Fic - "You Can't Always Get What You Want"
Title: You Can't Always Get What You Want
Author: colonel_bastard
Characters/Fandom: Hal Stewart, Wayne "Metro Man" Scott. Megamind.
Word Count: 4,346
Rating: PG-13
Summary: On his first day out of prison, Hal followed Wayne all over the house.
Warnings: Language, smoking.
Notes: After several requests, I took the "Shadow" sentence from my last theme set and turned it into a full-length fic! Bromantic bonding ensued. Also, if you love this pairing, I highly encourage you to check out Moneyball and all things associated with it! The Brad Pitt/Jonah Hill bromance lives on in both the film and all of the fantastic interviews the pair did together--- this one's a gem. Our title is taken, of course, from the excellent song by the Rolling Stones. I think it really suits these guys!
So it turns out, picking someone up from prison is exactly like picking up your date for the prom. There’s butterflies in your stomach the whole drive over, palms sweating on the steering wheel, oh god oh god just be cool it’s fine be cool. There’s that same sense of disorientation, the weird realization that even though you’ve known each other for so long, you suddenly feel like you’re going to meet them for the very first time. You even have to ask a stern authority figure for permission to take them out. Then you wait by the front door, more nervous than you can ever remember being, until you finally see them approaching in formal wear that was acquired for just this occasion. You look in their eyes and see that they’re just as nervous as you are. And sometimes, if you’re extremely lucky, you get the feeling that you just might remember this as one of the most important moments of your life. This just might be the beginning.
“So, uh,” Hal tugs self-consciously on the lapels of his ill-fitting suit jacket. “How do I look?”
It’s the first time in a long time that Wayne has seen him without a prison jumpsuit, and right away he notices the hair. Without the loud orange color drowning it out, he can see how much of a redhead Hal really is, more than he’d even realized.
“You look good,” he answers honestly.
Hal grimaces, fumbling with the knot of his tie. “I feel like an idiot.”
“Well you don’t look like one,” Wayne winks. “That’s what counts.”
They stand there in awkward silence until Wayne gestures at the small duffel bag slung over Hal’s shoulder.
“Is that everything?”
“Actually, I have two more suitcases and a hatbox.” Hal doesn’t miss a beat. “The bellboy is bringing them down. I hope you have small bills because this guy needs a tip and all I’ve got are twenties.”
“Okay then,” Wayne chuckles, then jerks a thumb towards the door. “Wanna get out of here?”
The sarcastic bravado evaporates in the space of a heartbeat. For one fleeting moment, Hal looks younger than Wayne has ever seen him--- a kid being released from a time-out that was supposed to last forever.
“Dude,” he mumbles. “You have no idea.”
They don’t say anything on the way back through the parking lot. Hal, usually a chatterbox, doesn’t seem like he wants to talk, and Wayne wants to respect that. He preoccupies himself with the car keys, double-tapping the button that pops the trunk. Once it’s inside, the duffel bag looks comically small, dwarfed by an interior meant to house the lavish luggage of those wealthy enough to afford such a vehicle. Wayne almost makes a joke about it, but Hal slams the trunk shut again and marches over the passenger door, tugging the handle and grunting impatiently when it turns out to be locked. He’s already buckled in and picking anxiously at the glovebox latch by the time Wayne settles down in the driver’s seat.
“This’ll be quick,” Scott says, starting the car. “We’ll be done before you know it.”
“Whatever.”
He’s scared. Wayne can hear it in his heartbeat, which is pounding so loud and so fast that it’s impossible to ignore, especially in the close quarters of the car. It speeds up as they approach the gate, but they pass without incident and then they’re on the open road. Hal slumps in his seat, trying to hide his relief. Now would be as good a time as any to spring it on him.
“By the way,” Wayne says neutrally, keeping his eyes on the road. “The board wants you to give a statement.”
In his peripheral vision, he sees the redhead twist around to face him, his expression livid.
“Fuck that noise! You promised I wouldn’t have to say anything!”
“No, I said you probably wouldn’t have to say anything.” He gives Hal a quick, meaningful glance. “I’d never break a promise. Especially not to you.”
“Forget it, man,” Stewart makes a dismissive gesture. “I got nothing to say to these people.”
“They’ve already prepared something for you. The cue card’s in the center console.” He uses a tone that will brook no argument. “You should take a look at it.”
The top of the console is right under Wayne’s elbow, but before he has a chance to move out of the way, Hal aggressively yanks it open so that it smacks into his arm. Very mature. The statement itself is brief and bland, and Hal groans as he skims the words.
“This is bullshit. Why do they even want me to talk if they’re just gonna tell me what to say?”
“Because they want the people to see that you’re not some super-powered whack-job in a cape.”
“No,” Hal says bitterly, glaring out the window. “Not anymore.”
And that pretty much kills any conversation dead. In an attempt to curtail another uncomfortable silence, Wayne switches on the radio and starts cruising through the stations, looking for something that Hal will like. He’s not listening to the music at all. Instead, he has his super-hearing tuned to the sound of Hal’s breathing, and as he stumbles onto a particular song, he catches the unconscious hum of recognition and pleasure. It’s “Sympathy for the Devil” by the Rolling Stones. Amused, Wayne grins and points at the radio.
“I love this song.”
After a stubborn beat, Hal sighs and allows himself to smile just a tiny bit.
“Me too.”
It’s a short drive to the press conference, and all too soon they have to leave the sanctuary of the car behind. Wayne is aware of Hal dogging his heels all the way to the green room, and he eavesdrops shamelessly on the under-the-breath mumbled repetitions of the prepared statement, the cue card slapped repeatedly against his palm. Hal’s completely lost in his own little world until moments before they step out onto the stage, at which points he suddenly grabs Wayne by the arm, his voice tight with panic.
