WHO: Lincoln Mayfair & Ian McKinnon WHAT: Lincoln stops by Ian’s place to hang out and also try and nudge him to do more with his life as he always annoyingly does. WHEN: In the last week WHERE: Ian’s place RATING: low WARNINGS: None!
At the grocery store there was a piece of paper hanging on the corkboard by the single open check-out station. Lincoln barely glanced at it, but as he loaded the rest of his groceries into his bag, he found himself looking up. It was an ad for a job as a construction inspector, over near Bellevue.
He’d bring it to Ian. He didn’t even know if that was the sort of thing the other man was qualified for, but it was probably better paid than Hank’s. It couldn’t hurt. Lincoln tugged the whole page off the board, number-tabs and all, and went on his way.
Many of his friends tended to be his age or older, but there was a maturity under Ian’s moody exterior, perhaps built from his history, the early responsibilities he had to either take on or crumble beneath. Perhaps that was why they got along. Lincoln showed up at Ian’s trailer as the sun was low in the sky, bearing the job bulletin and the rest of the banana bread he’d baked two days ago.
“You home?” he called out, rapping on the door with two knuckles. He didn’t text in advance like a normal person.
Probably good, since Ian was notoriously terrible about staying on top of his texts unless something was up. “In the back!” Was a holler for the second set of rapping. He would find Ian in his studio-shack working on a simple, solid, dark wood bookshelf, crouched. His dogs were in the corner on a dog bed that had seen better days, and Lincoln was well-known enough to both of them that Grizz gave a distracted, sleepy growl and Lucy’s tail wagged low, but neither got up. Ian cocked his head at Lincoln, but he’d start peeling off protective gear the instant he saw who it was.
“Yo.” Yes, he was comfortable enough at this point with Lincoln dropping by he was already unfolding, flickering a hand in invitation back towards the trailer. “Kind of a mess right now, but you want to come in?” His gloves, respirator and glasses got dropped on his work table, and he’d whistle his dogs up to head back for his house. “How’re you?”
He’d hold the door open and everything.
It was a mess. Not dirty, but a mess - lots of half-finished wood projects at the moment, mail and bills in a quasi-orderly stack in the corner, a big bag of dog food hauled only halfway to the kitchen. The dogs instantly went for the couch, jockeying for a moment for position before they reflopped in an entwined pile on the corner of the sofa which was invisibly designated as theirs. “You want a beer, some water, anything?” He knew Lincoln didn’t generally drink - he still always offered.
“Water is fine,” he replied, automatically as usual. The job bulletin went casually on a side table — he’d bring it up in a bit if Ian didn’t see it himself — the banana bread, in Tupperware, thumped neatly on top. Before taking a seat Lincoln glanced around, eyes lingering particularly on the woodwork, here something that looked like the top of a coffee table, there a spherical… something.
He took the other end of the couch, one hand patting Lucy absently before he leaned back into the cushion. “And so am I. Fine, that is. Grading giving me hell as usual. But it’s alright. You?” He jutted his chin in the direction of the workshack. “Working on a new project?”
Lucy would lay her head on his lap to facilitate patting, a big warm weight.
Ian eyed the banana bread, then half-smiled. “You want me to open it so we can split it?” He was crap at cooking, so it was one of the few things he let people funnel to him. Food was good. “It’s already cut,” came his friend’s reply, as hands reached out and opened the plastic box, revealing a good five slices for him and Ian to share. Ian’d pour Lincoln water and then go to sit on the floor in front of the sofa, loosely sprawled. “What assignment are they on?”
And then a shrug. “Eli was saying he was going to get buy a bookshelf at Ikea.” This, obviously, was utterly unacceptable.
Lincoln snorted. “Travesty.” But again he glanced around, at all the works in progress. “Well, you know he’ll be better off with whatever you make him.”
Fingers tapped absently, lightly on the back of Lucy’s head. “We’re on the Cold War. Which means all I hear is kids running around and delightedly calling each other Communists.”
“Always prepared.” And yes, he would steal some banana bread now, picking it to pieces as he ate it. “I hope so. If I finish it in time.” Because Ian had the nasty habit of mostly finishing a project, then deciding something wasn’t juuuust right and it needed another five months of careful attention.
Tapping was not petting, and he’d get a head butt eventually for it from Lucy.
“To be fair, they’re probably the closest they’ll ever be to Communists when they’re kids.” Ian said idly, finishing his bread and going back to work on his beer.
He got a little eyeroll for that, but Lincoln’s lips turned up in a small smirk.
“Deadlines are good for motivation,” he said absently, and his eyes fell down to the paper. Maybe it’d be subtler if he just left it? But no, Ian by now wouldn’t be offended by his, well, encouragement. “As is a little bit of pressure. You know the Faire’s next week.”
“The next Red Threat is gonna come from our teenagers, prof.” Was a more serious smile for Lincoln, his lips pulling up. “You are our first line of defense.” So he had been paying at least some attention in class at some point, Lincoln should be proud. “We’re doomed,” came the teacher’s muttered, self-deprecating response.
“Sometimes. Or I just blow past them, knowing they are self-imposed.” But Ian’d rub his thumb over his lower lip at the jump of topic and roll with it. “Faire is next week, true. You going to go?”
“Naturally.” The older man shrugged. “My parents are still going to be doing their thing, so I guess I’ll have to help out. You could get a table, you know. Show off your work a little.”
Lincoln didn’t even bother to try and pretend he hadn’t been working up to that.
It was Lincoln, so it made Ian laugh instead of stiffening up. Laugh and consider it, actually, for a moment. Was it such a bad idea? He leaned back more, stretching, arms rolling up above his head while he considered. “Not a lot of time.” But he had a lot of half-finished pieces, that was true. He bit his lower lip. “Do you think people would buy anything at Faire? Is it too big?”
“Yeah, of course they’ll buy. But you wouldn’t have to bring that much. Give them a taste, sell a couple pieces, maybe you’ll get some commissions.” Lincoln shrugged as if it was just an idea, only a mere suggestion, you know, casual.
Mentally he made a note to blackmail his older sister Bell into buying something if it worked out, just for the encouragement. He was sure he still had something on her, and they weren’t on great enough terms that he thought Ian would suspect her of doing something because he asked.
Ian weighed for another moment before he said: “I mean. Couldn't hurt, right?” Tentative, but it might be good. What was the worst thing that could happen? He didn't sell anything? Embarrassing but not the end of the world. He ran a hand through his hair. “I'll see with my shifts and everything.” Was a convenient possible cop-out if it got too bad or too much.
Lincoln smiled.
“I think it’d be good,” was all he said. He decided to wait on the flyer, just leave it for him to find later. You had to be careful with these things — lead the horse to water — like with his students, the ones whose eyes were clouded from their own potential. Ian was older, and his friend besides, but the experience came in handy. He just wanted to see his success.
Enough shop talk for the moment, however.
“So,” he switched gears, leaning forward. “Tell me what else is up with you.”