#well! what is a guy to do. if not blastin off regardless | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

justcallmebeau-blog · 7 years

Text

Para || Twists & Turns

WHO: Beau & Malcolm WHEN: 1/20/17 WHERE: Malcolm’s apartment WHAT: After Malcolm walks in on Beau still in Martin’s bed in the wee (well, late for everyone else) hours of the morning things get awkward so Beau goes over to Malcolm’s to talk it out. WARNINGS: The first part’s enough to make your stomach hurt with all the tension there, but no proper warnings. :p

Beau couldn’t shake the nerves that’d settled in the pit of his stomach. It’d started with Martin being distant after he’d made the comment about how he and Malcolm knew each other, and it hadn’t gotten any better as the hours passed. To make it more awkward not having clothes meant he’d had to borrow some from Martin and had only bothered to change the pants once he’d made it back home. The whole morning felt surreal - how had he gone from getting properly sexed up for the first time since arriving at the Institute to a situation that felt like a steel wall slamming up? The last thing Beau wanted was to lose two friends within weeks of really making them. Again? Technically this was the first time he and Malcolm were really becoming friends and not just an employer-employee turned friendly turned fling. Breaking out of his thoughts Beau knocked on Malcolm’s door and waited with his hands shoved in his pockets for an answer.

Malcolm: He’s half inclined to ignore the knock on the door, and if the rest of his morning has been any indication of how the day would go Malcolm wonders if he might have been better off never getting out of bed. It takes a moment to work up the nerve, but he breathes a sigh of resignation and makes his way over to pull it open, unsurprised to find Beau on the other side. The smell of fresh baked goods wafts in the doorway behind him; flour smudged across his chin and shirt. “I’m not mad.” He blurts, meeting Beau’s eyes with a red-rimmed pair of his own. “Ya’ don’t have t’ apologize, if that’s why you’re here.”

Beau blinked at the sight and tried to take in every detail, knowing what the smudges of white were as soon as he saw them but overlooking that and the delicious smells coming from the apartment to focus on how rough Malcolm looked. Was that because of what he’d walked in on? If it was no wonder Martin had been cold with him, he would have too. “Didn’t think you were mad, exactly, and if I apologize for anything it’s going to be for upsetting someone. Two someones. Not sure yet.” He offered over the jug of lemonade in his hand, reluctant to come over without something that he could give as a peace offering. “We still might need to talk. If you’re up for it? The last thing I want is to fuck up new friendships with people genuinely worth being around. Also you might want to agree to the talking or I’m going to be here rambling for the next half hour about nothing just a warning.” Where he everloving hell had Beau’s chill gone?

Malcolm: He lets his gaze fall away, sweeping down over the familiar sight of Martin’s shirt to the jug of lemonade being offered. The image is fresh in his mind; two bodies tangled in the rumpled sheets, and despite the addition of clothing it’s difficult not to summon it to the forefront when he looks at Beau. “–I guess ya’ better come inside,” Malcolm says softly after a moment, “The last thing we need’s somebody overhearin’ this.” He steps aside, making room in the doorway for Beau to enter. “There’s muffins, if you’re hungry. An’ biscuits. An’ scones. Croissants are still bakin’…” The door closes behind him, and Mal leans back against it. “Where’s Stromberg?”

Beau winced at the idea of another professor overhearing. The whole reason he’d been tight-lipped and best behavior in the first place was because Malcolm wanted their former dalliance kept quiet and he was going to honor that. “Sorry about that… Don’t want the gossip blog comin’ in on anyone again. My name’s already been in there once and that’s too much for my comfort.” The amount of baked goods had Beau side-eyeing the chef. Had he made all of that this morning? That was something he only did when irritated or craving comfort food, and if it was one of the two… “Think he’s already taken off for the airport. Either that or -” ignoring me, but those words didn’t come out, instead he finished it with a “Packing, maybe. A scone sounds good. Never gonna turn down your food.” The talking needed to happen but maybe it wasn’t so wrong to stall it a little longer. “You two should maybe talk. For the record.”

Malcolm: They’ve both felt the burn of the gossip mill here at Mousai and it would seem that neither has any inclination to fan those flames again; Mal is grateful for that much, at least. “I know, I read it,” he admits, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as he tips his chin over toward the counter and the frankly obscene display of baked goods still cooling on the racks. “Help yourself. I guess I got a little carried away.” Understatement, but Malcolm has always been prone to those. “There’s really nothin’ t’ talk about, Beau. With you, or with Stromberg. You’re both consentin’ adults–” Well, Beau is an adult; Martin is an eternal twelve year old in a man’s body, “–You can fuck whoever ya’ want without acquirin’ my approval.”