“She’s here, isn’t she.”
Wayne nods. “Yep.” There’s no way to sugarcoat it.
Hal squeezes his eyes shut. His pulse is going like a jackhammer.
“Jesus,” he hisses. “I don’t know, man, I don’t know if I can do it.”
“You’re fine,” Wayne insists. “You’re gonna be fine.”
And really, Wayne does most of the talking, anyway. Hal just has to stand there and not look menacing, which is pretty easy when you look like you just want to crawl into a hole and hide. Roxanne is sitting in the front row.
For the most part, Wayne just gets everyone up to speed on the basics of the New Leaf Program. He stresses the importance of rehabilitation, and yeah, he definitely name-drops Megamind more than once. If the city’s superhero endorses the program -- which he does, very enthusiastically -- then Wayne’s going to make damn sure everybody knows it. As he goes through the motions, he gradually becomes aware of Hal watching him. Standing off to one side, arms crossed, he’s giving Wayne his absolute and undivided attention. Wayne gets the giddy sensation that he’s the only person in the world that matters.
Then he gets to the moment that he’s been dreading. He does his best to sound as encouraging as possible as he extends a hand towards Hal, beckoning him inexorably towards the podium.
“And now I believe our first official program participant would like to say a few words. Mr. Stewart?”
Hal shuffles up to the bank of microphones, takes a quick glance at the crowd, then focuses on his cue card. He adjusts his glasses nervously.
“I would just like to... uh, to thank Mr. Scott and the board of directors of... the New Leaf Program... for this opportunity.” He swallows hard, every word coming with great effort. “I owe... a great debt to this city. I’m grateful for the chance to start paying it back. Thank you.”
Roxanne’s hand is the first one into the air, but within two seconds every single reporter in the room is clamoring for more. Hal takes a step back in alarm, then looks instinctively to Wayne, his wide eyes broadcasting a silent help! Wayne immediately reclaims the podium, hands outstretched to calm the mob, his biggest and most charming smile on his face.
“I’m sorry, folks, but Mr. Stewart’s not taking any questions. Let’s give him a few weeks to get settled into the program, then maybe we can all meet back here again, okay? Hey, thanks for coming, thanks so much. That’s all for today.”
He presses a hand to the small of Hal’s back to herd him offstage. He’d really only intended to keep it there until they were out of range of the reporters, but he ends up steering him all the way back to the car, which they dive into like bank robbers escaping from a successful heist.
“Dude!” Hal yells, exultant. “Punch it!”
And he does. Wayne stomps the pedal to the floor--- something he has never done in his entire life --- because Hal asks him to. They peel off for the outskirts of town, where Scott Manor sits at the center of several acres of privately-owned land. Hal keeps the classic rock blasting the whole time, but as they finally pull up to the magnificent wrought-iron gates of the property, he turns the volume down and gives a low whistle of amazement.
“Cruisin’ into Scott Manor for an extended stay,” he murmurs. “If they could see me now.”
They pull into the far left space of the five-car garage and Wayne switches off the ignition. Before he can get out of the car, however, Hal suddenly grabs him by the wrist.
“Hey,” he says, his voice strained. “I’m, uh.... I’m a smoker.”
Wayne smiles uncertainly. “Okay?”
“I mean, I smoke cigarettes. And I know you’ve never seen me smoking, so, like, I just wanted to give you a head’s up.” His gaze wanders over to the dashboard and he mumbles, “I mean, I’ll understand if that’s, you know, a deal breaker.”
When a guy’s had the rug pulled out from under him as many times as Hal has, he tends to get a little skittish around golden opportunities. He’s spent the last few weeks just waiting for Wayne to change his mind about all of this, asking him a hundred times if he’s sure, if he’s really sure that he’s okay with the idea. Fidgeting nervously in the passenger seat of the switched-off car, he reminds Wayne of a rescued dog that fully expects to be taken back to the pound at any second.
“Uh oh,” Scott says, feigning grave concern. “You know what this means?”
The other man tenses. “What.”
Laughing, Wayne reaches over and tousles the red hair. “I’m gonna have to get you some ashtrays. I don’t have any.”
Hal exhales shakily, a faint smile on his face. “Oh, okay.” Then he snaps out of it, switches to nonchalant. “I mean, it’s fine, I don’t need, like, an official ashtray. I’ll figure something out.”
“Can we go in the house now?”
“Hey, man, lead the way.”
Coming in through the garage is not the most particularly glamorous entrance to the mansion, but Hal nonetheless walks with his neck craned backwards to ogle the high ceilings, one hand absently hugging the strap of the duffel bag on his shoulder. As they round the corner into the massive living room, he staggers to a theatrical halt, his free hand laid over his heart.
“I think I just fell in love,” he proclaims. “With your TV. I mean, holy shit, that is one sweet-ass home theater system.”
“Wait’ll you see how many channels we get on that baby.” Wayne loosens his tie. “Hey, I dunno about you, but I could go for some lunch.”
“Oh, dude,” Hal rounds on him. “I’m starving.”
“I’m gonna ditch the monkey suit.” Scott heads for the main staircase, gesturing for the other to follow. “You wanna change?”
Hal trails after him obediently, his eyes going wide as they hit the foyer, so busy staring at the lavish decor that he almost trips on the first carpeted step.
“I’m on the right, you’re on the left,” Wayne indicates the opposite ends of the hallway as they ascend. “I, uh, I didn’t really know how much stuff you’d have coming out, so I kinda.... well I got you some stuff, just to make sure you’d have everything you need.”
“Stuff?” Hal says warily. “Like, what kinda stuff?”
