Chapter Text
The opulent chandeliers were a little too fancy for Mark's liking, not because he had any sort of taste–refined or otherwise–but because each were home to dozens of bulbs each, all beating down on him relentlessly.
Mark dried his sweaty hands on his thighs, the fabric darkening in the shape of a palm. Great. Gordon was going to walk in any minute now and think he's at a charity event that donates fancy suits to uncivilized cavemen in need. He couldn't fit in here even if he tried. His new suit was too stiff for him to sit correctly in the small wooden chairs that creaked under his weight to begin with. One wrong move and the chair would be reduced to a pile of wood chips, his ego shattering into a million pieces with it.
The waiter kept a close watch on him, swinging by every few minutes to make sure Mark was in the right building. Each time he informs the maitre d that he's perfectly capable of sitting here without dining and dashing, he was just waiting for his coworker.
It's so public, open, no wonder Lawrence chose this as their meeting place. It also helped that it's his home turf, in a sense.
"Listen, jackass, like I told you, the reservation is for two–" Mark angrily tapped at the name cards–fucking name cards, that's how uppity it was–until the suited man couldn't figure out how to deal with the situation and stood gawking back at him in awkward silence. "Hoffman… and Gordon. See?"
A stern but not unkind hand weighed down his shoulder.
"Please, Lawrence is just fine. I insist," Lawrence said in exasperation, familiar and patient. Too patient; Mark had heard about how these stiff upper lip folks can be with their words. Sweet like honey with a hidden layer of venom underneath. Lawrence set his briefcase beside the table with an exhausted thump and took the seat across from Mark. "We're ready to order," he barked indifferently, not making eye contact with their waiter.
Now that was a man who looked like he belonged. Lawrence's suit was finely pressed, each and every one of the many separate pieces crisp and lint-free. It was a matching set most likely, far above Mark's paygrade. Either that or Lawrence knew more about clothing than Mark had originally given him credit for. The tie–silk, of course–reflected the warm glow around them, the lights illuminated his sunny hair and the glint in his eye without him breaking a sweat.
The man–James, if the name tag Mark finally paid an ounce of attention to was at all reliable–cleared his throat nervously. "Would you like to hear tonight's wine special–"
"No, thank you," Lawrence answered curtly before Mark had a moment to answer. The menu was right in front of him, but he didn't bother looking it over. "Water is fine for tonight."
It's just like his typical workplace etiquette, homicidal, hippocratic, or otherwise. He wasn't even getting paid.
The waiter turned to Mark in search of relief. "Alright. And for you–"
Lawrence peeled his stony gaze from the menus to glare up at him wordlessly. And that's all it took, apparently. The implication. Of what, exactly, Mark wasn't sure. Based on the intricate cutlery and elaborately folded napkins shaped like flowers, their staff must deal with lawsuit threats from their clients on a daily basis. He won't bother asking Mark about alcohol again, though it's not like Lawrence had given either of them much of an opportunity so far.
With the way things were going, Lawrence was stuck paying since he clearly wanted to order it all himself. Instead, he waited for Mark to finish his half, more interested in the chicken scratch cursive scrawled out onto the gold-embossed paper. The oil on Mark's fingertips left greasemarks as he squinted to get a better read.
"Ya know what–I'm not gonna read all this french bullshit. Just get me the thickest cut of steak you have–rare–and, uh.. . "
"He wants the Steak au Poivre with no sauce, no brussel sprouts, and no decorative herbs. The potatoes are fine." He practically beamed when he said it; happy to be the smartest, poshest man at their table. Lawrence turned to him again, "It's a filet mignon cooked in cognac."
Mark snuffed. "Sure, that."
He wasn't going to eat it anyways.
"Alright," James nodded, "And for–"
Mark held up his hand and watched as their waiter's face dropped. He couldn't know what to expect, but he seemed a little more exhausted after each sentence. "When I say rare, I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I mean rare. If there's not a pool of blood on my plate when it gets here, I'm sending it back."
"Preferably still moo-ing," Lawrence joked under his breath, looking highly amused by everything.
"My pleasure," James said. He wrote a brief note on his pad, poorly hidden grimace peeking from behind his fallen bangs. Through his dark eyelashes, he looked between the two men and tried to put pieces together. "Anything else?"