Beau felt the uneasiness settle even heavier in his gut as the conversation continued, not sure what he was expecting but having a difficult time dealing with it regardless. Emotions in the present tense weren’t something he dealt with well and that included anxiety and guilt. “You usually make this many baked goods?” The word ‘fuck’ felt vulgar in the strange setting here with Malcolm, but it was exactly what it’d been. He and Martin were friends and it’d been such a simple move to end up in his bed and leave it at that, but of course nothing ever stayed simple for him. “If it makes you react in a way you wouldn’t normally react - which guessing by Martin’s reaction is the case - then yeah, it is something to be talked about. Don’t want to be the one who makes anyone else’s friendships awkward. I’ve got more control over my dick than that. Self control. I’ve got it. Haven’t laid a hand on you, have I?” Rambling again, Christ Beau.

Malcolm: This feeling is unwelcome; both for the way it makes his heart tighten in his chest and his belly feel like it’s in knots. Malcolm does not understand why he feels this way, only that he does , and it only makes the jitters worse when he begins to think too hard on the matter. “Yeah,” he lies about the food, but there’s no effort behind it and the fib is as transparent as the windowpanes. Ever has the kitchen been his refuge in times of stress. “You’re not; Stromberg an’ I are fine. Everything’s fine.” Mal doesn’t know who he’s trying harder to convince; Beau, or himself. Something about the last question, though, seems to hit him like a kick to the gut, and Malcolm goes quiet. He feels heat burn behind his eyes when they lock with Beau’s, and when he answers his tone is heavy, “No…No, Beau, ya’ haven’t. Not that I can blame ya’ for that.”

Beau Can’t bring his eyes up to meet Malcolm’s as much as he wants to. There’s something so palpably off in the room and he can’t figure out what to do with it. Uneasiness usually has him running but it doesn’t seem appropriate to run for once. At least the scone keeps his mouth full before he says something too dumb and forces himself to make a run for it. “Might want to talk to him regardless.” Beau pauses before adding, “But it’s not up to me to police how often y'all talk, my apologies.” Then his eyes jerk up and there’s no longer an issue with eye contact. Not sure he could break it if he wanted to. Part of him’s hoping Malcolm looks his way but somehow he doubts it’s going to be that easy. “Blame me? You wanted the past hush hush. I assumed, y'know? Not my place to show my attractions anywhere where they aren’t wanted.”

Malcolm: The tension in the room is thick; stifling and palpable. “We’ll talk when he’s back from San Francisco,” Mal concedes as he shifts uncomfortably, wincing when he overcompensates his weight onto his bad leg. “I don’t,” he says again, “An’ I know what I asked for. I still think it’s best we don’t go blastin’ our history considerin’ how fast rumors fly around here.” Swallowing thickly, he tears his gaze away and focuses on the toes of his house-slippers as if they’re suddenly the most interesting things in the world. “Don’t tell him I said so, but Stromberg’s a good lookin’ guy. You both like t’ have a good time. I get it. You don’t have t’ explain it t’ me, Beau.”

Beau finishes the scone quicker than he planned and shoves his hands into his pockets before he starts biting at his nails again. The subject of them talking he lets drop but then the topic only gets more intense. “You have my word. Meant it when I said it wasn’t just my business, I’m not going to do that to you.” The direction Malcolm is taking this confuses him, and suddenly he’s not sure whether his assumptions had been right or not. “No need to inflate his already overblown ego, trust me. I… don’t know what I was trying to explain, really, but….” He swallows, and it tastes strangely acidic. Maybe he shouldn’t have eaten when his stomach’s already tensed up. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have bothered you. Wasn’t my intention.”

Malcolm: “I trust ya’. Please don’t mistake–this–” he waves a hand vaguely between them, not exactly sure how to choose the correct term for whatever it is that is going on, “–for me doubtin’ your word.” Malcolm takes a deep breath, huffing quietly to himself. “It’s alright, you’re not botherin’ me. Really. I’ve always enjoyed your company…” Perhaps moreso back when things had been a little less complicated; and a little more fulfilling for them both. “I’m just havin’ a bad day, that’s all. It’s not your fault.”