“Oh, you know... shirts, socks, that kinda stuff.”
“You bought me clothes?”
“Yyyy... yeah, I did.”
“Huh.”
They’ve reached the top of the stairs. Wayne lingers uncertainly, then indicates the direction of Hal’s room.
“You’re, uh... you’re that way.” Now stop talking. “The bed’s made.” Wayne please stop talking. “I hope you like it.” Oh my god.
Hal nods vaguely as he heads off down the hallway. “Uh, thanks.”
Wayne tries not to run in the opposing direction, but it’s still a pretty purposeful power walk that carries him to the safety of his room. He jabs a finger at his reflection in the mirror.
“What is wrong with you?”
No answer. Typical.
He swaps the suit and tie for a t-shirt and jeans and heads back down to the kitchen. Browsing through the cabinets, he considers his options, eventually selecting a squat white coffee mug for the job. There’s a pad of Post-Its next to the phone, and on the top sheet he prints neatly: TEMPORARY ASHTRAY.
When Hal enters a few minutes later, he spots the labeled mug immediately.
“Nice,” he grins, brandishing the pack of cigarettes already in his hand. “I was just gonna ask.”
“Your shirt!” Wayne exclaims stupidly.
Hal’s wearing an old pair of jeans that are obviously his own, but he also put on a t-shirt with the New Leaf logo on it. It’s one of the shirts that Wayne left for him.
“Well, yeah,” he shrugs. “Most of my clothes suck.”
“I’m glad I could help.” Wayne tries not to look too pleased with himself.
Within seconds Hal has extracted and lit a cigarette, and after a few contented puffs he rubs his hands together and says, “So what’s for lunch?”
This is a moment that Wayne has been particularly looking forward to, and he savors the suspense as he ambles over to the fridge.
“Oh, I took the liberty of stocking up on a few things. We’ve got deli-fresh ham, turkey, roast beef---”
Hal’s eyes widen. “Wait.”
“---provolone cheese, swiss cheese---”
“You are kidding me.”
“---shredded lettuce, onions, peppers---”
“Are we doing sub sandwiches.”
“You know, now that you mention it, I think I have some sub rolls.”
Hal is seriously beaming like a kid on Christmas morning.
“Dude,” he says, and his voice is thick with emotion, with a happiness made all the more intense by its unexpectedness. “I can’t believe you remembered.”
“The first thing I’m gonna want is a sub sandwich with everything on it.” Wayne quotes. “I wrote it down.”
“That’s really... I mean...” Hal huffs, frustrated with his inability to articulate himself. “That’s cool, man. Really cool.”
“I haven’t even mentioned the best part.” Wayne reaches under the counter and produces a frying pan. “I got two full packs of bacon.”
Standing over the sizzling pan with a cigarette hanging from his lip, Hal just looks so goddamn normal. He scratches absently at the side of his neck, his other hand using a fork to prod at the bacon. Wayne is riveted. He’s never had a roommate, or housemate, or whatever this is. He had his parents, of course, and he had the staff. When he lost the former he dismissed the latter--- it felt weird to have a whole house full of people waiting for him to need something. It’s been a long time since he shared any kind of domestic activity with someone. It’s... nice.
They build a pair of positively obscene sandwiches crammed with everything they can think of, everything they can lay their hands on. Pickles? Obviously. Potato chips? Throw ‘em in. Mustard and mayonnaise and ranch dressing? Why not. Holding the fridge door open, Hal tentatively waggles a bottle a beer.
“Hey, uh, can I have one of these?”
“Hal, you live here now,” Wayne reminds him. “You don’t have to ask my permission to have a beer.”
“Good to know.” Hal shifts his grip to accommodate another bottle. “You want one?”
“You bet I do.”
There’s not really much opportunity for conversation during the consumption of such formidable culinary creations. Mostly they just eat and enjoy each other’s company. Occasionally Hal will break the silence in order to loudly predict that Wayne will never be able to finish his food.
“That is just way too much sandwich for a hoity-toity pretty-boy like you,” he heckles. “What do you usually have for lunch, like, an endive salad or some bullshit?”
In the end--- and in defiance of all common sense--- they both somehow manage to clean their plates. They then proceed to stare at each other in helpless agony across the dinner table, leaning back gingerly to ease the pressure on their over-full stomachs.
“Unnngh,” Wayne groans. “Why did we do that?”
“Because we could,” Hal tucks his hands behind his head, his cigarette bobbing up and down with the words. “That’s the best reason.”
He taps a sprinkling of ashes into the squat white coffee mug, and Wayne gets an idea. He pushes his chair back from the table.
“Hey, uh, I gotta make a few calls from my office. You good?” He gestures into the living room. “Go crazy with the TV, man, it’s open game. This won’t take long.”
“Okay,” Hal sounds.... disappointed? “I’ll, uh, I’ll see you later.”
Apparently he was even more disappointed than Wayne realized, because he sidles into the office doorway after only a few minutes. Scott is still on the phone, and he gestures for Hal to be quiet and wait.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be here. Hey, thanks, Arthur, I really appreciate it. You guys are always my first choice. Thanks so much. Thanks.”
He drops the phone back into the cradle and looks to the doorway.
“What’s up?”
“I dunno,” Hal’s carrying his coffee mug on one hooked finger, and he studies the contents intently. “Do you mind if I hang out in here? I promise I won’t bug you or anything. I just wanna....”
The words trail away, unresolved. Wayne smiles and gets up from behind the desk.
“I’m all done. And I think it’s for me to show you the basement.”
