Marcus Caravahlo (_caravahlo_) wrote in horror_story, @ 2012-11-18 13:44:00 |
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Entry tags: | alternate universe, bryant, holiday: thanksgiving, marcus |
Thanksgiving AU: Guess What's Coming to Dinner
Who: Marcus and Bryant
When: Thanksgiving Evening
Where: Marcus’s Apartment
What: An AU dinner scene, because I overshot drabble length by a lot on this one.
Warning: Language, childishness, unsafe knife-wielding, wtf!Marcus...
Everything had to be perfect. None of the feelings made sense, so Marcus threw himself into the things he could control. The setting. The food. Details that could be meticulously overseen to counter the strange nervousness he felt. The frustration. Dr. Bryant O’Neill had become a singular, fixed goal. It was maddening to Marcus that he could so badly want - need - to impress another human being. He saw that his behavior around the older man had gradually shifted. The person he’d started to become was barely recognizable to him, and he didn’t care for that at all.
Since when did he invite anyone into his apartment for a holiday meal? Marcus actively ignored holidays. He preferred having no contact with his family. At the most, he’d go to a bar to pick up one of the other lost souls drifting about in seasonal malaise. Yet, here he was, basting a turkey, having thoroughly cleaned his apartment for company. Cooking was something he did enjoy, but on the rare occasions he took it upon himself to impress someone with a meal, Marcus generally staged the act in their home. That way he could extricate himself when he grew bored. His own place was kept a sanctuary. No roommates, no pets, no visitors. His home life was kept free of emotional clutter and baggage. Nevermind that he’d all too often left chaotic messes in his wake, so long as his own place was clean and predictable. Uncomplicated.
He’d actually gone out and bought table settings, for fuck’s sake. Nothing too nice, but he wanted shit to match. Because everything had to be perfect.
This wasn’t him. The effort, the gestures of friendship and affection. Not even for a lay. Especially not for a lay. That was part of it, though, wasn’t it? If Bryant had just been an easy lay, Marcus could have moved on by now. Instead, it was this. So much fucking effort. Hopeful invitations. Endless patience with the older man’s hemming and hawing, which should by all rights have been as annoying as fuck. An unspoken vow to take it slow for some reason, when he wasn’t even certain there was anything there to take.
The bastard was killing him. It should have pissed him off. Sometimes it did, just rarely when Bryant was actually there.
A buzzer went off, distinctly louder than the oven. Right on time. That was one of the older man’s innate contradictions. He took forever to say any fucking thing, but he was never late. He’d agreed to seven; seven it was. Like every other time, Marcus had no idea whether it was eagerness that led to the punctuality or just habit. He needed to stop trying to decipher the motivations behind what Bryant did, or said. It had become too much of a fucking headache. After wiping his hands on the white and yellow apron, Marcus went to let the man in.
"Hello, Marcus."
Wide eyes, wry smile... more contradictions, standing at the threshold of his apartment and holding a bottle of wine. Bryant was impeccably dressed, except for his hair, which never seemed to have much care taken with it. Marcus felt an urge to grab the man by the collar just to wrinkle him up a bit, but he opened the door and stood aside for him, instead. Something in the way Bryant was looking at him gave him pause. The blue eyes danced, and the smile spread into an honest one. Nothing wry or hesitant about it. Despite himself, Marcus responded to the expression immediately. Then there was a soft chuckle, and he realized that the other man was just amused by something. His own mouth ticked, unsure whether it wanted to smirk or frown. "What?"
“You, ah... Well.” Tell-tale fidgeting, clearing of the throat. Someone who wasn’t familiar with this game would think the older man was nervous, but Marcus had seen him nervous before. This was something else. He suspected that Bryant was trying not to laugh. “You... you look, um... rather nice, tonight.”
There was too much laughter in the eyes for it to be just a compliment, and Marcus wasn’t able to stop himself from glancing down at his own attire. The fucking apron. It wasn’t particularly feminine. Alternating yellow and white vertical stripes. Simple. Practical, even, but out of character enough to apparently be hilarious. He scowled, reaching behind himself to undo the ties, muttering. “It’s from my fucking family’s restaurant.”