Beau “I’m trying not to. You’ve always seemed to say what you mean, why wouldn’t you now?” Though that might’ve been more to reassure himself than Malcolm. “At least when I wasn’t picking on you. Try to be a little nicer these days. Sides to Martin, but he deserves it.” If it had been anyone else maybe they could be laughing over it right now, but of course that wasn’t his luck. “Company gonna make it worse? Didn’t really have anything going on today. I could help you bake….”

Malcolm: There’s a flash of memory that flickers through his mind; a bright restaurant kitchen still shiny and new, a 'click, click, click’ of a camera, the smell of Beau’s cologne and the scrape of stubble against his lips and warm skin under his fingertips. It is all that Malcolm can do not to shudder at the vividness. “These days…” he murmurs, “I always kinda’ liked it when ya’ weren’t so nice.” He regrets the admission as soon as the words fall from his tongue, but it’s too late to take it back. “–No. Stay.” Glancing over Beau’s shoulder at the overflowing countertop, he adds with a wry smile, “Only if you’re gonna’ help me eat all this.”

Beau ’s eyebrows raised and for a second his mind went very similar places to where Malcolm’s had a few feet away, lip tugged between his teeth as he let himself indulge in it. The first encounter is ever so fresh and he’s still accounting present company as to why. “Yeah? Can always make sure not to spare you.” The teasing’s still tense, face still tight lines, but he’s trying. Flirting’s what he’s prevented himself from doing since they ended up in the same place but it’s such an essential part of Beau that maybe it made things worse. “You gonna judge me if I add Nutella to everything?”

Malcolm: The strange heaviness in the pit of his stomach is elsewhere now; lower, warmer. Mal’s attention is momentarily drawn when the timer on the oven sounds, and he offers Beau a conciliatory glance as he hobbles over to pull two trays of fresh croissants out. “You don’t have t’ pretend for my benefit,” he assures, strangely sincere, “I told ya’, I get it.” A thin smile pulls over his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Some things never change…” Malcolm sighs, though it does not stop him from reaching high into the pantry and pulling down a jar of Nutella. “Not the biscuits, though. Those are sacred.”

Beau ’s mouth waters at the smell of the croissants. His stomach growls further, but he’s trying real hard to ignore that. Watching Malcolm work has always been fascinating and now is no exception. “I don’t really do the pretending thing, Mal. Holding back sure but pretending is for those looking to hide something.” Beau had plenty of secrets but rarely involving his actions towards anyone else. There was no sense in it. “Are you referring to my desecration of your goods? Because let me tell you,” and oh but the innuendo had barely slipped over his head, “Nutella is adding to the flavor, not taking away. Though I suppose I can listen if you let me take home any left over?”

Malcolm: It’s easy to lose himself in the familiar routines–transferring croissants to the racks to cool, prepping fresh pans, and kneading dough for another batch of biscuits–and even given his usual tendency toward denial Malcolm realizes that he’s quite literally working out his issues. Certainly, it is not for want of more biscuits. “You know I’ve never asked ya’ t’ hold back, Beau,” he replies, glancing back over his shoulder, “Not then, an’ not now.” Brows knit ever so slightly, his hands stilling for a moment. “Chocolate an’ hazelnut aren’t the only flavors worth enjoyin’. What about a drizzle of honey? Raspberry coulis? Jesus, just plain sweet cream butter…” He heaves a sigh, finally taking a second to look around at the dozens upon dozens of pastries, muffins, and biscuits. “I have a feelin’ leftovers aren’t gonna’ be a problem.”

Beau can’t help but lean back and cross his arms over his chest to watch. This used to be one of his favorite things, watching Malcolm get all of the food prepped before any sort of shoot happened. It was soothing and intense, and that was a combination he found unusual enough to be fascinating. “Assumed keeping everything in the past meant holding back,” he murmured, voice just loud enough to be heard. “Given how little… well, we both know how little I tried to control myself then.” This time the growl from his stomach was audible and a flush formed over Beau’s cheeks instantly. “…Just for that you’re going to have to provide all of the above for my enjoyment. Any chance you’ve got any apple butter? My Nana used to make it and it goes wonderful on biscuits.”

Malcolm: If he even realizes that he has an audience, Malcolm seems not to show it. Like so many of the people here at Mousai, he is prone to getting swept up in his art. “Closin’ the door on the past doesn’t mean lockin’ it an’ throwin’ away the key, Beau,” he submits, tossing a handful of flour onto the granite countertop before dropping the ball of biscuit dough onto it. “To be fair, I don’t think either one of us was concerned with self control back then. Things were so much easier that way.” Malcolm doesn’t look up from his busywork; making a few passes of the rolling pin. “I don’t, but I’ve got apples an’ I’ve got sugar an’ spices. I’ll make ya’ a batch. Won’t be ready til’ tomorrow, though. You’ll have t’ make due with nutella in the meantime, I guess.”