The basement is Wayne’s playground. It’s the ultimate rec room, a labyrinth of tabletop games--- billiards, foosball, air hockey--- with one wall taken up by a single regulation-perfect bowling lane. And yeah, there’s a jukebox. It’s the kind of thing that happens when a bored bachelor has too much free time and way too much money. He just keeps adding everything that pops into his head. One year it was dartboards. The next year it was pinball machines. Anything to eat up the long, lonely hours.
“Jesus Christ,” Hal gawks. “You are serious about home entertainment.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t get out much.”
“Whoa, really? I couldn’t tell, at all. No, you definitely don’t spend like ninety percent of your time down here playing with yourself.”
“Actually, not lately,” Wayne admits. “Thanks to you I have a job again.”
Hal bows magnanimously. “You’re welcome.”
“So,” Wayne makes an everything-the-light-touches-is-our-kingdom gesture towards the basement. “What looks good?”
“You want to hear something crazy?”
“Sure.”
“I’ve never played pool before.”
“What, like, ever?”
“Like, ever.”
“I think that settles it.”
“I think so.”
Not a bad way to pass an afternoon, shooting pool and spending time with your favorite person. They chat idly about ‘90s action movies in between bouts of instruction, Wayne explaining the rules as they go along, all while trying to hold back on his own prodigious skill at the game. He’s spent hours down here practicing, perfecting his aim, mastering trick shots that he’s seen on TV. He doesn’t want to bruise Hal’s ego too badly.
Still, even though just about every shot goes wild and he sinks the cue ball more often than not, Hal remains in high spirits. He can’t seem to sit still and instead orbits the billiards table like a satellite, occasionally swinging his arms, occasionally acting like his pool cue has spontaneously turned into a lightsaber. Wayne puts him in charge of the jukebox and he wanders through an erratic assortment of songs, everything from AC/DC to Janis Joplin, each one preceded by a delighted exclamation of, “I haven’t heard this in forever!” Wayne is enjoying his sheer enjoyment of everything. It’s contagious.
“I’m gonna run upstairs to grab another beer,” he says after a while. “Want me to bring you something?”
“Oh, uh,” Hal starts forward, hesitates, then comes ahead anyway. “I’ll come with you.”
He tags along behind Wayne like a shadow, up the stairs and all the way back to the kitchen. It’s... kind of adorable. In fact, Hal doesn’t let him out of his sight for the rest of the day, and Wayne doesn’t mind it one bit. It’s endearing--- but at the same time, a little sad. Hal is still waiting for the catch, the trick, like Wayne is going to walk out of the room and never come back. He still doesn’t feel like he belongs here.
Afternoon becomes evening and they’ve moved over to the dartboards. Lining up his next throw, Wayne wonders, “What do you want to do for dinner?”
“Okay, this is gonna sound so lame,” Hal’s suggestion apparently needs a disclaimer. “But I reeeeeeally wanna order pizza. Like, I’m sorry if you wanted something else, something classy or whatever, but nothing else will satisfy me. I already know. It’s gotta be pizza.”
“Sounds good to me,” Wayne laughs. “You have a preference for where we order from?”
If he does, he doesn’t get a chance to say it--- a loud doorbell chime rings out overhead. Hal looks bewildered.
“Who’s that?”
Wayne smirks knowingly. “Special delivery.”
Hal tails him back upstairs to the intercom, where Wayne punches a button and says, “Hello?”
A crisp voice answers, “Delivery for Mr. Wayne Scott.”
The push of a button opens the front gates, and soon a pair of headlights appears coming up the drive. Wayne’s waiting at the door for the courier that approaches with a small parcel. He signs on the dotted line and slips the guy a nice tip as he hands the clipboard back to him.
“I know you guys don’t usually do the home delivery thing,” he says. “I appreciate it, I really do.”
The courier nods deferentially. “It was our pleasure, Mr. Scott. You’re a valued customer.”
As he drives off, Hal turns to Wayne and says, “Well?”
“Well what?” Wayne asks mildly.
“What’s the deal with the mystery delivery guy?”
“He was from Meir’s.”
“What, like the jeweler’s?”
“Metro City’s finest.” He offers the parcel. “It’s for you.”
Hal recoils and chuckles nervously, one hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “Geez, dude, don’t you think you’re coming on a bit strong?”
“It’s no big deal, I promise. Just a housewarming present.”
Tentatively, Hal accepts the package and starts picking at a corner, shredding the box apart in probably the least efficient way possible. Inside is an object wrapped in tissue paper. As he unwraps it, he keeps glancing uneasily at Wayne, completely unsure of what he’s about to find.
It’s a glass ashtray, sophisticated in its simplicity--- a square shape contrasted with a circular impression, finished with notches in the corners.
“Check the inscription,” Scott suggests.
Engraved on one side is the title: OFFICIAL ASHTRAY. Hal stares at it, clearly moved, as Wayne lays a hand on his shoulder.
“Welcome home, Hal.”
Hal reaches for him blindly, his hand coming to rest on Wayne’s chest, his fingers tightening into his t-shirt.
“Thanks, man,” he says hoarsely. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” Wayne says, and means it.
It takes Hal a minute to collect himself, but then he seems to realize what he’s doing and he hastily retracts his hand, coughing awkwardly.
“So, uh,” he mumbles. “I was thinking Domino’s.”
“Purveyors of the Chocolate Lava Crunch Cake,” Wayne nods sagely. “A wise choice.”
“Hey,” says Hal.
“What,” says Wayne.
And then Hal is hugging him. It’s quick but fierce, a tight squeeze punctuated by two rough slaps to the back--- then he’s walking away into the kitchen like it never happened, examining his new ashtray like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
“You like anchovies on your pizza?” he calls over his shoulder.
“Never tried ‘em,” Wayne smiles, “but I have a feeling I’m about to.”
