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Pete was an anomaly. It didn’t take a scientist with a fancy degree to figure that much out, or the fact that he was incredibly dangerous. Going face-to-face with him was a risk that wasn’t worth taking, and while Spencer had met a few people who’d had up-close meetings with him and come out unharmed (most of them seeming to be, uh, paid one-night stands who ended up being regular company for him), he didn’t feel like risking his life over something he knew he wouldn’t come out of alive. He’d done risky things for his job, almost been killed a few times, but everything he went into that could kill him he went into with confidence. But a job like Pete? Not so much.
He never particularly cared for seeing Pete in person, even at a distance. Spencer was certain that someone with a monster that sounded that terrible couldn’t be much of a pretty sight. He couldn’t imagine what people with full sight of monsters thought - he supposed he was one of the lucky ones, lacking the sight to even see so much of an energy wavelength, but his hearing came with its downsides, too. For instance, Pete’s monster made the most God-awful sounds he’d ever heard, and if the pay he was getting to track Pete down was any lower than the price he was given now, he’d surely have rejected it, no matter how badly he wanted an assignment for something to do with Pete. After nearly every trip he found himself downing painkillers the second he stepped foot back into his cruddy apartment, desperate to get rid of the headache that came the second he was within Pete’s radius.
Spencer knew that Pete was dangerous, but he didn’t see him as that big of a threat. That was his first mistake: it was naive of him to even think for a second that he wasn’t as big of a deal as he initially thought.
The next night, Spencer had found him quickly. He stayed around the other side of the building, where he could hear the slobbering of Pete’s monster, trudging through the streets behind Pete like a dog being forced to heel at its owners side. It stopped for a moment, calm bubbling and hissing (as close to an idle noise as one could get, Spencer supposed), before the silence was cut through - not with a knife, but with a chainsaw - by loud, blood curdling screams; shrieking so loud that it almost blocked out the sound of Pete’s monster. Not much scared Spencer, not after everything he’d seen and done on his job, but goosebumps quickly rushed over his skin like waves, the hair on his neck standing on end. His blood felt like it’d turned to ice and he felt as though a rock had settled into his stomach.
Underneath the gulping and gargling of Pete’s monster, and the faint panting of Pete, he could hear things he never wanted to hear again. Bones crushing. Snapping. Wet noises he didn’t even want to imagine what could be. He felt sick to his stomach. His face had gone pale. He was out of there in an instant, the rush of wind against his face not enough to block out the terrible, terrible sounds. He puked over the railing of a bridge going over water before he made it back home that night.
Spencer only first actually sees Pete entirely on accident. It’s a cold Monday morning and he’s got coffee in his hands, warming him up while his breath is visible in the chilly air. Frost decorates the ground and busy bodies flood the streets. He’s got anything and everything tuned down to a low buzz, dull and faint, nothing particularly catching his attention. He’s never on a job in the early hours, no matter how much he claims he’s good at hiding in plain sight (in his mind, he’s not that much of a catch, nothing special to see). It's always too busy in the early hours, never leaves enough room to properly act on, so the first half of his day is always long and tiring.
It seems normal. The sky is blue, the frost is white, and everything seems normal, until suddenly, everything goes quiet. There’s a ringing in his ear, and then, without him even trying to focus in on the sound, a quiet trudging, sludging, hissing. His eyes dart around - the sound is closer than he expected, too close, and like that, his gaze lands on him . Standing in broad moonlight with a tattered baseball bat, destroyed and somewhat cracked, split, with nails hammered into it, blood staining the wood in a hideously red-brown color, is Pete himself, zombified and looking like the spitting image of Frankenstein’s monster, minus the bolts. A chill runs down Spencer’s spine, and for a moment, his eyes meet Pete’s. They’re standing far, far away from each other, and Pete’s eyes quickly move on to someone likely more interesting - a target - but Spencer can’t help but clench his fists a little, fingernails digging into his palms. It feels like staring a murderer in the face. It is.
But I’m a murderer, too.
He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, the cold suddenly biting at his fuzzy, grizzly cheeks in a much more mocking manner, gritting his teeth, and moves on.
It’s difficult to simultaneously avoid Pete and report on him. His pay grades have been getting higher and higher with each stunning, glowing report, and although curiosity has Spencer basically dying to find out what the hell this lady wants on him, he sticks to his rules and doesn’t stick his nose where he shouldn’t. Spencer has started to pick up on Pete’s habits, his routines (they don’t seem like routines at first, his days seem absolutely patternless until weeks start adding up into routines as opposed to days, frustrating Spencer to absolutely no end. It doesn’t seem like he plans anything out - he just gets bored in the same kind of cycle, Spencer realizes).
The killings start to become less and less frequent. His superior finds this information extraordinarily interesting. Spencer doesn’t comment, and leaves at her request. He’s left only with the ease that he doesn’t have to listen to it as often as he used to.
The places Pete visits become pins on a map, Spencer notices when he pays his superior another visit. He can’t help but feel like he’s in a shitty movie with a bulletin board, picture, and strings, but her pin lacks all but a map and pins. No strings, no pictures, nothing but thumbtacks. He almost, almost asks, but it’s easier to just turn his heel and leave. He notices a higher pay every time he delivers a location.
Things start changing. Pete interacts with people on the rare occasion that they don’t flee at his very approach, but he starts noticing a specific group of people. He starts seeing Pete going into the same houses every so often. Strangely, Spencer hesitates to report this. It takes him a long time before he addresses it, and the pins go on the board.
