Work Text:
Spencer blinks. "You want me to what?"
Tommy smiles up at him, through that stupid crooked grin. Spencer's never been able to resist it, not once, in all the years he's known him - today might just be a first. "Come on, please?" Tommy says. "Clearly I'm doing a shitty job—"
"No, you're not," Spencer says reflexively. It's true, anyway. Plus he's pretty sure Tommy is, like, incapable of doing anything badly. It’s like it’s in the bylaws of the universe: the grass is green, anything pizza-flavored that you can put in a microwave is delicious, and Tommy Bowe is good at everything.
"—and it's gotten so long." He ignores Spencer in favor of proving his point, reaching up to muss the fluffy sides grown out from a tight shave and yank on the long loose piece in front of his forehead. "Come on, this is just ridiculous."
Privately, Spencer likes Tommy's long hair. Even now, when it sticks up at odd angles, it looks good on him. Then again, everything looks good on him. But that's privately. When the lights of his bedroom are dim, and he has nothing to think about but the darkness and whatever this is - both equally terrifying.
Here and now, when Spencer leans on Tommy's desk in the middle of the bullpen, he just says, "And you want me, of all people, to cut it?"
Tommy shrugs. "Wasn't sure who else to ask," he says.
That can't be true - Spencer can count at least five people off the top of his head who would love to cut Tommy's hair for him, and at least five more who would probably be better at it. Courtney and Kimmy alone would have a field day with this. But Spencer doesn't say any of that. To say it would be to acknowledge all the things they’ve left unsaid.
So instead, he says, “Sorry, Tommy, but you've got the wrong fucking guy. Do you even remember my quarantine hair?” It’s a good point, he thinks. Spencer thought growing out his hair would be a good idea - apparently, he was wrong. He knows this because Youtube comments, Kiana, and a random old lady he saw at the grocery store were not afraid to tell him.
“Aw, come on, it wasn’t that bad,” Tommy says, because he’s a coward.
“I looked like a toy poodle with mange,” Spencer deadpans.
Tommy presses his mouth together, as if he’s trying to stifle a laugh. Spencer can’t even be offended, too distracted by catching sight of one of Tommy’s dimples. “Poodles are adorable,” he says eventually.
He opens his mouth to call Tommy out on his bullshit - I looked like a rat with a blowout, come on - but finds the words die somewhere along his throat. Adorable, he’d said. Like that was something one could just say about their coworker (friend? More-than-that? Something-in-between? Spencer isn’t sure what he’d call them) in the middle of the office. So he simply shuts his mouth again, waits for Tommy to pick up on the awkward silence and keep going.
He does after a beat, as if he'd never stopped talking at all. “Besides, that was growing something out, not cutting it. Look, I keep giving myself the worst haircuts, and… I want you to do it.” He folds his hands together in front of his mouth, and then reaches out to take one of Spencer’s hands in his own. “Please?”
For the brief moment in which Spencer’s brain reboots, he wonders what their coworkers see right now. Does Damien look over the half-wall between them and see Spencer’s shaky shoulders, and wonder why he’s so upset? Does Lisa glance at them through her office window and see Tommy, oblivious, talking to someone who’s so clearly in love with him, and feel pity? Does Jackie see friends? Does Marcus see lovers?
Does anyone look at them and know exactly what they are?
Does Tommy?
The question nips at the back of his mind before he can stop it. Spencer’s not an idiot - he knows Tommy’s been flirting with him. He knows this is a strange thing to ask of Spencer, rather than just go get it cut or keep cutting it himself. He knows there’s something. But what Tommy thinks it is… he can’t be sure. All he knows is that as soon as Tommy grabbed his hand, he felt the electricity of their fingertips all the way to his chest.
He can’t dwell on it for too long, though. Before he knows it’s happened, his mouth has opened and he’s said, “Okay.”
Tommy grins - crooked and dimpled. Looks like he still can’t say no. “Thank you so much. I owe you, big time.” He gives Spencer’s hand one last, lingering squeeze before he lets go and turns back to his laptop. He gives Spencer one last smile. “Tonight at my place?”
“Like you even had to ask,” Spencer says. Really, he didn’t. Spencer finds he’s always at Tommy’s beck and call.
“Great,” Tommy says, and then gives Spencer a wink. Fucker. “Thanks.”
Though he can’t be sure, Spencer thinks he gives a very manly, normal grunt in response before turning and heading back to the Games office.
