn’t forgive myself if you’re just a good liar.” Tommy barks an unexpected laugh, bending forward slightly with the force of it. Some of the stress seems to melt away from Spencer’s expression. Eyes softening. Frown evening out into bemused neutrality. “I’ve got Amanda’s van,” he says while Tommy composes himself. He starts walking again, jerking his head to get Tommy to follow him toward the huddle of his friends that have moved ahead of them now. “It’s no problem if you want a ride.”
He almost says yes, but then remembers his vehicle. Well, Courtney’s vehicle. Arguably worse. “What about my car?” Tommy asks and Spencer glances over at him, removing a hand from his pocket to push up his glasses.
“Uh,” he says eloquently, and Tommy just smiles at him.
He makes an ‘X’ over his heart, holds up a hand, and says, “I promise I’m not drunk. If you want to do a field sobriety test, I’ll humor you.”
Spencer laughs this time and tucks his hand back in place, glancing up at the group waiting at a crosswalk — presumably for them. “Okay,” he says, putting on a voice that seems too sarcastic to be genuine displeasure, “fine. Have it your way this time.”
Tommy rolls his eyes and says, in a similarly put out voice, “Thank you.”
Spencer shoots him a crooked smile, “Where are you parked?”
“Why? You planning on walking me over?” Tommy asks, shooting for teasing but landing somewhere too sincere.
Spencer notices and his face flushes, which, huh , not what he expected. He’s saved from speaking, although it really didn’t look like he was going to say anything at all, by Amanda. She turns and wags a finger at them, “Tommy, quit tormenting him.”
“Tormenting? ” Tommy challenges playfully, “we’re just chatting.”
“Shooting the shit,” Spencer agrees with a wave of his hand. Amanda looks between the two of them, eyebrows furrowed for a second before she grins and her whole face brightens. Tommy wonders what she finds just looking at them to make her so goddamn pleased, but Spencer severs the thought by squeezing past her and saying, “Shut up.” Amanda doesn’t look any less proud of herself, but she lets him go toward Chanse without saying a word.
“Do you need a ride?” Angela asks him from beside Amanda, “Spencer doesn’t mind taking you home.”
“Gee,” Spencer says, without turning toward any of them, “did you ask Spencer that?”
Tommy laughs again and lets Amanda wrap an arm around his shoulders. “He really doesn’t,” she says.
“I know,” Tommy tells her, following the herd as they cross the street toward the lot they’d apparently all paid eight dollars to park in. “He offered already. I’m okay to drive, I didn’t drink much because I knew I’d need to take the car back.”
”Since when did you get wheels?” Amanda asks, and, ahead of them, Tommy sees Spencer’s movements stiffen like he’s… well, offended wouldn’t be the right word. Hurt, maybe? Surprised? Whatever it is, it’s enough that Chanse, where he’d been hanging off of Spencer’s arm, falters and almost trips.
“Courtney lent me theirs for the night,” he says, pitching his voice a little louder so Spencer can hear easily, “She’s a life saver. I missed the bus on the way to the show.”
“Oh,” Amanda says, “I’ll have to thank her.” She pats Tommy’s arm and pulls away from him as they cross into the lot.
The group begins to separate from Tommy as they move among the lines of cars. He’s parked on the opposite end, further from the house because he showed up after the party was in full swing, electing to call the bar and make sure they were okay. Court really did save his ass with the car — yet another occasion to add to the tally — he’d only had to wait as long as it took for them to drive to the bus stop, Shayne following behind in his own vehicle. She’d pressed a kiss to his cheek, handed him the keys, and hopped in the passenger side of Shayne’s car with a wave. It was strikingly similar to what his mom had done when he’d first gotten his license fifteen years ago, right down to driving across town to a theater. He’d have to remember to mention that to Courtney. He pulls the key ring from his pocket as they approach Amanda’s Chrysler.
“It was nice seeing you guys,” Tommy says with a wave as Erin, Chanse, and Angela pile into the vehicle. They all chorus their goodbyes, Amanda wrapping him in a hug after she pulls open the front passenger door. Tommy smiles at her, and gives Spencer an extra wave of his fingers while he closes the door behind Angela. He starts to turn away, stopping only when a hand closes on his wrist.
“Wait,” Spencer says, and when Tommy lifts his eyes from his hand to his face, he lets go and shuffles back a step, pointing for Amanda to roll her window down. “I’m going to make sure he gets there alright,” he tells her, and Tommy doesn’t hear her reply, because Angela’s laughing too loudly. When Spencer moves back to him, he rolls his eyes and takes the lead, gesturing for Tommy to join him, as if he knows where the Fiat’s waiting. Tommy politely steers him in the correct direction with a small tap on his upper arm.