Beau The first attempt at being completely comfortable is to try and find a clean space of counter and hoist himself up. Much more comfortable than peering over at Malcolm. “Oh? Well… shite. Have a bad habit of making assumptions. You just seemed so comfortable leaving it there.” There’s no asking if he can before Beau’s phone is pulled out and he’s snapping candids of Malcolm as he works, sure he’ll be able to find a way to use them and present them to the chef later on. “Heh… Something to be said for doing whatever the hell you want to consequences be damned.” Another croissant is torn into tiny strips and for Malcolm’s sake he enjoys the taste without anything added right now, savoring the natural sweetness. “You up for bringing it by my studio? Got a shoot tomorrow evening, but I’d enjoy the company along with the food. Too easy to get trapped in my head when I’m there all weekend.”

Malcolm: Counter space is at a premium, certainly, with more heavily laden cooling racks and scattered platters of pastries than a bachelor and his obese cat have any good reason to need. Malcolm does look up when he sees Beau hop up to sit amid the mess out of the corner of his eye; something of a nostalgic little smile tugging over his lips as he recalls the many times a young chef in New Orleans had scolded a certain photographer for doing that very thing. Now, though, he lets it slide. “It’s not that, Beau. I just…Well, I know things have changed. I’m not the guy I used t’ be, an’ I can’t just expect you t’ look past that.” How could he? He can’t even look past it himself. “Sometimes I really do miss those days.” Malcolm agrees. “I can, yeah. It’d probably be good for me t’ get outta’ this apartment for a few hours, anyway…runnin’ outta’ room for baked goods. What are ya’ shootin’?”

Beau had always been good at ignoring the usual standards of boundaries and personal space, and that included someone’s work space. Creating was much more fun for him if he had an audience and he refused to believe it wasn’t true. “What the hell am I looking past exactly?” Beau’s eyebrows scrunch up and he looks Malcolm over. Neither of them are the same person they were years ago, inwardly or outwardly, but glimpses of the man he’d shoved against the wall time and again were still there as far as he could tell. “So do I. Still swear I shoulda extended my flight by another week or two.” A loud snort led to a cough he couldn’t conceal, the small feast of baked goods enough to feed an army. “Understatement. Doing a series re-enacting childhood photos, got a model coming in tomorrow for a few hours, rest of the evening will be spent grumbling about how none of the shots were what I saw in my head,” he said with a grin, ready to admit how difficult he could be when in the midst of creating.

Malcolm: Malcolm stops what he’s doing, turning around to fix Beau with an incredulous stare and a curious tilt of his head. Where do I fuckin’ start? he thinks to himself; the list is not a short one. “I dunno’, Beau, maybe the obvious…” He answers with a shrug, tone dripping sarcasm. “That’s my point, though. It’s like I said, I get it, I’m not what ya’ go for anymore an’ that’s okay.” Mal doesn’t quite look his friend in the eyes, “We probably wouldn’t have lasted another week at that pace. Literally, I mean I don’t think we slept for three days straight as it was. Is it possible t’ die from too much sex? Jesus, what a way t’ go…” He sighs, shoulders drooping wistfully. “That sounds like a huge undertaking. Somethin’ tells me you’ll make it work, though. You can’t seem t’ take a bad photograph if ya’ try.”

Beau stops where he’s kicking the cabinets underneath his feet, thanking his stature for making it feel a little bit like it did when he was a kid. “What are you talking about?” He squints again and this time looks Malcolm over, trying to figure out if there’s something he’s missing here. “That’s not even remotely true. You’re putting… is 'words in my mouth’ the right phrase? Whatever the phrase, it’s still not accurate. Just tamped down on any urges to jump bones because I was damned sure you wanted to just forget the last time we saw each other.” There was a lot clicking together in his brain, puzzle pieces snapping together until the whole picture was verging on crystal. “That whole plane ride was spent knocked out cold. Though we’d have probably ended up crashing every three or four days and repeating the process until someone called us in missing. Maybe? We were trying to hit that point, apparently,” he says with a thoughtful pause, lips quirked up. “Massive. Almost as massive as the book I’m hoping to put out. You aim for cheerleader and I’m going to hafta find a skirt that really compliments that arse.” The words slipped out without thinking, leaning back so he didn’t steal another sweet.