He slides back into his chair, pretends to be able to concentrate on work. Even though all he’s thinking about is Tommy’s hands and his mouth and his hair— his stupid hair. His hair that hangs in his eyes, that always smells like strawberries, that looks so soft. That Spencer has to cut. Something that Tommy really cares about, something that Spencer could easily fuck up (he’s always fucked things up). But Tommy wants him to do it. ‘Want.’ Spencer adds it to the list of words that he isn’t quite sure what to make of between him and Tommy Bowe.
The sound of a sliding chair makes Spencer look up. Shayne raises an eyebrow, smiling. “Hey, Spence,” he says, and it sounds stupidly smug. Spencer wishes he could tell him off, but he can’t. He doesn’t have it in him. “How are you?”
“Fuck you,” Spencer says, though he still doesn’t have it in him.
Shayne laughs, leaning on the top of Spencer’s desk partition. “So I didn’t see you making a date out there, then?”
Shayne’s a nice guy. Spencer knows if he tells him to drop it, he will, probably for good. But Spencer can stand a little light teasing; it’s coming from a good place, he knows. But Spencer doesn’t really know what to say. It’s not a yes, it’s not a no. He can’t say, ‘Tommy asked me to cut his hair and I have no idea what that means.’ So he just says, “Shut the fuck up, Shayne. You want Thai food?”
“Yeah, sounds good,” Shayne says. He watches as Spencer pulls up an app on his phone, looks up their local Thai place. He waits a moment, then says, "I think this'll be good for you."
"What, pad thai?"
"No, dumbass. Tommy."
Spencer looks up, a little surprised. One of the unspoken rules about whatever this is is that it goes unspoken. Talking about it means talking about it, which generally means problems for everybody. "Oh," he says, because what else does he say when he isn't supposed to say anything?
"I know you think showing emotion is weakness or whatever, but I mean it, man, I'm happy for you."
Despite himself, Spencer smiles, even as he doesn't - can't - look up from his phone. "Thanks," he says. There's a brief pause, then he adds, "Hey, Shayne?"
"Yeah, bud?"
"Mind your fucking business, will ya?"
Shayne just laughs again, because he can take just as well as he gives. Spencer orders him some extra dumplings.
--
Tommy's apartment is strangely quiet. Spencer can hear the playlist Tommy had pulled up on Spotify playing gently in the other room; he can hear the buzzing of the fluorescent lights above them; he can hear the measured breathing from his own mouth. But other than that, silence. This is a world away from the busy atmosphere of the bullpen.
“Where do you want me?” Tommy murmurs, and Spencer tries not to think too hard about that, or about any of this. Tommy’s hair is sticking up in odd angles from where he ran his hand through it a few moments ago, and his lower lip is tucked between his teeth, and his eyes haven’t moved off of Spencer since the moment he walked through the door. But he doesn’t think about any of that. The weight of the scissors and the shears in his hands are heavier than he could have possibly imagined.
“The tub? That seems right.”
Tommy doesn’t answer, just slowly sinks to the ground, sitting on the bath mat and leaning his neck over the edge of the bathtub. Spencer blinks. For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to him that they’d be face-to-face for this. He nods, though, and grabs the shower head off of the wall. Tommy raises an eyebrow.
“Are you gonna hose me down, or what?” he quips.
Spencer does not admit that he spent most of the time in between the moment Tommy asked him to do this and now watching Youtube tutorials on cutting hair, so he doesn’t mention that almost all of them told him to wet the hair first. Tommy doesn't need to know how hard he'd thought about this. Instead, he says, “Hey, just trust me, okay?”
Tommy falls quiet at that, and lets Spencer turn on the water. He waits until the temperature is alright, then slowly turns it on Tommy’s hair. “This alright?” Tommy just hums, so Spencer keeps going, reaching the hand not holding the head to run it through Tommy’s hair.
It’s easier than he thinks. Tommy leans into the touch, and Spencer is able to card his hand through soft hair, untangled and clear how much Tommy cares for it. Even being this close, near a couple inches away, is okay. Because Tommy’s eyes are closed, and he’s breathing contentedly, and Spencer is focusing on the task at hand rather than the way Tommy’s breath hitches when Spencer leans in a little too close.
At some point, Spencer is pretty sure he’s just wasting time; he steps back, turns off the water, and dries his hands. Tommy stays where he is, his eyes still closed, neck still arched, looking… peaceful. Spencer almost wonders if he’s fallen asleep, but as he’s picking up the scissors, Tommy opens one eye and smiles at him. “Promise you won’t laugh at me for looking like a drowned rat,” he says, and Spencer laughs.
“Rats are adorable,” he says, and pretends not to notice as Tommy’s mouth opens, slightly, before it draws closed again. He turns back and holds up the scissors. “You ready, bud?”