“You don’t actually have to walk me over, you know,” Tommy says.
Spencer doesn’t look up at him as he answers, “I said I would, didn’t I?”
”Well, technically ,” Tommy says, pointing at himself, “ I said you would.”
Spencer huffs a laugh, almost like he’s annoyed or something, “All the more reason, right?”
“I,” Tommy isn’t exactly sure, but the pause is enough for Spencer to actually glance over, one eyebrow arched, “I guess.”
For some reason, that makes Spencer smile. It’s this easy, free look that rounds his cheeks and makes his eyes go squinty. It’s fantastic . A top contender for Best Smiles Tommy’s Seen. Steadily passing Molly Shannon, Ian, and Damien in one fell swoop. It’s absurd. Alarming. It makes something under Tommy’s skin lurch wildly, like a stumbling animal grappling for purchase. He tightens his grip on the keys.
The Fiat emerges into view, and Spencer makes a quiet sound of recognition. He’s been to Court’s place several times now, so he must recognize it from the parking garage, even before Tommy pulls his head out of his ass enough to say, “There it is.”
Spencer stops walking at the bumper of the car, and lets Tommy get to the driver's door and unlock it before he says anything. His voice is softer than it’s been all night, likely because of the volume at the party, but it still makes a raw feeling claw up Tommy’s throat, “It was nice getting to talk to you tonight.”
”Yeah,” Tommy says. He thinks he might’ve just whispered . Which is insane . They’re three feet from each other and completely alone. “I thought you’d be working,” he tells him, “I’m glad I got to see you.”
Spencer swallows thickly, and, for a fleeting second, Tommy doesn’t know if he’s about to kiss him or cry. He doesn’t do either. “Are you going to Shayne’s tomorrow night?”
Tommy smiles and says, “Definitely. I’m half responsible for Sunday game night.”
“Really?”
“Court and I started them when we lived together,” Tommy says, “it’s tradition.”
Spencer nods, face steady and smile vacant. Tommy wonders what he’d have to do to coax it back out. “I, uh… Shayne invited me again, but I wasn’t sure if I should go.”
“Why shouldn’t you?” Tommy asks, raising an eyebrow. He’d been to the last four, so it seemed like common sense he’d be at the next. “You’re our friend.” Spencer looks a little taken aback by that, which, okay , rude, but he doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Long enough that if Tommy was any of the four people trapped in that van, he’d be emerging to see what the hold up is. “Okay,” Tommy says, closing the distance between them and trying not to get too bent out of shape when Spencer sways back a bit. He pushes through it and claps him on the shoulder. “Consider this your formal and standing invitation to join us anytime you want.”
“Uh,” Spencer breathes, and Tommy can pretty much hear that smile just begging to break through again, “okay. Thanks, Tommy.” He reaches up and pats the hand on his shoulder, letting his fingers linger on Tommy’s knuckles.
“Of course,” he says warmly, trying to conjure Spencer’s smile at will, “thanks for making sure I got here safely.”
Spencer’s face flushes and it’s more noticeable under the streetlights here than it had been on the sidewalk just minutes earlier. “I don’t know how much I had to do with it. You’re, what , six feet? I’m lousy protection,” he drops his hand, so Tommy takes his back, too.
“Safety in numbers,” Tommy tells him, lifting a shoulder, “but now you have to walk back alone.”
“Unfortunately it’s an endless cycle,” Spencer says, ducking his head and putting his hands in his pockets. Tommy laughs, and is surprised by the affection he identifies in it.
“You want a ride over?” Tommy asks before he can think better of it.
He immediately gets rewarded when Spencer laughs, “Why not?” He grins, coming around the side of the vehicle and opening the door. It’s a heartstopping thing. Wide and bright, forcing his eyes nearly closed with the size of it. He replaces himself at the top of Tommy’s list.
Tommy hates driving the Fiat. Hates the way he has to contort to get inside. The way he feels smashed into place even in the front with the seat all the way back. He’s glad for it now. Appreciative of the confines as long as Spencer’s at his side, arms so close they brush together over the gear shift when Tommy moves to put it in reverse. He drives appropriately, fighting back the temptation to go too slow and savor this, or too fast to make him laugh. He stops a few rows down, parking just behind Amanda’s van. When he looks over, Spencer’s eyes are already on him.