Malcolm: “Why in the world would I ever wanna’ forget that?” He asks softly, shaking his head. “Beau, I don’t regret any of it. Not a single minute. I think about it all the time. I just–” Malcolm pauses, chewing on his words, “–I guess I just assumed with all the fish in this little pond, you wouldn’t have t’ settle for gimpy one that got caught in the filter one too many times, y'know?” It’s as straightforward of an admission as he can muster, and already he feels that uneasy shift returning to his gut. “I fell asleep on the ride back from the airport; forgot t’ pull my pants all the way back on. The limo driver wasn’t real pleased…he got a big tip.” Mal huffs a little chuckle under his breath, “Book? This’s the first I’ve heard of any book…Trust me, no such skirt exists.”

Beau feels his mouth go dry and he watches Malcolm carefully. “Yeah? For the record, you’re not 'the gimpy one’ and I’ll smack you somewhere not so fun if you keep talking about yourself like that. You’re still you. All the base elements are still you, an’ you’re still hotter than hell and just as fun to be around.” There’s this tendency to accidentally mimic ways of speaking coming through, but only because he’s so focused on Malcolm that he’s not thinking about anything else. To keep it a little lighthearted he responded with the first thing that came to mind, a not so subtle checking him out and a “with an ass still fit for manhandling.” There’s a burn starting that Beau hadn’t planned in the slightest, imagining the scenario vividly. “Should’ve enjoyed the fact he got a show, for gods sake. Yeah I… A friend is backing it, and I’m asking friends to contribute. Mixed media. You sure?” His face pulled into an exaggerated frown, pretending to hold the pout.

Malcolm: Mal presses his lips together, perhaps to stop himself from doing exactly what Beau has just told him not to do. It’s easy to brush it off; to say it’s not so bad and maybe even mean it, but his friend hasn’t seen the full extent of the damage Malcolm is so careful to keep hidden beneath layers of clothing and a brusque attitude. “You always were a sweet-talker, Beau Alastair.” He accuses, with a knowing grin. “Yeah, well it’s been a long time since anybody got around t’ doin’ much of anything t’ my ass.” Mal adds, only the slightest hint of bitterness seeping into his tone. He returns his attention to the biscuits; beginning to place them onto the sheet pans as he asks curiously, “A friend’s backin’ it? Must be a loaded friend…Ya’ got a publisher lined up an’ everything already?”

Beau watched Malcolm’s face carefully, not sure what he was expecting but relieved as hell when it didn’t lead to some kind of arguing or line Beau had inadvertently crossed. “Nah, just so honest you never knew what to do with me,” he says with a smirk, zeroing in on the grin and letting it finally untie a good portion of the knots still left in his stomach. “Bet it’s not for lack of them trying. You being completely oblivious to flirting would explain why it took me so long to get in your pants the first go-around.” While he’s catching on to more than he lets on, he’s not going to let Malcolm see himself as anything other than how he sees him, and if it doesn’t work at least it won’t be for lack of trying. “Not yet, but she’s getting me in contact with some people high up enough to get that process going. Nervous as all hell, never done anything that big, but if the work’s worth it I’ll gladly spend most of my free time busting arse to get it done.”

Malcolm: It’s hard not to chuckle when Beau replies. “Your personal filter does tend t’ operate a bit liberally,” he points out, recalling quite a few of the honest and arguably inappropriate exchanges they two of them had shared in the early days of their collaboration back in New Orleans. “I’m not oblivious,” he argues weakly, but they both know that Beau’s assertion is not entirely incorrect. “It’s just that I don’t think most people know what they’re gettin’ into with me, an’ I don’t believe in bait an’ switch. It’s like unwrappin’ a candy bar an’ discoverin’ half of it’s a melted mess…How do ya’ look someone in the eye and handle that disappointment?” Malcolm shakes his head, dismissing the train of thought as he turns to put the pans into the oven. “Don’t fret the content, your photos are worth every penny–I can say that much from personal experience–an’ I’m willin’ t’ bet it’ll come together better than you’re expectin’. I’m happy for ya’, Beau, you deserve a big break like this.”