"Oh, n-no... you needn't... that is to say, I, ah... I didn’t mean to imply that you should remove it. It's... it's rather fetching, actually. Appropriate! Uh, I mean... given that you've... been at work in the kitchen, and, well..."
Marcus paused, giving the other man a long look. He snorted, but ultimately left the apron on, dropping his hands and abandoning the ties. "Sure."
Maybe he could work with fetching. The laughter in the older man’s eyes wasn’t altogether unpleasant. It was just easy to take it the wrong way. His feelings were touchier, somehow, whenever Bryant was concerned. Probably due to the fact that the man used words like fetching, but wouldn’t actually let himself be fetched. A steadfast determination to be oblivious to a guy’s advances could only be endearing for so long. Bryant didn’t ever brush him off, or completely duck questions, but he somehow managed to avoid giving a straight answer half the time, and never committed to shit. If Marcus ever decided it was intentional on the older man’s part, some kind of joke at his expense, he’d be pissed.
There wasn’t anything deeper here than Bryant being amused by the presence of an apron, however, and Marcus knew it. The gift of wine was accepted, and taken into the kitchen to be opened. Cue idle chatter over their glasses as they waited for the turkey to settle. Yet another side effect of being around the coroner for too damn long. A higher tolerance for listening to others talk. Marcus was usually the one to fill silences, demand the attention. He’d ask questions, sure, but usually his interests were more geared to what people wanted to know about him. Bryant had seemed fascinated from the beginning, and Marcus had enjoyed that curiosity. Basked in it. But he could only talk about himself for so long, he was surprised to discover. After a while, he’d taken to asking Bryant shit. About his job, his family, his fucking day. Worse, he’d begun listening. Remembering little details and stories Bryant had shared. The man could go on at length about some fairly gnarly shit, it turned out. He’d get a distracted, but happy look on his face when he was allowed to go into his work. Pushing any topic too personal, like romantic or sexual preferences, invariably resulted in the stammering, fidgeting mess. However, let the man go on about an autopsy and there was no stammering whatsoever. Marcus didn’t mind the subject matter, and he’d grown to enjoy the note of confidence in Bryant’s voice, even with the faraway gaze.
That also wasn’t like him at all. If Sophia could see him like this, the patient listener who magnanimously allowed his partner to choose the topics and didn’t push his agenda too hard for fear of frightening off a friend, she’d likely shit bricks. That laughter would be at his expense. Fuck, sometimes he felt like laughing about it, too. Watching Bryant chuckle over some medical malady humor, Marcus certainly felt like laughing. Or yelling. Or at the very least informing the older man outright of his bipolar thoughts. Bryant, I fucking hate you sometimes, but most of the time I don’t. Why is that? Can we knock this shit off? Just one way or another. I don’t fucking care. Either I fuck you into a coma, or you just leave. Delete my fucking number and for the love of Christ don’t answer when I ask you for a drink next Thursday. Because I’m going to call. Always. Stupid fucking patterns. The most banal cycle of self-destruction - self-domestication? - to ever befall a grown man. Would it even help, at this point, to detach himself? Or was he just fucked, altered permanently? There were ways to test it. Kill the cycle. Hey, Bryant, I’m going to punch you in the mouth. Now, I’d be real fucking grateful if you hit me back. Not sure if you can break me, or I’ll break you, but one way or another I’ll get some kind of resolution. Can you do that for me? Thanks, hombre, you’re all right.
But Marcus couldn’t really picture the older man fighting back. Not in the way he’d want Bryant to. Nobody was going to break anyone, neither of them was going to stop answering his phone, so fuck it. Small talk over wine it was. When the timer went off, he couldn’t have been more grateful. A small tension breaker, but a distraction nonetheless. “That’s the fucking bird.”
"Oh! Wonderful. I could... uh, well... here, let me... allow me to assist you, with that."
"I got this," Marcus assured him, feeling confident that this was something he did have control over. The kitchen was his domain. That was something that had been established early on, when he’d learned that Bryant didn’t really cook. Marcus liked the feeling of being in charge of something, even if it was just the fucking food. Initially, he’d thought that Bryant would be malleable, easy to manipulate. The stammering and nervous gestures hadn’t been a true representation of the large coroner, however. The man was oddly stubborn and evasive about certain things. Not just with sex, though that was the sticking point that Marcus liked to obsess over the most. While it did likely serve to keep his interest, it also grated.