Tommy nods, and Spencer draws closer, with a comb in one hand and scissors in the other. He kneels down, and before he can do anything, Tommy grabs his wrist. Gently, but firmly, holding him in place. “Hey. I do, you know.”
“What?”
“Trust you.” Tommy squeezes his wrist, then lets go, dropping his hand and closing his eyes again.
He says something after that - something that Spencer can’t hear over the blood rushing in his ears and the heart pounding in his chest. But after whatever it is, Spencer nods, as if Tommy can see him, and then gets to work.
It’s soothing. He combs pieces out and cuts them, and listens to Tommy’s rhythmic breathing, the soft rise and fall of his chest. He watched those stupid tutorials so many times he memorized them, and so it’s… Easy doesn’t feel like the right word. He’s taking his time, because Tommy trusts him to do it, so he will. Of course he will.
Shayne was right. He hates that he’s thinking of that stupid bastard right now, but it’s true. Spencer hates vulnerability. He hates that Tommy knows how much he likes him - because, Jesus Christ, he has to - and he hates that he’s here, saying that Tommy’s adorable and doing something this intimate. Their breaths are mingling, and most of Spencer’s focus is on keeping his hands from shaking, and Tommy’s hair is so soft. And really, Spencer hates it - but it’s Tommy. Who trusts him, and who wants him to do this, and who - maybe, just maybe - likes him the same way. Spencer’s life never goes this well, ever. And now he’s here, with a beautiful boy, kneeling on his bathroom floor, and if he can stand to get past this (this fear of vulnerability that’s straining his chest, this closeness that’s suffocating him), he’s pretty sure he can keep it. And holy shit, he wants to keep it.
He wants Tommy’s face this close to his. He wants to run his hands through Tommy’s hair. He wants to smell the sweet strawberry of Tommy’s shampoo. He wants to enjoy this small eternity while it lasts. Spencer has never so deeply wanted, and though it embarrasses him, he also doesn’t know how to go on without it.
When he’s done, he takes Tommy by the wrist and guides him into sitting up. Then he grabs the shears. This is the part that terrifies him, really. He knows he can do it - he’s used them often enough, even shaved his own head once. But this takes precision. And patience. And for someone whose heartbeat is echoing out through to his fingertips, he’s not sure how well he’ll do.
He only buzzes the sides in part. They’re not completely shaved; he leaves a little bit of length there. There’s enough length on the top that it mostly flops over it, anyway. And the back he leaves nearly completely untouched - though he trims it, and makes sure the rest of the hair matches it, he leaves it to grow out. (Well, if Tommy decides to grow it out, anyway.)
Once he’s done, he switches the shears off, and slowly rises from the floor. Tommy, for the first time in quite a while, looks up at him, a dimpled smile twitching on his face. “All done?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Spencer says. “Where’s your hair drier?”
Tommy blinks. “You don’t have to do all that--”
“And your product? I know you use, like, specific shit. So.” At Tommy’s incredulous look, Spencer says, “Please?”
They stare at each other for a moment. Tommy has an odd look on his face - part fond, part surprised. Then he nods to the medicine cabinet. “In there. Hair drier’s in the third drawer underneath.”
And so he gets to work - opens up the cabinet, finds the bright red container of wax, and pulls out the hair dryer from the drawer. He plugs it in to the same strip that holds Tommy’s mirror, then starts it up. Tommy closes his eyes again, lets Spencer run the comb through his hair. It’s a soothing motion. He watches Tommy’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, his dimple peering out on occasion. Then, he puts on some of the sweet-smelling wax in an attempt gives Tommy’s hair a little bit of volume. He only lingers a little bit, here, running his hands through Tommy’s hair one last time.
Eventually, he’s satisfied. He stands and wipes his hands off on a towel, and Tommy cracks open an eye again. “Happy, now?” he teases.
Spencer nods, holds out his hand to help Tommy up. “Hey, I take great pride in my work, okay? That’s why we work at Smosh.”
Tommy laughs. He folds and unfolds his gangly limbs, trying to fit both of them in Tommy’s tiny bathroom, and when their knees knock together and Spencer swears, Tommy laughs and tugs on his hand (they hadn’t let go?) to follow him out the door and down the hallway. They pass through the field of Tommy’s music again, the soft sounds of Sophie playing from the living room, and then open the door to Tommy’s bedroom. It’s much better than his bathroom - Spencer follows Tommy to his vanity, pulls out the chair for him to sit, and then holds his breath as Tommy looks in the mirror.