Beau Maybe Beau preens a little at that but it’s nothing anyone can prove. “Unless it’s a student of mine I see no reason not to speak my mind.” There’s nothing Malcolm could have said to make Beau think otherwise but the fact that even he doesn’t seem to believe it is a telling sign. “You seem to be of the assumption that the entire world is full of superficial people. Not superficial at first, not superficial in some ways, but wholey superficial. I don’t know about you, but while instant attraction is usually necessary, someone would have to be crazy unhygienic or have a whole bunch of open wounds for me to shy away from whatever’s under the clothes.” As he talks he makes his way to the fridge and looks over his shoulder for permission before pouring himself some of the lemonade he’d brought, wishing for a moment he’d brought whiskey for him. Beau’s drinking had become a near-daily thing over the course of break. “Want anything? Thank you, Mal. It means a lot coming from you. Does that mean if I ask you to contribute, to be a part of the project, that you’d say yes?”

Malcolm: Malcolm doesn’t have much room to berate anyone when it comes to minding one’s words, though in point of fact he’s pretty certain Beau’s brand of brutal honesty tends to be better received than his own acid-laced assertions. “I am, an’ I don’t think I’m wrong about that. All due respect, but ya’ tend not t’ notice how superficial people are until you no longer fit into that standard category of conventional attractiveness anymore.” Not that Beau would have any experience with that, Mal finds himself thinking as he watches his friend hop down from the counter and move across the kitchen to the fridge, “Trust me, it’s pretty bad.” he murmurs, shaking his head, “No, I’ve got coffee.” A brow quirks, “Me? I mean, if you’re lookin’ t’ include some food shots I’m happy t’ work with ya’ on that…It’d be just like old times.”

Beau narrowed his eyes and tried to reign in the instinct to be ornery as hell. “Most people I’ve met don’t fit into a standard category of beauty. They aren’t models, aren’t 'hunks’ - which is a weird word by the way. You gotta have a little somethin’ that puts you into a more unique category to keep someone’s attention for longer than the first run down. Not that you’re going to listen to me, you stubborn fuck.” The words weren’t said maliciously, just with an air of already having given up convincing Malcolm of anything Beau found true. Not that it’d stop Beau from going right back to the flirting he’d wanted to do the second he’d seen his old friend. “Fuck those guys. Or girls. Whichever. Don’t want an asshole in your bed unless it’s the one on someone’s backside.” Of course he had coffee. Coffee that’d have been stolen if he was any more comfortable with the man. “Yeah. Just like old times…” Beau murmured. “Also not at all a way to ensure that you’re cooking for me more often than not. Get me spoiled all over again. Do you know how horrific it was to have to eat airport food after weeks of having your food?”

Malcolm: The accusation is not without merit–'Stubborn Fuck’ may as well be synonymous with Malcolm Brockway and Beau is certainly not the first person to point out as much. True to form, Mal remains unconvinced. Beau means well, he knows, but the encouraging words don’t carry much weight coming from a wildly attractive man who had only just that morning been in bed with another wildly attractive man…not that Malcolm wants to delve into further discussions about that, and so he lets the matter drop. “Y'know, you only ever had t’ ask. Not even any bribery required, though I only take special requests if there’s coffee involved.” He reaches for the mostly empty mug and pulls the coffee pot off of the burner, topping off what remains with a fresh pour before taking a sip. “Airport food is a travesty. Good reason t’ stick around this time, don’t you think?”

Beau went rooting around for a coffee cup as soon as the words were out of Malcolm’s mouth, determined to allow himself the indulgences that were very unique to time spent with Malcolm. “You willing to make any of that special coffee you used to make whenever I’d start bitching about not wanting it quite so bitter?” His own cup gets put in front of the coffeepot and he looks at him expectantly before finally caving to polite. “Please? Caffeine would be nice. I’ll even wash all the dishes for you.” The words make Beau still a little but he tries not to read too much into them, giving Malcolm a bright smile instead. “Yeah. Damn good reason. Don’t worry, I don’t plan on going anywhere this time. You’re kinda stuck with me, candid photo shoots an’ cookin’ for me an’ getting you in trouble an’ all.”

Malcolm: “Chickory an’ cinnamon,” Malcolm supplies; watching Beau hunt around for a cup for a moment before nodding in the direction of the cabinet where he keeps his mugs and glasses. “A New Orleans classic. We sure are takin’ a walk down memory lane today, aren’t we? Yeah, I suppose I can whip up a batch of that…” He takes a look around at the carnage of flour, batter, dirty mixing bowls and everything else scattered around his usually immaculate kitchen, “–It might take the both of us t’ tackle all this.” Mal scoots toward his pantry, using the hook of his cane to pull a tin of chicory root down to fall into his waiting hand. “Good,” he says, glancing back over his shoulder; the slightest hint of a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips when he locks eyes with Beau, “I can’t wait.”

#Para: twists and turns #para 01 #or proper para 01 XD

4 notes · View notes