Why the hell not? It’s been a day of firsts.
_______end.
Author: colonel_bastard
Characters/Fandom: Hal Stewart, Wayne "Metro Man" Scott. Megamind.
Word Count: 4,346
Rating: PG-13
Summary: On his first day out of prison, Hal followed Wayne all over the house.
Warnings: Language, smoking.
Notes: After several requests, I took the "Shadow" sentence from my last theme set and turned it into a full-length fic! Bromantic bonding ensued. Also, if you love this pairing, I highly encourage you to check out Moneyball and all things associated with it! The Brad Pitt/Jonah Hill bromance lives on in both the film and all of the fantastic interviews the pair did together--- this one's a gem. Our title is taken, of course, from the excellent song by the Rolling Stones. I think it really suits these guys!
So it turns out, picking someone up from prison is exactly like picking up your date for the prom. There’s butterflies in your stomach the whole drive over, palms sweating on the steering wheel, oh god oh god just be cool it’s fine be cool. There’s that same sense of disorientation, the weird realization that even though you’ve known each other for so long, you suddenly feel like you’re going to meet them for the very first time. You even have to ask a stern authority figure for permission to take them out. Then you wait by the front door, more nervous than you can ever remember being, until you finally see them approaching in formal wear that was acquired for just this occasion. You look in their eyes and see that they’re just as nervous as you are. And sometimes, if you’re extremely lucky, you get the feeling that you just might remember this as one of the most important moments of your life. This just might be the beginning.
“So, uh,” Hal tugs self-consciously on the lapels of his ill-fitting suit jacket. “How do I look?”
It’s the first time in a long time that Wayne has seen him without a prison jumpsuit, and right away he notices the hair. Without the loud orange color drowning it out, he can see how much of a redhead Hal really is, more than he’d even realized.
“You look good,” he answers honestly.
Hal grimaces, fumbling with the knot of his tie. “I feel like an idiot.”
“Well you don’t look like one,” Wayne winks. “That’s what counts.”
They stand there in awkward silence until Wayne gestures at the small duffel bag slung over Hal’s shoulder.
“Is that everything?”
“Actually, I have two more suitcases and a hatbox.” Hal doesn’t miss a beat. “The bellboy is bringing them down. I hope you have small bills because this guy needs a tip and all I’ve got are twenties.”
“Okay then,” Wayne chuckles, then jerks a thumb towards the door. “Wanna get out of here?”
The sarcastic bravado evaporates in the space of a heartbeat. For one fleeting moment, Hal looks younger than Wayne has ever seen him--- a kid being released from a time-out that was supposed to last forever.
“Dude,” he mumbles. “You have no idea.”
They don’t say anything on the way back through the parking lot. Hal, usually a chatterbox, doesn’t seem like he wants to talk, and Wayne wants to respect that. He preoccupies himself with the car keys, double-tapping the button that pops the trunk. Once it’s inside, the duffel bag looks comically small, dwarfed by an interior meant to house the lavish luggage of those wealthy enough to afford such a vehicle. Wayne almost makes a joke about it, but Hal slams the trunk shut again and marches over the passenger door, tugging the handle and grunting impatiently when it turns out to be locked. He’s already buckled in and picking anxiously at the glovebox latch by the time Wayne settles down in the driver’s seat.
“This’ll be quick,” Scott says, starting the car. “We’ll be done before you know it.”
“Whatever.”
He’s scared. Wayne can hear it in his heartbeat, which is pounding so loud and so fast that it’s impossible to ignore, especially in the close quarters of the car. It speeds up as they approach the gate, but they pass without incident and then they’re on the open road. Hal slumps in his seat, trying to hide his relief. Now would be as good a time as any to spring it on him.
“By the way,” Wayne says neutrally, keeping his eyes on the road. “The board wants you to give a statement.”
In his peripheral vision, he sees the redhead twist around to face him, his expression livid.
“Fuck that noise! You promised I wouldn’t have to say anything!”
“No, I said you probably wouldn’t have to say anything.” He gives Hal a quick, meaningful glance. “I’d never break a promise. Especially not to you.”
“Forget it, man,” Stewart makes a dismissive gesture. “I got nothing to say to these people.”
“They’ve already prepared something for you. The cue card’s in the center console.” He uses a tone that will brook no argument. “You should take a look at it.”
The top of the console is right under Wayne’s elbow, but before he has a chance to move out of the way, Hal aggressively yanks it open so that it smacks into his arm. Very mature. The statement itself is brief and bland, and Hal groans as he skims the words.
“This is bullshit. Why do they even want me to talk if they’re just gonna tell me what to say?”
“Because they want the people to see that you’re not some super-powered whack-job in a cape.”
“No,” Hal says bitterly, glaring out the window. “Not anymore.”
And that pretty much kills any conversation dead. In an attempt to curtail another uncomfortable silence, Wayne switches on the radio and starts cruising through the stations, looking for something that Hal will like. He’s not listening to the music at all. Instead, he has his super-hearing tuned to the sound of Hal’s breathing, and as he stumbles onto a particular song, he catches the unconscious hum of recognition and pleasure. It’s “Sympathy for the Devil” by the Rolling Stones. Amused, Wayne grins and points at the radio.
“I love this song.”
After a stubborn beat, Hal sighs and allows himself to smile just a tiny bit.
“Me too.”
It’s a short drive to the press conference, and all too soon they have to leave the sanctuary of the car behind. Wayne is aware of Hal dogging his heels all the way to the green room, and he eavesdrops shamelessly on the under-the-breath mumbled repetitions of the prepared statement, the cue card slapped repeatedly against his palm. Hal’s completely lost in his own little world until moments before they step out onto the stage, at which points he suddenly grabs Wayne by the arm, his voice tight with panic.