So did the way the older man hovered when Marcus went into the kitchen to carve the bird. He’d had no plans of doing a presentation, and would have preferred it if Bryant had just waited at the table... though he supposed he could understand not wanting to sit alone in another person’s apartment. Because of that, Marcus didn’t say anything, and let Bryant shadow him. He methodically pulled out the skewers, and used a large metal spoon to get out the onions, garlic and other vegetables that he’d stuffed the bird with earlier to give it moisture. Then he picked up the large knife he’d already sharpened. Focused on the bird, he didn’t notice how agitated Bryant was becoming to see his hand grip the knife’s handle, however he did hear it in the older man’s voice when he spoke. “Oh, n-no... that’s not... you shouldn’t... I’d prefer it if you let me...”
“What?” Marcus asked, trying to keep the growl out of his voice. He was only moderately successful. “What’s wrong?”
“I-I should be... I mean, that is to say... I can do that!” The older man looked physically pained. It was more than just the usual O’Neill awkwardness. There was actual fear in that expression. He seemed to be trying to mask it, but Bryant had never been good at that. “Y-you cooked... so... I, uh... I should carve... really, it’s only fair, and...”
“I know how to carve a fucking turkey.” That time there was no attempt at dampening the growl. Marcus had been bred specifically to work the kitchen. His father hadn’t wanted sons so much as prep cooks and dishwashers. Bryant was acting as though he was terrified that Marcus might cut himself. As if he were a little kid. It was actively offensive, and the larger man frowned. “Go sit down. I got this.”
The older man did not go sit down. He closed the distance between them. “Just give me the knife, Marcus.”
That had been a demand, not a request. This was a new side of Bryant, one that Marcus hadn’t seen yet. A Bryant who issued orders and asserted himself. Part of Marcus wanted to respond to that as well, and if it hadn’t felt like such a slight to his pride, he would have obeyed just to encourage it. See where that could go.
But it was a slight. Hell, maybe this was the root of why Bryant was skittish about them. Marcus wouldn’t want to fuck around with someone he didn’t trust to hold a knife, either. Maybe Bryant saw him as a fuck up. Someone who needed a fucking father, rather than a prospective lover. That stung, a lot, and Marcus dug his heels in. Narrowing his eyes. “Fuck off, mijo. You’re pissing me off.”
“That isn't at all my intention, and I... I apologize, for, ah, pissing you off. However, you're doing it wrong. The way you're holding it... the angle of the blade.... You're going to hurt yourself, that way, not to mention ruin the bloody corpse - that is to say, the ah... the carcass...”
There it was. You’re doing it wrong... You’re going to hurt yourself. It was the worst thing he could've said, and Marcus turned, pointing the blade towards the other man in anger. “You don’t got the right to pull that man-of-the-house shit in my fucking house!”
Marcus would have gone on, had Bryant not made a sudden grab for the knife right then. That the older man would just attempt to snatch it from his hand was actually shocking, and Marcus didn’t even realize he’d reacted until the knife was already in Bryant; pushed to the hilt into the soft tissues of the man’s stomach.
“Oh, fuck.. oh, no, shit... I didn’t... I didn’t mean to... fuck,” Marcus moved to catch Bryant, help lower him to the ground. Protocols spinning through his mind in a jumbled mess. Apply pressure around the wound, don’t remove the knife, call 911, fuck, this isn’t how tonight was supposed to go down, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, shit... The bleeding was bad enough, and Marcus could imagine the pain of the wound keenly, as if he’d been the one stabbed with a 10-inch kitchen knife. Worse, though, was the look on the other man’s face. It wasn’t anger or fear, just an unsurprised sadness. A look that said See? I told you so. Bryant had been right about the knife, about him. Marcus was a fuck up. As he sat with the man waiting for the EMTs to arrive, Marcus couldn’t find a single thing to say. There weren’t words. You can’t just stab a guy on Thanksgiving and then somehow take it back, get a do-over. He’d fucked up beyond comprehension. If help didn’t arrive fast enough, Bryant could die on his kitchen floor, and even if the coroner did survive, Marcus was probably going to go to fucking prison. It wasn’t the least bit fair, or right. Everything was supposed to have been perfect... At least now he had his fucking resolution.