When Spencer stares in the face one of Pete’s apparent colleagues, his first instinct is to retreat. He knows better than that, though. That’s not hiding in plain sight. It would easily set off some kind of alarm in the group. He knows he can play it off as being a terrified passerby who catches sight of Pete and freezes at the very sight, and after a few seconds, he tears his gaze away and hurries off.
He has absolutely no intent on interacting with them. His job is to track down Pete , not his friends, and he throws all care to the wind when it comes to talking about them. His superior seems frustrated when he lacks commentary, and a bitter smile comes to her face at his retort on his job. She cups his face, smooths her nails down his cheek, and then sends him off. He’s left with an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, but he disregards it and carries on.
Spencer really has no intention of getting involved.
Really, he doesn’t. He never wants to get involved in anything he does, ever, because that means having to consider the morality of his job. It means having to address what he does, what he is - a mercenary, a bountyhunter, an assassin, a murderer.
But god dammit, the universe seems just as merry to turn against him as it is to turn with him. Or maybe Brendon just loves to make his life that much harder, because God strike him down if he didn’t hear Brendon correctly.
“Come again?” Spencer says, relaxing his features as if Brendon hadn’t just told him he was working with fucking Pete.
“I - I met these guys,” Brendon repeats himself, looking enthused, hopeful. “They think they can help me. They - they think they can get rid of the… you know. The curse .” He says it like a child whispers the word “stupid” like it’s a swear.
He doesn’t know if he should tell Brendon. Brendon knows what he does. Brendon doesn’t think he’s a monster. But what would he think if he told Brendon that he might get the very guy helping him out killed? What would he think of Spencer then? His stomach churns at the very idea. He’s never felt more conflicted, more unsettled, in his life.
“Brendon,” Spencer strains, saying his name like it hurts him to. Brendon’s expression changes immediately, attentive and ready to provide comfort. “Brendon, you can’t. ”
“I- this. This is about Pete, isn’t it.” It’s not a question.
Spencer doesn’t say anything, just looks at Brendon. He knows Brendon is picking out the details - the way his brows are furrowed, the way he’s got his hands clenched in his pockets, the way he suddenly looks more tired than ever. He’s always got the most peculiar ways of showing he’s mad, and Brendon knows all of them. Spencer hates being mad, but worse, he hates being mad at Brendon, and Brendon hates Spencer being mad at him.
“Listen,” Brendon stresses, running a hand through his hair and sighing anxiously. “I know you’ve probably heard a lot about him. And - yeah, he’s a little bit of a dick. But we’re fighting the same cause here, Spencer! He’s not going to hurt me. I’m important to them.” The look on his face is pure desperation. Spencer wants to believe him. He really does, but it’s so much more complex than Brendon thinks, than Brendon knows. He knows it’s patronizing, but it’s true, and he never, ever wants to see Brendon get hurt, not when he can put a stop to it.
“Spencer, please ,” he whispers, taking Spencer’s hand and squeezing softly. It startles him, leaves a messy, funny, warm and fuzzy feeling in him, but he has to ignore it in favor of protecting Brendon, the only person outside of his family that he would risk anything and everything for.
He.
He would risk his job for him, too.
He knows he can’t keep his superior updated about Pete’s group now, not now that Brendon’s apart of it. Spencer bites his lip, looking down at his lap, and he shakes his head, unable to look back up at him. He doesn’t want to see the disappointment, the hurt in Brendon’s eyes.
“I… can’t let you do this, Brendon,” Spencer says carefully, quietly. A silence hangs over them.
Brendon is the one to break the silence, retracting his hands from Spencer. He finally, finally looks up at him, and Brendon’s expression has hardened. There’s still warmth in it, but the very hurt that Spencer feared. He knows he caused it. Somehow, it hurts worse than the look itself. “I’m not letting you do this to me,” Brendon starts to argue. “I’ve waited so long, Spencer, to make my family proud of me again. I’ve ruined their name. Nobody looks at me the same anymore. I don’t want to be this- to be this disgrace anymo-”
“You’re not a disgrace!” Spencer chimes in.
“Let me finish!” Brendon snaps. It’s rare, and it kills him inside, to see Brendon so upset because of him. “I finally get the chance to fix my family, to be apart of it again, for them to like- no, love me again, and you’re going to try to keep it from me because- because what, Spencer? Because it has the potential to be dangerous?” There’s a pause, and when he opens his mouth to speak, Brendon cuts him off again. “Take a look at yourself , Spencer. How do you think I feel, knowing what you’re out doing every night? How do you think I feel, knowing that one day, you might not come home? That you might not ever show up again?”
“Brendon, you know I’m careful-”
“I don’t care if you’re careful, Spencer! I’m scared for you, every night, but I don’t stop you, because you’re doing it for your family. Why am I any different?!”
Spencer stares, speechless. He’s silent for a good couple of minutes, Brendon staring at him, panting.
“Because you- I- Brendon. ”
“I’m doing this, Spencer,” Brendon sighs, rubbing his temples. He stands up, and starts to make way for the door. “And you can’t do anything to stop me.”
He watches him go, a sinking feeling washing over him, tugging at his heartstrings.
It doesn’t give him any pleasure to take his phone out. With a heavy sigh, Spencer scrolls down his contacts until he finds “Grace/Boyd,” and without any hesitation, hits “call.”