“She’s here, isn’t she.”
Wayne nods. “Yep.” There’s no way to sugarcoat it.
Hal squeezes his eyes shut. His pulse is going like a jackhammer.
“Jesus,” he hisses. “I don’t know, man, I don’t know if I can do it.”
“You’re fine,” Wayne insists. “You’re gonna be fine.”
And really, Wayne does most of the talking, anyway. Hal just has to stand there and not look menacing, which is pretty easy when you look like you just want to crawl into a hole and hide. Roxanne is sitting in the front row.
For the most part, Wayne just gets everyone up to speed on the basics of the New Leaf Program. He stresses the importance of rehabilitation, and yeah, he definitely name-drops Megamind more than once. If the city’s superhero endorses the program -- which he does, very enthusiastically -- then Wayne’s going to make damn sure everybody knows it. As he goes through the motions, he gradually becomes aware of Hal watching him. Standing off to one side, arms crossed, he’s giving Wayne his absolute and undivided attention. Wayne gets the giddy sensation that he’s the only person in the world that matters.
Then he gets to the moment that he’s been dreading. He does his best to sound as encouraging as possible as he extends a hand towards Hal, beckoning him inexorably towards the podium.
“And now I believe our first official program participant would like to say a few words. Mr. Stewart?”
Hal shuffles up to the bank of microphones, takes a quick glance at the crowd, then focuses on his cue card. He adjusts his glasses nervously.
“I would just like to... uh, to thank Mr. Scott and the board of directors of... the New Leaf Program... for this opportunity.” He swallows hard, every word coming with great effort. “I owe... a great debt to this city. I’m grateful for the chance to start paying it back. Thank you.”
Roxanne’s hand is the first one into the air, but within two seconds every single reporter in the room is clamoring for more. Hal takes a step back in alarm, then looks instinctively to Wayne, his wide eyes broadcasting a silent help! Wayne immediately reclaims the podium, hands outstretched to calm the mob, his biggest and most charming smile on his face.
“I’m sorry, folks, but Mr. Stewart’s not taking any questions. Let’s give him a few weeks to get settled into the program, then maybe we can all meet back here again, okay? Hey, thanks for coming, thanks so much. That’s all for today.”
He presses a hand to the small of Hal’s back to herd him offstage. He’d really only intended to keep it there until they were out of range of the reporters, but he ends up steering him all the way back to the car, which they dive into like bank robbers escaping from a successful heist.
“Dude!” Hal yells, exultant. “Punch it!”
And he does. Wayne stomps the pedal to the floor--- something he has never done in his entire life --- because Hal asks him to. They peel off for the outskirts of town, where Scott Manor sits at the center of several acres of privately-owned land. Hal keeps the classic rock blasting the whole time, but as they finally pull up to the magnificent wrought-iron gates of the property, he turns the volume down and gives a low whistle of amazement.
“Cruisin’ into Scott Manor for an extended stay,” he murmurs. “If they could see me now.”
They pull into the far left space of the five-car garage and Wayne switches off the ignition. Before he can get out of the car, however, Hal suddenly grabs him by the wrist.
“Hey,” he says, his voice strained. “I’m, uh.... I’m a smoker.”
Wayne smiles uncertainly. “Okay?”
“I mean, I smoke cigarettes. And I know you’ve never seen me smoking, so, like, I just wanted to give you a head’s up.” His gaze wanders over to the dashboard and he mumbles, “I mean, I’ll understand if that’s, you know, a deal breaker.”
When a guy’s had the rug pulled out from under him as many times as Hal has, he tends to get a little skittish around golden opportunities. He’s spent the last few weeks just waiting for Wayne to change his mind about all of this, asking him a hundred times if he’s sure, if he’s really sure that he’s okay with the idea. Fidgeting nervously in the passenger seat of the switched-off car, he reminds Wayne of a rescued dog that fully expects to be taken back to the pound at any second.
“Uh oh,” Scott says, feigning grave concern. “You know what this means?”
The other man tenses. “What.”
Laughing, Wayne reaches over and tousles the red hair. “I’m gonna have to get you some ashtrays. I don’t have any.”
Hal exhales shakily, a faint smile on his face. “Oh, okay.” Then he snaps out of it, switches to nonchalant. “I mean, it’s fine, I don’t need, like, an official ashtray. I’ll figure something out.”
“Can we go in the house now?”
“Hey, man, lead the way.”
Coming in through the garage is not the most particularly glamorous entrance to the mansion, but Hal nonetheless walks with his neck craned backwards to ogle the high ceilings, one hand absently hugging the strap of the duffel bag on his shoulder. As they round the corner into the massive living room, he staggers to a theatrical halt, his free hand laid over his heart.
“I think I just fell in love,” he proclaims. “With your TV. I mean, holy shit, that is one sweet-ass home theater system.”
“Wait’ll you see how many channels we get on that baby.” Wayne loosens his tie. “Hey, I dunno about you, but I could go for some lunch.”
“Oh, dude,” Hal rounds on him. “I’m starving.”
“I’m gonna ditch the monkey suit.” Scott heads for the main staircase, gesturing for the other to follow. “You wanna change?”
Hal trails after him obediently, his eyes going wide as they hit the foyer, so busy staring at the lavish decor that he almost trips on the first carpeted step.
“I’m on the right, you’re on the left,” Wayne indicates the opposite ends of the hallway as they ascend. “I, uh, I didn’t really know how much stuff you’d have coming out, so I kinda.... well I got you some stuff, just to make sure you’d have everything you need.”
“Stuff?” Hal says warily. “Like, what kinda stuff?”
“Oh, you know... shirts, socks, that kinda stuff.”