Their waiter had obviously come to some kind of conclusion, a nosy look grew on his face. If anything, he knew that Lawrence was his paycheck, so he took care to write Lawrence's instructions and await his order. Once he'd arrived, James had all but ignored Mark to the best of his abilities. Mark glared at him with arms crossed tightly, just to see if it'd have a similar effect.
"I'll have the Oysters Rockefeller, as well as a side of your lobster mac and cheese, and… scallions and bacon for the table." Lawrence reached under Mark for his menu and handed them to the waiter, folding his hands together primly. "That's all."
"And a glass of red. Whatever's cheapest," Mark added smugly.
"No wine," Lawrence said almost immediately. He narrowed his eyes at Mark with a challenging gleam.
Mark narrowed his eyes back.
The waiter's eyes flicker between his notepad, Mark, and Lawrence, unsure of where to settle and who to take orders from. He looked stressed, and Mark hoped he was under the influence and underprepared like most young service workers. In the end, he turns and leaves without confirming the victor.
Mark was eager to make Lawrence squirm just as much. "So, Lawrence, didn't your mother ever tell you it's rude to be tardy on the first date?"
It doesn't make him squawk like it should, like it usually does. Where there should've been shock and a hint of red beneath his wrinkled eyes, there was confusion. If Mark didn't know any better, he'd go as far as to say he's amused?
Lawrence was too busy burying himself in men who look nothing like him. The things that used to pluck at his nerves had a muted effect.
The waiter brought their food, a fire under his feet as he tried to be in and out as quickly as possible. He apologized on the kitchen's behalf, which had forgotten to stock the wine the night before and would be unable to provide a bottle for the table. Lawrence had spent the intermission quietly observing him through the fogged glass of water. Not saying a single word.
This was always the most awkward part. All charged stares and impatience as they waited for the civilians to clear the area for good.
Now that they were alone, Mark jumped right into it. "You check the time?" He said, gnawing on the chunk between his molars. Lawrence grimaced at the intermittent views of his saliva and masticated food. The scent of barely-cooked steak flooded his nose, reminiscent of the burnt flesh they'll inevitably clean later tonight. "Think Easton's probably through the maze by now."
Even though his food was steaming hot, Lawrence sneered at it. "Do you ever talk about anything other than work? And with food in your mouth, no less."
God forbid it ruined his delicate appetite or something. One of their subjects was a patient of Lawrence's not too long ago, and he seemed to be handling that just fine. The thin sheet of something that Mark could only compare to flem that sat overtop of his dish was infinitely more stomach churning than anything stuck between Mark's teeth.
"Aw, c'mon, Doc. Don't be like that," Mark chided. It was going to be a good night, a productive night, whether Lawrence wanted to or not. "All play and no work–it's not like you."
He was either going to leave this restaurant with a mental encyclopedia of schematics or he's going to be victorious in their little game. Whichever works.
"Lawrence," he corrected. "I don't see a point in it; we know how it'll end. Why don't we just enjoy the evening before we have to clean up another mess, hm?"
If he wanted company that would fall in line and behave, maybe Lawrence shouldn't've called up the only other serial killer he knew. If he wanted Mark to enjoy himself, this was the last place he'd go. It smelt too clean, almost to the point where it smelt like nothing at all. Floral wafts from the dainty, white flower in a vase at the center of their table. Iron from the meat.
He needed sweat, leather. The smell of beer and molded pool table carpets. Not whatever pansy bullshit this was. It didn't matter; Mark was supposed to sing for his supper.
"Are you going to eat that?"
"Am I going–" Lawrence smirked victoriously, offering a forkful weighed down by the hearty center of his oyster. "Uh, no... help yourself."
Only some of his arm was properly extended, still unable to lean much on his shaky prosthetic–still attached to that hunk of junk John gave him. Mark had to lean across his food, charcoal tie stained a deep black as it dipped in the slick pool of blood weeping from his dinner.
Lawrence watched with rapt attention, a flicker between Mark's mouth and his bobbing throat, waited to hear his opinion.
There was a distinct peppercorn taste to it, among other flavors Mark couldn't pick up on, but one ingredient stood out. Wine. Dry, white wine. Mark gave him a curious look.