It looks good - well, to Spencer. But he’s also looking at Tommy, and Spencer could be biased. But Tommy just stares, silent, unreadable, and Spencer’s chest twists. He leans down, puts his head next to Tommy’s to try to see what he’s seeing, but it’s no use - Spencer is Spencer, and Tommy is Tommy. So naturally, he looks beautiful.
“So?” Spencer asks eventually.
Slowly, Tommy smiles. “I look good,” he says, and Spencer breathes a sigh of relief. “Holy shit, this is, like, the first good haircut I’ve had in years.”
“So it’s okay?” Spencer asks, letting himself smile too. It’s a stupid question, he knows - whether Tommy is just being nice or he actually genuinely likes it, he’s just going to double down, he knows. But still. There’s something about Spencer - that fear of weakness that locks him in a vice grip - that needs that reassurance. Needs Tommy to tell him yes, he did a good job, he wanted him - trusted him - for a reason. Spencer has done the vulnerable part, and he aches for its bittersweet reward.
“Yeah, man, it looks great. Thank you.”
Spencer grins at him in the mirror. “Yeah, well. Thanks for letting me do it.”
Tommy raises an eyebrow. “You did me a favor, remember?”
“Yeah, well,” Spencer drops his eyes. Looks down at his fidgeting hand, steeling himself for the plunge. “I… I don’t really get to take care of people very often. Not that you need someone to take care of you, but I just-- I’m bad at expressing what I feel most of the time. So I’m glad I could do something for you, because you deserve people to be good to you. I…” He stops short and swallows. Taps his fingers against the vanity again. “I want to be good to you. So, uh… thanks.”
Spencer turns his head, and Tommy’s already looking at him. Their noses are a mere inch apart. “Yeah,” Tommy murmurs, and he licks his lips, and since when is Spencer looking at his mouth? Tommy looks down, and away, towards the floor. “Um…”
And in that one ‘um,’ Spencer prepares for it. For the embarrassment, for the humiliation. For the ‘we’re just friends’ speech. For Tommy to let him down gently - because of course it’s gently, Tommy does care for him, just not like that - and for Spencer to pick up his bag by the front door and run as far and as fast as he can and avoid Tommy for the rest of his life. He can’t bear to look him in the eye, knowing how much he’s yearned for it, and how much Tommy knew it. The fear creeps up his spine and tucks in at the base of his neck, and he prepares to run.
And then Tommy looks up, tilts his head forward a little, and says, “Is this okay?”
Spencer’s only response is to kiss his way into that crooked mouth.
Kissing Tommy is exactly as you’d imagine it to be - and he’s not even going to pretend he hasn’t imagined it. Every part of him is warm, like he’s glowing from the inside out, and at the risk of sounding cheesy, he doesn’t know what to say other than it’s perfect. His back aches from craning down to meet Tommy in the chair, and the smell of the hair product is tickling his nose, but Spencer can’t find it in him to care, because this is Tommy Bowe. He’s been waiting for this for fucking years.
Tommy pulls away, and Spencer barely keeps himself from chasing after. Tommy laughs. “So, okay, then?” he asks.
He coughs, trying to cover up the fact that he’s attempting to force his face back to normal. He doesn’t need Tommy to look like when he’s this happy; he’s been vulnerable enough for one day. “Yeah, uh, I guess that’s alright,” he says, and if Tommy’s laugh is anything to go by, he hasn’t covered up shit.
--
Thud. Shayne looks up at him, surprised by the sound of the box of dumplings hitting his desk. “The hell?”
“Morning to you too,” Spencer says. He’s leaning against Shayne’s desk this time; he can hear Damien over his shoulder talking animatedly to Alex about something.
Shayne looks at the box as if it might bite him. “What’s this?”
“What? A guy can’t get his friend an ambiguous box of dumplings?” He punches Shayne in the shoulder. “Lunch, on me. Heat ‘em up in a couple hours, they’ll be just as good.”
Spencer barely contains his grin as Shayne looks up at him, suspicious. “You’re in a good mood,” he says. Then, suddenly, he smiles. The turnaround from suspicious to smug is quick. “Have a good weekend, man?”
Instead of answering, Spencer finds his eyes wandering away from here and towards the bullpen. Tommy is talking to Kimmy, who keeps leaning up to toussel his hair. He laughs at something she says, then his eyes wander too, and meet Spencer halfway. He smiles, and winks. Fucker. Then turns back to his conversation.
He does the same, and Shayne is still looking at him, smiling even wider. “Could say that,” he says, and Shayne laughs. Then, he inhales sharply through his nose.
“Hey, do you smell strawberries?”