“You bought me clothes?”
“Yyyy... yeah, I did.”
“Huh.”
They’ve reached the top of the stairs. Wayne lingers uncertainly, then indicates the direction of Hal’s room.
“You’re, uh... you’re that way.” Now stop talking. “The bed’s made.” Wayne please stop talking. “I hope you like it.” Oh my god.
Hal nods vaguely as he heads off down the hallway. “Uh, thanks.”
Wayne tries not to run in the opposing direction, but it’s still a pretty purposeful power walk that carries him to the safety of his room. He jabs a finger at his reflection in the mirror.
“What is wrong with you?”
No answer. Typical.
He swaps the suit and tie for a t-shirt and jeans and heads back down to the kitchen. Browsing through the cabinets, he considers his options, eventually selecting a squat white coffee mug for the job. There’s a pad of Post-Its next to the phone, and on the top sheet he prints neatly: TEMPORARY ASHTRAY.
When Hal enters a few minutes later, he spots the labeled mug immediately.
“Nice,” he grins, brandishing the pack of cigarettes already in his hand. “I was just gonna ask.”
“Your shirt!” Wayne exclaims stupidly.
Hal’s wearing an old pair of jeans that are obviously his own, but he also put on a t-shirt with the New Leaf logo on it. It’s one of the shirts that Wayne left for him.
“Well, yeah,” he shrugs. “Most of my clothes suck.”
“I’m glad I could help.” Wayne tries not to look too pleased with himself.
Within seconds Hal has extracted and lit a cigarette, and after a few contented puffs he rubs his hands together and says, “So what’s for lunch?”
This is a moment that Wayne has been particularly looking forward to, and he savors the suspense as he ambles over to the fridge.
“Oh, I took the liberty of stocking up on a few things. We’ve got deli-fresh ham, turkey, roast beef---”
Hal’s eyes widen. “Wait.”
“---provolone cheese, swiss cheese---”
“You are kidding me.”
“---shredded lettuce, onions, peppers---”
“Are we doing sub sandwiches.”
“You know, now that you mention it, I think I have some sub rolls.”
Hal is seriously beaming like a kid on Christmas morning.
“Dude,” he says, and his voice is thick with emotion, with a happiness made all the more intense by its unexpectedness. “I can’t believe you remembered.”
“The first thing I’m gonna want is a sub sandwich with everything on it.” Wayne quotes. “I wrote it down.”
“That’s really... I mean...” Hal huffs, frustrated with his inability to articulate himself. “That’s cool, man. Really cool.”
“I haven’t even mentioned the best part.” Wayne reaches under the counter and produces a frying pan. “I got two full packs of bacon.”
Standing over the sizzling pan with a cigarette hanging from his lip, Hal just looks so goddamn normal. He scratches absently at the side of his neck, his other hand using a fork to prod at the bacon. Wayne is riveted. He’s never had a roommate, or housemate, or whatever this is. He had his parents, of course, and he had the staff. When he lost the former he dismissed the latter--- it felt weird to have a whole house full of people waiting for him to need something. It’s been a long time since he shared any kind of domestic activity with someone. It’s... nice.
They build a pair of positively obscene sandwiches crammed with everything they can think of, everything they can lay their hands on. Pickles? Obviously. Potato chips? Throw ‘em in. Mustard and mayonnaise and ranch dressing? Why not. Holding the fridge door open, Hal tentatively waggles a bottle a beer.
“Hey, uh, can I have one of these?”
“Hal, you live here now,” Wayne reminds him. “You don’t have to ask my permission to have a beer.”
“Good to know.” Hal shifts his grip to accommodate another bottle. “You want one?”
“You bet I do.”
There’s not really much opportunity for conversation during the consumption of such formidable culinary creations. Mostly they just eat and enjoy each other’s company. Occasionally Hal will break the silence in order to loudly predict that Wayne will never be able to finish his food.
“That is just way too much sandwich for a hoity-toity pretty-boy like you,” he heckles. “What do you usually have for lunch, like, an endive salad or some bullshit?”
In the end--- and in defiance of all common sense--- they both somehow manage to clean their plates. They then proceed to stare at each other in helpless agony across the dinner table, leaning back gingerly to ease the pressure on their over-full stomachs.
“Unnngh,” Wayne groans. “Why did we do that?”
“Because we could,” Hal tucks his hands behind his head, his cigarette bobbing up and down with the words. “That’s the best reason.”
He taps a sprinkling of ashes into the squat white coffee mug, and Wayne gets an idea. He pushes his chair back from the table.
“Hey, uh, I gotta make a few calls from my office. You good?” He gestures into the living room. “Go crazy with the TV, man, it’s open game. This won’t take long.”
“Okay,” Hal sounds.... disappointed? “I’ll, uh, I’ll see you later.”
Apparently he was even more disappointed than Wayne realized, because he sidles into the office doorway after only a few minutes. Scott is still on the phone, and he gestures for Hal to be quiet and wait.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be here. Hey, thanks, Arthur, I really appreciate it. You guys are always my first choice. Thanks so much. Thanks.”
He drops the phone back into the cradle and looks to the doorway.
“What’s up?”
“I dunno,” Hal’s carrying his coffee mug on one hooked finger, and he studies the contents intently. “Do you mind if I hang out in here? I promise I won’t bug you or anything. I just wanna....”
The words trail away, unresolved. Wayne smiles and gets up from behind the desk.
“I’m all done. And I think it’s for me to show you the basement.”