“Thanks for making sure I got here safely,” he says without skipping a beat.
Tommy smiles at him, wheezing a soft laugh, “I don’t know how much I had to do with it. I’m driving a Fiat, it’s lousy protection.”
Spencer laughs, leaning slightly across the center console, and Tommy’s breath catches in his throat. He tilts his face down just enough so that, if he wants to, Spencer can kiss him. He looks like he wants to. Tommy wishes he would. He follows the path Spencer’s eyes take with his own. Feels his lips part when his gaze moves from his nose to his mouth. Feels blood thrum from his throat to his face when Spencer takes a deep, almost steadying, breath. He doesn’t close the distance. Neither of them do. Tommy meets his eyes again when they flicker up, dark and wide and almost expectant.
“Goodnight, Tommy,” he says, voice exceptionally soft. Breath beating out to cover the inches between his mouth and Tommy’s throat.
Tommy swallows, wets his lips, and shivers when Spencer watches, “Goodnight.”
“Okay look, this entire week so far has been a nightmare, and I woke up late today so I have fuck all prepared. I’m going to play a couple songs I like when I’m moping, and try to figure out something to talk about, okay? If I can’t think of anything and Alex can’t think of anything, we’ll probably open up the call-in line and make you guys do the work. First up, here’s Break Stuff by the one and only Limp Bizkit. Fun fact, if I’m sleep deprived enough I can pull off an immaculate Fred Durst impression. Shit, maybe you’ll get to hear it tonight.”
Tommy glances away from the skillet on the stove to squint at the stereo. Spence usually has such a polished presence on air, well , polished for late night radio. Since he’s been listening, Tommy can’t think of a single time he’s tuned in and heard him in such a shitty mood. It’s a little alarming but, at the same time, a little reassuring because this week has been shitty and it’s only Tuesday. He, at least, has been lucky enough to get the night off from Ian. Game night on Sunday had been cancelled because Court had kind of a cold, so his week was off to a horrible start, and he’d been unable to get any plans together in time to stave off a world class spiral. He’d called it an early night, trying to bury himself in sleep, and spent almost six hours tossing and turning just thinking. Nothing in particular on his mind, just good old fashioned depression rearing its ugly head. Rest had been essentially nonexistent. Monday was almost as bad and he’d taken himself on a fucking jog to escape the claustrophobic cloisters of his mind in the the morning, and in the afternoon went to a dispensary to stock up enough to smoke himself into a coma. Today, he’d woken up on the “wrong side of the bed,” according to Ian, when he called to ask for the night off, and has laid in said bed for most of the day, only rolling out an hour ago to check his mail without any of his neighbors being around to say ‘hi’ to. He turns back to the pan a few bars into the song, and nods along to it — ironically, he swears.
He’s pretty much done with dinner by the time Spence comes back over the speakers, and he finishes plating it as he speaks. “Alright guys, that was Weezer with Why Bother? and then Demons by, a personal favorite of mine, Sleigh Bells. Alex suggested doing a Resident Evil tier list, but I need a bit to get my thoughts in order about it, so we are going to open up the line for calls. You guys can feel free to offer your opinions about it and, you know, just hang out with me — hell, give me a song request if the spirit strikes you. Sorry for the rough start to the show and for being so unorganized. I promise, I’m going to try to get myself in gear, okay? I appreciate ya. Right now I’ve got another one queued up for you, get dialing, here’s Built to Spill, Twin Falls.” Tommy looks up from his plate, and looks over at the radio again, eyes squinted in confusion and recognition. He—he actually likes this one.
It kind of informed his music taste in high school. He’d heard it in a little beachfront store in Orlando during summer vacation one year when he was like 13. It had been this trendy, off-kilter boutique on Cocoa Beach. All but entirely empty except for the sole employee, wearing cheap pink sugar perfume and a pair of modified Vans. He’d been attached at the hip to his best friend at the time, barefoot and sunburned and laughing, and they’d wandered from each shop hand in hand. Tommy was head over heels. They had been friends for years. Had met the summer before second grade at the pool. Turns out they lived three blocks away. Tommy had begged his parents, to the point of tears and bribery, to include him in the trip to Orlando after so many years as fixtures in each other's homes. The funky, alt store was out of place among the surf shops and massive Ron Jons dotting the coastline.
