WHO: Lincoln Mayfair & Ian McKinnon WHAT: Lincoln is grumpy but Ian brings him fair food. WHEN: Thursday evening, May 3. WHERE: The Spring Faire RATING: Low WARNINGS: None
His grandmother had always waxed rhapsodic about the balm to the soul that was community service, but working at the Faire by this point never felt like any such thing. It was a given, as much a fact of life as waking up in the morning, that Lincoln would spend some of his time watching over the carousel, and held little to no excitement at all anymore. Sorry, Grandma.
It was also kind of a pain in the ass when you were a teacher and your work never actually ended with the bell. Despite prepping specifically for this week, Lincoln still had a stack of pop quizzes to look over when he got home, and he hadn’t eaten, spending the last hours standing there collecting change and handing out tickets. And already it was dark.
Grumpy, that was it. He was grumpy. The voice that had been singing tunes to himself for most of the evening was now grumbling under his breath, as Lincoln locked the box with the carousel controls and slipped the key into his pocket.
Ian had waited. He had no idea, really, when the carousel shut down, but it wasn’t like it was a hardship to wander the Faire, so he just waited around and wandered, and enjoyed it. He liked the Faire. More than he’d ever admit, he liked the Faire. Sometimes he felt so different, so isolated from the Fall City community outside of his few close friends, it felt good to get more involved. He knew it was just an illusion of isolation when he was at the Faire - he knew there were people who would close ranks around him if anything went wrong.
Like Lincoln.
Who had paid for his spoon, despite Ian’s best efforts.
Which was why he was here now, bearing a corn dog, a funnel cake and a bottle of water. Even with Faire’s inflated prices, it didn’t eat up all the money Lincoln had paid, but it was enough. Enough Ian didn’t feel like he’d taken advantage, which was the point. And when he saw the carousel go dark, he’d head over.
“Yo.” Was more to warn Lincoln he was behind him than actual greeting. “I brought food.” Was the far more important part of this greeting.
And yes, he had his own corn dog, and like 10 ketchup packets, because he was a heathen.
Instead of a greeting Lincoln made a noise that was somewhere between hmm and hngh as he turned around, hoisting his messenger bag over his shoulder (which he’d brought for the quieter periods of time, to do a little grading at the stand). His eyes took in Ian, and then the food, brows quirking in mild surprise.
“Thanks,” he said, “appreciate it, that’ll save me some t—”
Then he remembered their earlier war and understood, if only because it was exactly what Lincoln himself would have done in the other man’s situation. He scowled, though there was little heat behind it, and he took the water bottle out of the offered hand anyway, twisting the cap open roughly. “God fu—” There were still high schoolers around, loitering. As usual Lincoln censored himself. “D— for Christ’s sake, Ian, I know what this is.”
He drank from the bottle and then pointed it at Ian accusingly.
Ian grinned at the almost swear, a sharp white flash in the gathering dark. “Do you? What, I can’t want to be helpful, prof? Bring you a nice dinner, we can enjoy our corn dogs together. All very innocent.” Because he knew the instant Lincoln had figured it out. It was good, though. “Headed home, or d’you want to split the funnel cake? Full disclosure, if you take this in your car, you will find white-powdered sugar for weeks after and I cannot be held responsible for that.”
Lincoln tipped the water to his lips again as he considered. He did have the extra time of not having to cook, now. The powdered sugar would get all over his car, and everyone knows that funnel cake is not as good the next day, and if he ate the whole thing tonight he’d have a huge sugar high and caloric guilt besides, so Ian was talking some sense.
Plus he had bought him dinner. With his own money, but still.
“Let’s find somewhere away from the teenagers to sit,” he said. “And you can tell me about the booth. Any custom orders?”
“You don’t want the teenagers ogling you the entire time you eat your funnel cake?” Ian snorted, but he would nod out a bit further, towards the quieter areas behind some of the rides. There were picnic tables back there the smokers usually hung around at, and there wouldn’t be very many other people there with everything starting to shut down.
He’d walk as they drifted along, then settle everything down on the picnic table once the got to the quieter, darker area. “It went well, I think. Was good to bring smaller pieces, sold a bunch of those. Lola wiped me out, for her restaurant, might do a custom order so everything matches. Megan bought the bookshelf for...too much money.” It was tentative, but reasonably hopeful. “Can use the money to fund materials for the custom jobs, though, so that should be good.”
“Bet it wasn’t too much money,” Lincoln muttered half under his breath, as he bit into the corndog that Ian had bought him with the money he’d tried to pay him for his own damn work. Then he sighed, stretching as he leaned back, the lingering smell of smoke in the area not even bothering him when he was rehydrated and had food. “Well… I guess Lola’s good for something. All that money.”
“200 dollars? That’s too much money. Materials were only about 50, maybe 60. I mean, not counting tools, but tools were already there.” A flicker of Ian’s eyes over Lincoln as he stretched, curious for a moment before Ian’s eyes slid away and Ian shrugged. “Lola’s been pretty good to me, I’ve done renovation work for her.” Work was work. He’d work at his corn dog. In the meantime his friend chose not to engage further on either the money or Lola — both statements he definitely disagreed with but that probably deserved their own conversations.
He liked corn dogs. Cheap, protein, sure, forever salt but whatever. More ketchup, more mustard, add in some of that sweet sweet corn syrup-tomato flavor. “Carousel going well? How is your Faire-experience, prof?”
“Well as it ever does,” Lincoln replied, “same as it ever is. Not that I mind a little same-ness. If I did I’d never have come back here. It’s a nice event, sort of wish we got some time off work if we’re all expected to chip in and help out.”
It was all griping — he knew that would never fly.
“What’re the kids doing, then? Can you just toss them a movie for the next class?” A quirk of a brow and a little hum before he said: “I like it.” He admitted it, almost, like it might be something he should be a little guilty for. “Like feeling the community. Reminds me why I’m here. Even if it feels suffocating sometimes - no real secrets in a small town - I still like it.”
The sudden opening up surprised Lincoln, and even if he didn’t quite respond in kind the words drew out a smile that he directed at his friend, tinged with fondness either for Ian or the sentiment he expressed.
“I like it too,” was all he said on that, but he meant it.
“As for the students,” he continued, “we’re cramming. Only a few kids are taking their APs but we’ve all got to make it through the curriculum regardless. In a couple weeks we’ll be done with those, though, so maybe we can watch a movie.” Many teachers let the class go completely relaxed after those dreaded APs were over, but Lincoln was not one of them. No, those students would still have homework.
“Work till the end. Poor kids.” Ian snorted. But he would lean back a little bit more, turning a bit away but only so he could sprawl out. Elbows up on the picnic table, long legs stretched all the way out. A roll of his neck, then he said: “Slightly less grumpy now you’ve got all the fried?”
“Less grumpy, more on my way to a heart attack,” was his reply. But he grinned. “Thanks for the food, bud. Next time’s on me, and I won’t forget.”