Chapter Text
The bar was…unchanged. The vines still wrapped around the beams supporting the balcony and the music loud enough that it leaks through the tinted windows and pounds in your chest.
Its so familiar in a way that makes his chest tighten. The phantom feeling of glitter on his cheeks and long nails dancing down his arm forming goosebumps that threaten to crawl their way up and up until he looked like a Moon Valley.
“Pretty boy, you got your head in the clouds again?” Morgan asks with a nudge of his elbow, jerking Spencer out of his nostalgia. With a clearing of his throat, Spencer responds “No- nope, just thinking back.” Morgan chuckles at his words with a nod. “Upside of a perfect memory, huh?” and Spencer hums, nothing committal, and that seems to satisfy Morgans desire to banter.
Quickly after, Morgan crosses the threshold into the bar first, his crisp shirt standing out almost painfully under the neon lights that quickly consume him and gleam off his head, and its nearly comedic how silently frazzled his expression is. JJ follows behind, her black blouse absorbing the lights like a dark shadow, and Prentiss throws a glance over her shoulder back at Spencer, eyes glinting in silent concern for some reason Spencer can’t figure out, but he responds with a small smile and a nod, and similarly with Morgan, it settles some internal conflict she seemed to have.
Spencer pauses once his foot meets the threshold, the bordering on overwhelming smell of a vast mix of perfumes a blast from the past that he’d never been expecting to smell again, he can tell Prentiss catches his moments hesitation, the way her steps linger for a moment before he crosses over, the tap tap tap of his oxfords against the tacky floor.
“So,” Morgan starts after clearing his throat, clearly unsure for once on how to handle the situation - being a womanizer doesn’t help when you’re in a lesbian bar - “How do we want to handle this?” Spencer can tell Prentiss and JJ are amused at Morgans poorly hidden frazzledness, before Prentiss speaks. “Well, you probably shouldn’t be our front-man,” JJ grins before attempting to hide it behind her hand in an attempt to spare Morgan any more humiliation.
“We should let Spence handle the bartender, she’ll probably be more receptive to him since he’s less, well, macho - no offense,” JJ suggests. “None taken,” He responds, forcing down an amused smile because, well, JJ wasn’t wrong, the bartender would probably be more receptive to him compared to the other three, just not in the way the team was probably expecting.
He couldn’t explain how it was easier for lesbians to find each other, he never had an explanation for why he could do it despite his best efforts to figure it out - now his best guess is some behavioral trait that can only be detected subconsciously. At least the team seem to have come up with their own ideas as to why the bartender will probably be more receptive to him, which is good for him, because that’s one less thing he needs to be concerned about outing him.
“JJ and I can take the more girly ones, I think it’d be best if you-” Prentiss starts, nodding to Morgan. “Took the more masculine girls, probably lead to less mess,” She finishes, and Morgan makes a vague noise of agreement before grinning at Spencer, walking around JJ to clap him on the shoulder.
“Good luck, pretty boy.”
The bartender was very obviously Femme, that’s the first thing Spencer notices as he approaches: hot pink hair messily held up by a claw clip, a deep glittering pink decorating her eyes and lips in an artfully messy way, a short leopard-print dress covered by a long black fur coat, and finally a fluffy pen resting behind her ear.
He can tell the minute he slides into a seat that she’s already sussed them out as outsiders, hazel eyes flickering between where Morgan, JJ, and Prentiss have split up, eyes lingering on Morgan with an edge that quickly shifts to him, eyes narrowed as she - Sylvie, her name tag reads- gives him a quick once-over before fishing out a small notebook, edges tinged with a yellow that only comes with age and grabs her pen from where it sits.
“Well, don’t you look like trouble in tweed, what’ll it be, professor?” She asks, not clipped but clearly not a fan of what, from her perspective, looks to be another straight man. Spencer doesn’t blame her, it was pretty standard behavior in The Rusty Anchor; Never outright rude but making it clear who the bar was meant for.