The basement is Wayne’s playground. It’s the ultimate rec room, a labyrinth of tabletop games--- billiards, foosball, air hockey--- with one wall taken up by a single regulation-perfect bowling lane. And yeah, there’s a jukebox. It’s the kind of thing that happens when a bored bachelor has too much free time and way too much money. He just keeps adding everything that pops into his head. One year it was dartboards. The next year it was pinball machines. Anything to eat up the long, lonely hours.
“Jesus Christ,” Hal gawks. “You are serious about home entertainment.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t get out much.”
“Whoa, really? I couldn’t tell, at all. No, you definitely don’t spend like ninety percent of your time down here playing with yourself.”
“Actually, not lately,” Wayne admits. “Thanks to you I have a job again.”
Hal bows magnanimously. “You’re welcome.”
“So,” Wayne makes an everything-the-light-touches-is-our-kingdom gesture towards the basement. “What looks good?”
“You want to hear something crazy?”
“Sure.”
“I’ve never played pool before.”
“What, like, ever?”
“Like, ever.”
“I think that settles it.”
“I think so.”
Not a bad way to pass an afternoon, shooting pool and spending time with your favorite person. They chat idly about ‘90s action movies in between bouts of instruction, Wayne explaining the rules as they go along, all while trying to hold back on his own prodigious skill at the game. He’s spent hours down here practicing, perfecting his aim, mastering trick shots that he’s seen on TV. He doesn’t want to bruise Hal’s ego too badly.
Still, even though just about every shot goes wild and he sinks the cue ball more often than not, Hal remains in high spirits. He can’t seem to sit still and instead orbits the billiards table like a satellite, occasionally swinging his arms, occasionally acting like his pool cue has spontaneously turned into a lightsaber. Wayne puts him in charge of the jukebox and he wanders through an erratic assortment of songs, everything from AC/DC to Janis Joplin, each one preceded by a delighted exclamation of, “I haven’t heard this in forever!” Wayne is enjoying his sheer enjoyment of everything. It’s contagious.
“I’m gonna run upstairs to grab another beer,” he says after a while. “Want me to bring you something?”
“Oh, uh,” Hal starts forward, hesitates, then comes ahead anyway. “I’ll come with you.”
He tags along behind Wayne like a shadow, up the stairs and all the way back to the kitchen. It’s... kind of adorable. In fact, Hal doesn’t let him out of his sight for the rest of the day, and Wayne doesn’t mind it one bit. It’s endearing--- but at the same time, a little sad. Hal is still waiting for the catch, the trick, like Wayne is going to walk out of the room and never come back. He still doesn’t feel like he belongs here.
Afternoon becomes evening and they’ve moved over to the dartboards. Lining up his next throw, Wayne wonders, “What do you want to do for dinner?”
“Okay, this is gonna sound so lame,” Hal’s suggestion apparently needs a disclaimer. “But I reeeeeeally wanna order pizza. Like, I’m sorry if you wanted something else, something classy or whatever, but nothing else will satisfy me. I already know. It’s gotta be pizza.”
“Sounds good to me,” Wayne laughs. “You have a preference for where we order from?”
If he does, he doesn’t get a chance to say it--- a loud doorbell chime rings out overhead. Hal looks bewildered.
“Who’s that?”
Wayne smirks knowingly. “Special delivery.”
Hal tails him back upstairs to the intercom, where Wayne punches a button and says, “Hello?”
A crisp voice answers, “Delivery for Mr. Wayne Scott.”
The push of a button opens the front gates, and soon a pair of headlights appears coming up the drive. Wayne’s waiting at the door for the courier that approaches with a small parcel. He signs on the dotted line and slips the guy a nice tip as he hands the clipboard back to him.
“I know you guys don’t usually do the home delivery thing,” he says. “I appreciate it, I really do.”
The courier nods deferentially. “It was our pleasure, Mr. Scott. You’re a valued customer.”
As he drives off, Hal turns to Wayne and says, “Well?”
“Well what?” Wayne asks mildly.
“What’s the deal with the mystery delivery guy?”
“He was from Meir’s.”
“What, like the jeweler’s?”
“Metro City’s finest.” He offers the parcel. “It’s for you.”
Hal recoils and chuckles nervously, one hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “Geez, dude, don’t you think you’re coming on a bit strong?”
“It’s no big deal, I promise. Just a housewarming present.”
Tentatively, Hal accepts the package and starts picking at a corner, shredding the box apart in probably the least efficient way possible. Inside is an object wrapped in tissue paper. As he unwraps it, he keeps glancing uneasily at Wayne, completely unsure of what he’s about to find.
It’s a glass ashtray, sophisticated in its simplicity--- a square shape contrasted with a circular impression, finished with notches in the corners.
“Check the inscription,” Scott suggests.
Engraved on one side is the title: OFFICIAL ASHTRAY. Hal stares at it, clearly moved, as Wayne lays a hand on his shoulder.
“Welcome home, Hal.”
Hal reaches for him blindly, his hand coming to rest on Wayne’s chest, his fingers tightening into his t-shirt.
“Thanks, man,” he says hoarsely. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” Wayne says, and means it.
It takes Hal a minute to collect himself, but then he seems to realize what he’s doing and he hastily retracts his hand, coughing awkwardly.
“So, uh,” he mumbles. “I was thinking Domino’s.”
“Purveyors of the Chocolate Lava Crunch Cake,” Wayne nods sagely. “A wise choice.”
“Hey,” says Hal.
“What,” says Wayne.
And then Hal is hugging him. It’s quick but fierce, a tight squeeze punctuated by two rough slaps to the back--- then he’s walking away into the kitchen like it never happened, examining his new ashtray like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
“You like anchovies on your pizza?” he calls over his shoulder.
“Never tried ‘em,” Wayne smiles, “but I have a feeling I’m about to.”
Why the hell not? It’s been a day of firsts.
_______end.