"Don't worry, it reduced from the heat," Lawrence put simply. "It's good, no? Adds some much-needed depth."
"Tastes like wine and ocean water," Mark said, meaning no. He savored the undercurrent of alcohol instead even though he knew it wouldn't get him buzzed. Other than that, it was practically inedible. Chewy and bouncy and salty in all the wrong ways.
“More for me.”
It had to have taken years to acquire a taste like that, but Lawrence savored it like a death row meal specifically catered to him. His eyes were closed as he hummed and slowly slid the fork from his lips.
Wordlessly, Lawrence offered another, despite Mark's complaints.
The scent of wine called to him, and who is Mark to refuse something like that?
Lawrence bit at the corner of his lip. There's research showing that monkeys who watched others of their kind eating a delicious ice cream cone felt similar levels of happiness, just from careful observation. He stared forward with a similarly vacant, subhuman glaze in his eyes, not a single thought traveling through his head.
For someone who looked so ravenous he could reach across the table and bite it right out of his mouth, Lawrence offered a third time.
He’d never known the man to be generous, more prideful than anything. It was only a symptom of a much larger problem that John had tried his damnedest to correct, and neither had seen much improvement. There wasn’t a kind act he’d done in his entire life that didn’t have a purpose behind it.
There were only two left on the plate now, and Mark was sure he would give him every last one if he only asked. Now that he’s thinking about it, that mac and cheese started to look more and more appetizing.
“I thought you didn’t like it?” Lawrence asked, voice raw and startled when Mark leaned in again.
This time, he kept his tie out of his food. He doesn’t take the fork–if Lawrence was so generous, why not help a man in need? The metal scrapes against his teeth on the way out. Lawrence waited as if Mark’s opinion had somehow changed.
He just shrugged in the most noncommittal fashion he could manage, mouth half-full. “I like making your wallet cry.”
Lawrence didn’t weep though, only hummed absentmindedly. Him and his wallet weren’t shedding a tear, but there was a gloss in his eyes. Like a dead fish, Mark thought, thoughtless and blubbering with his lips parted.
The fork was empty by now, and Lawrence dropped it on the table to thumb at the bit of sauce on Mark’s lip, suddenly able to bend over the table now that it suits him just fine.
Mark’s eyes widened, mirrored by Lawrence as his lidded eyes grew bigger in confusion. "What the fuck… are you doing?"
"What am I doing?" Lawrence repeated back, vacant and confused. His head tilted and it made him look dumber than he’d been all night, light brows furrowed and big like a puppy’s. The only thing is, Mark wished he looked appropriately pathetic over it. "I don't understand."
He still hung awkwardly over the table, arm outstretched, his vest and tie bar keeping the fabric from sullying.
Mark laughed. It’d be too easy to yank him over the table, cause a whole scene and get them both banned from this snoozefest. He’s already floundering and caught off guard in a way Mark wanted to savor every second of.
Now that would be a situation he could deal with.
"I thought we were here to celebrate another job well done. Not–whatever this is,” Mark said, talking casually with his hands. It made him feel like an angry, overpaid principal who’s more ‘confused than angry at the situation’, reprimanding Lawrence for being so naive as the other man shrinks back.
Tsk, tsk, tsk, Doctor.
Realization must’ve finally come to Lawrence. He pulled away and rearranged the fit of his suit into something more presentable. Clearing his throat, Lawrence kept his hands to himself this time.
"You thought I brought you… here?" Lawrence gestured to the wide, open room. He looked like Mark as if he was speaking with the dumbest man alive. "As colleagues? Mark, what are you talking about?”
He brought the one man he knew whose fingers were way too big for his fancy finger foods.
“You’re kidding right? I was your first choice?”
In truth, there weren’t many groups dining tonight. Anyone would assume the pairs around them were couples.
Lawrence muttered incredulously to himself without an ounce of bitterness taking over. Incredible. I can’t believe this. You’re impossible. Everything he did sounded too fond, a sickening feeling built up in the pit of Mark’s stomach at each bout of laughter that lasted a little too long to go unnoticed. He was getting too chummy, and Mark should’ve seen it coming.
“Forget it.” Lawrence took another glance at his watch. “It’s time we head back anyways.”