It just made sense it’d be their favorite store. Enamel pins and stacks of CDs, long sleeved linen shirts, and not a swimsuit, beach towel or plastic flip flop in sight. Tommy had buried them in an aisle combing through clearance racks of posters — “ posters , on the beach ,” Tommy had been so impressed . They surveyed the store together, each shelf scoured, and selected pinback buttons for each other. At the register, the cashier counted their change back humming to the song playing on the CD player; it was clear she lugged it back and forth each day. They made their way to the front door, and Tommy hadn’t even asked, hadn’t even looked up from the Fall Out Boy button in his hand, but he kissed him on the cheek and then tugged him back to the waves. Tommy kept some lyrics in his head until they got back to the motel room where he was able to scribble what he remembered down on paper. When they got back to Palm Beach, he went to the library and searched the song lyrics on one of the four computers. He’d had to wait half an hour. He found the name of the album, and saved his allowance for three weeks to afford the CD at a local, discount music store.
Two weeks before summer break ended, just days before open house at the high school where they’d get their schedules for freshman year, he’d called Tommy in tears. He was moving. Next weekend. His parents had apparently been looking at houses in Pensacola for a month now, moving closer to ailing parents — and had closed on a nice one that day. They’d sat him down and told him, and the first thing he’d done was call to tell Tommy. When the moving van pulled away, Tommy was there, waving, trying his best not to cry. They called back and forth the first few months but then the school year started amping up, and they were freshmen . The calls turned to texts, and then by Christmas, even those had pretty much stopped. It was as natural as anything. As heartbreaking and manageable as any lost friend. Tommy hasn’t thought of him in years, but he thinks he still has that CD somewhere.
Tommy stands up from the couch and goes to sit on the floor in front of the bookshelf. Gazing up at the stereo although the song’s almost over. Spence will be back on soon, and he’s eager to listen to the callers tonight. Spence must be seriously frustrated to be talking calls impromptu like this because, every Sunday and Wednesday, he kind of makes a sarcastically snide comment about the segment. Honestly, Tommy kinda has the feeling Spence doesn’t like it, even if he does a great job.
“Okay everyone, thanks for picking up my slack tonight, we’ve got Paula M. on the line right now. Paula, how are you tonight?” Paula’s doing great, apparently. She’s a regular caller who works overnights in a warehouse and took her fifteen minute break early tonight to call in and help Spence fill the void. They chat back and forth for a while about different underrated bands, and then she leaves with a request for a Ween song that has Spence groaning through her laughter for the last forty seconds of the call. “Okay, Paula, you win — I’m gonna get tweets ‘nd shit about this for days, but here’s Mollusk.” The call disconnects, the song starts up, and this is out of the ordinary for the segment. Seems like they’re actually aching for content tonight, and it leaves a bad taste in Tommy’s mouth, makes him feel, like, genuinely pretty bad for Spence. If there’s one thing Tommy can sympathize with, especially this week, it’s interrupting routines.
Tommy stands and washes his dishes, only half paying attention to the next couple of callers. It isn’t until he’s drying them that he makes up his mind and decides to call. They’d asked him to a few weeks ago, and he never got around to it. He heads to the bookshelf and turns the radio down to a whisper. The last thing he needs is Spence hearing the show in the background and giving him hell for it. Tommy flops down onto the couch again, kicking his feet up on the oblong ottoman he’d picked up second hand a few months back. He doesn’t have to look up the number for the station anymore, but has the extension for After Hours written out in the notes on his phone — just in case.
“Thanks for calling into After Hours on 94.3 KLMZ,” Alex says when the call has connected. They, like Spence, sound like they’re going through it tonight, “I'm Alex, can I get your first and last name and a short synopsis of what you’re wanting to talk about?”
"Hi,” Tommy says, “It’s Tommy Bowe. I guess I just wanted to see if I could cheer Spence up a little.”
“Tommy? Hey!” Alex says, “Good to hear from you again, man. I bet you’re just the thing he needs tonight.”
“I’ll do my best,” Tommy says, and Alex laughs.
“I believe in you,” they say, “Give me a sec to move some calls around and I’ll have you patched through in a couple minutes. Some routine as last time. I’ll connect you, he’ll say hi, and then you’re live.”
"Got it, thanks, Alex,” Tommy says, picking at the seam of his pants.
“No problem,” Alex says and then puts him on hold.
He knows it’s stupid and unnecessary, but he adjusts on the couch. Moves his feet to the floor. Sits a little straighter. Takes a deep breath. He wants to be prepared, and that’s hard to do when it’s an improvised, live conversation with someone who — by all accounts — could probably have a successful career in comedy if he wanted. The call connects and then Spence is talking again, close to his ear, voice clearer than it is over the radio. There’s something familiar about it, and Tommy chalks it up to too much After Hours listening. Maybe he should reconnect with some albums.