“Club soda, with lime, please,” The orders simple, Spencer’s not here for a hangover or to get in trouble for drinking on the job, but he still habitually places a $5 dollar bill on the counter before Sylvie even turns to grab a glass, something apparently strange enough now to get her to arch a brow before she turns to fill it up, the steps methodical and well-practiced.
Her glittery pink lips twitch with amusement as she places the glass down, leaning in close enough to be toeing the line of appropriate behavior. “You know this isn’t the kinda place guys come for a soda water, right?” She asks, he sees through the true intentions easily - trying to fish for whether he’s a clueless straight man, law enforcement, or whether he gets it, it wasn’t uncommon for gay men to wander in when he was in college, normally with their lesbian friends, though it could’ve changed in the last 8 years.
He knows over explaining would only set off her alarm bells, so he opts for something simpler. “I’m here for answers,” Spencer says, not phased by her stand-offish attitude before he softens his voice, he didn’t need to whole bar overhearing.
“But you probably knew that the moment I walked up.”
Sylvie smirks, leaning back for a moment to grab a bar rag - easy way of looking busy, smart - before leaning on the counter, arms crossed. “Smart boy, so… Feds, yeah? Or am I supposed to guess professor was closer?” She asks, still on edge but more comfortable than she was a moment ago, and Spencer gives a half-smile. “Depends which one gets me the answers I need.”
She gives him a look at that, eyes narrowing not in suspicion but in curiosity this time, leaning forward as she lowers her voice. “You act like someone who learned how,” She remarks, casual in a way only possible inside the bar. He feels a flicker of surprise at how quickly she seemed to catch on, or maybe she’d known from the moment he walked in but ignored it because being a cop always outweighed whatever identity someone had, but he offers a small smile nonetheless.
“Yeah, something like that.” He can tell the second her guard drops, recognition sparkling in her eyes, and internally he lets out a relieved sigh, questioning was easier when the person wasn’t as on guard.
“You’ve got eyes on everyone who comes through that door,” He says quietly, like he’s asking a question rather than stating a fact, but Sylvie just keeps the smirk on her face.
“Occupational hazard,” She jokes, picking up a glass from under the bar to ‘clean it’. “Though I doubt you’d be surprised by what people tell a bartender,” She finishes, lips twitching with a smile. “I’d be surprised if you didn’t already know why we’re here,” He tosses back, and Sylvie’s eyes narrow, painted lips pressing into a line.
“You see everyone who comes in and everyone who leaves, you know when new people show up and who watches without engaging. I’m not accusing, I’m asking because women are getting hurt,” He presses, the internal conflict clear on her face before she sighs.
“Your friends are out stepping on toes, makes people nervous.” She tosses a nod towards one of them, and when Spencer turns his head he can see its Morgan, clearly fumbling the questions, and he turns back around with a nod of his own.
“I noticed. That’s why I came to you. I don’t want to make anyone nervous, we just want to keep them safe,” He concedes, and Sylvie snorts, rolling her eyes before looking back at him, the background chatter and clinks in the background filling the empty space.
“Safe, huh?” She says, voice edged sharp with sarcasm. “Safety doesn’t usually come from wearing a badge.” And Spencer can’t argue with that, he'd been the 16, 17, 18 year old butch who'd been taught when which streets had the most cops and which you could rely on to not get touchy even if they were assholes, so he offers a half-nod, and that seems to ease some of the tension that’d exploded back.
“You’re different,” She finally continues.
“Guess I know the rules.” That drags a snort out of her, finally placing down the glass she was cleaning as she leans on her elbows, silence lingering between them before she finally breaks it.
“Alright, professor. There’s a guy, not one of ours. Comes in, orders one thing, and just watches, the wrong kind of watching. Gives me a bad feeling, he tries too hard to look like he belongs,” She says, words rolling out like she’d been keeping them bottled up, and Spencer nods, mentally cataloging the description.
“Unlike you,” Sylvie adds on, drawing a soft chuckle from Spencer as he dips his head in acknowledgment, the condensation starting to grow on the glass cooling his fingers as he peels them off and stands up.
“Thank you, Sylvie,”
“Don’t thank me yet, professor. Don’t screw this up,”
“I won’t.”