#//once again featuring my headcanon that spencer doesn't drink

[gas-stxtion]

@triggerbigger said:

Gimme some of that cold cash I want to stuff it in my couch C'mon, bring me those big stacks I need them bricks to build my house Give me all of that, all of that 'til the ATM runs out If money can't buy happiness Then why is it so fabulous?

from "Money" by Poppy, for the song chorus meme. Good luck ;)

The party has been in full swing for several hours by this point, and the sun has long since set outside the opulent mansion Spencer finds himself in. People are laughing and chattering, milling about and getting to know each other, gloating about their wealth and accomplishments. This kind of place isn’t exactly Spencer’s scene, to put it lightly--every over-the-top boast grates on his ears, and the faux politeness coming from the ‘old money’ in the crowd is getting on his last fucking nerve.

Spencer would never claim to not give a shit about money, nor will he deny that his work has made him a wealthy man. While his work is unorthodox and, legally speaking, mostly made up of under-the-table deals, he’s put in the time and dedication to get where he is now. Every cent Spencer has he fucking earned, and it all goes to good use. He’s never been the type to hoard money for the sake of it, nor does he particularly enjoy flaunting it.

However, things weren’t always that way. Spencer grew up just below the poverty line, in a shitty podunk town in middle of nowhere in the deep south. Even for the town he’s from, he was poorer than dirt, and it’s only been through his determination to--quite literally, in some cases--claw his way out of that situation that he is where he is now.

It’s been years since Spencer was poor, but he remembers it vividly, the memories hanging heavy over his shoulders. Seeing all the wealthy elite around him is getting to him, and he’s starting to regret agreeing to this in the first place. He barely holds back his sneers at their petty, pathetic little concerns, at their meaningless gossip and all the bullshit they spout.

Oh, didn’t you hear? Mister So-And-So is considering buying a second yacht, Miss Who-Fucking-Cares is upset her maid had the audacity to demand a living wage, blah, blah, blah. How fucking interesting. It’s nights like this that Spencer actually considers drinking, if nothing else than to numb his senses, but he manages to hold his resolve.

Perhaps it’s no surprise, then, that Spencer has found himself on one of the balconies, out of the way of the majority of the partygoers. He leans against the railing, overlooking the grounds below with steely blue eyes. The grounds themselves are nice and well-kept, and all Spencer can think is to wonder which poor, underpaid bastards did that.

A sigh escapes him, though it sounds more like a growl, and he runs a hand through his long hair, freeing it from his usual ponytail. His client, the lady running this party in the first place, had insisted that he come here tonight, that she would only be able to give him his payment if he came. Oh, of course, and he had to dress up.

It didn’t take long for him to realize she was more looking to use him as a conversation starter than anything, as the handsome stranger she could parade around to impress all of her stupid rich friends. The only thing keeping Spencer from either slitting someone’s throat or just fucking leaving is the payment she promised, but even that is starting to lose its appeal.

As he starts redoing his ponytail with methodical fingers, he allows another growl to escape his gritted teeth.

“This party fucking sucks,” he says aloud to the empty air, hardly caring at this point if anyone hears him.