“Okay, next in line here is Tommy B., thanks for calling in, and on a Tuesday night, no less. Hi, buddy, how’s it going?”
“Hey, Spence,” Tommy says, “I wanted to give you some reassurance that you aren’t the only one having a shitty week.”
“Oh, damn, I’m sorry to hear you’re having a bad time, man. Is work kicking your ass? What’s going on?”
“Hey,” Tommy says, “that’s my line.” Spence huffs a laugh, “And, no, I actually called out tonight. I’m just dealing with some mental shit, needed a pick me up and it sounds like you did too.”
“I appreciate that,” Spence says, sounding more genuine than Tommy thinks he should, “maybe we can help each other out. Have any thoughts on Resident Evil?”
“Other than that Lady D gives me gender envy? No, not really,” Tommy says, delighting when Spence laughs, “but I have some thoughts about the show.”
“Oh, great,” Spence sighs, “hit me.”
“I think a Fred Durst impression would go a long way with your listeners.”
Spence blurts another laugh and Tommy grins into the solitude of his apartment. He feels like he’s got to be earning points with Alex, because Spence sounds a hell of a lot more relaxed now than he did before the call. “ Sorry ,” Spence says, “no fuckin’ dice, man. I’m not that hard up for ideas.”
“Bummer,” Tommy says, “guess I’ll have to wait patiently.”
“Be prepared to wait a long time,” Spence says, “it’s a party trick. ”
“Oh, yeah, you’re a real party animal, aren’t you?”
“I don’t think you’d find anyone in LA who’d call me a party animal, Tommy.”
“More of a wallflower?”
Spence laughs again, “You could say that. You, though, seem like you’re a great time at parties.”
“I’ve been known to dabble,” Tommy says, “if the vibes are right.”
“What qualifies the right vibe?”
“Thirty or less people, drugs and alcohol — like a degenerate — and electronic hyperpop, obviously .”
“Oh , obviously,” Spencer says dramatically, “invite me sometime. When the vibes are right, of course.”
“Of course,” Tommy laughs, rolling his eyes, “And how am I supposed to do that? Swing by the station and knock on the door?”
Spence snorts, “Something like that, sure. Circling back to electronic hyperpop, I have to ask. What’s the appeal of this show? You’ve asked me for SOPHIE before, so I get the feeling my dad rock and 90s music is not your speed.”
“Well, okay, that’s true. If it were up to me, there’d be decidedly less scunge—”
Spence laughs, “Scunge? Bro, what— ”
“But the appeal is the hosting,” Tommy continues, like Spence hadn’t said anything. “You’ve got a certain talent for this.”
“For yapping? Thank you, king,” he says, sounding amused and maybe a little flattered, “You’re not so bad at it yourself. ”
“Rest assured, you’ve got job security. I’d rather die than have your responsibilities.”
“Aren’t you a bartender? Isn’t that worse? ”
“I’m a mixologist,” Tommy says, pretending like Spence has committed a great offense.
“So drunk people and fruity drinks? Whee. ”
“Hey, I’ve got stories,” Tommy says.
“I’ll bet. Save some up and share them sometime,” Spence says, “entertain the masses.”
Tommy grins and breathes a laugh, “You got it.”
“Alright man, I’ll see you around. Thanks for calling in, it was good talking to you again.”
“Thanks, Spence,” he says and then the hold music fades into his ear.
When Alex comes back, they say, “Tommy, we might have to add you to the payroll. We got six more callers while you were talking wanting to beg him for Fred Durst and talk about their party tricks.”
Tommy barks a laugh, “Happy to help. I’ll be keeping my fingers crossed he whips out the impression.”
“Hey, you and me both,” Alex laughs, “it’s been a while since I’ve heard it. Call back whenever, man, it was good to hear from you.”
“Thanks, Alex — have a good rest of the show.”
“Thanks, dude,” Alex says and then the automated voice asks Tommy to rate his experience. He does and then hangs up, heading for the stereo so he can turn the volume back up.
Spence is talking again, to a guy with a nasally voice, and Tommy flops onto the couch, content, pulling his feet up on one side and putting his head on the other. He pulls the afghan from the back of the couch and covers his chest with it, closing his eyes and settling in to listen to the show. He’ll lay here all night if he wants to. He doesn’t have anywhere else to be, and every once in a while Spence laughs in his ear.