fic - the taste of you
A drabble set in the s3!verse - not entirely sure where it fits in the timeline, but whatever. Decidely darker in tone than the rest.
Somehow, Marshall isn’t the least bit surprised to find Dash sitting on the picnic table in his backyard-it’s the twelve-pack of beer at Dash’s feet that’s the surprise. Three cans already lie empty in the grass. And Dash looks like a bar regular, a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other.
“Teller!” he crows, holding up the can in greeting. “You’re late to the party!”
Mars narrows his eyes. “What the hell are you doing drinking in my yard? And how did you get beer?”
“One, it just happened to be where I ended up,” Dash says, with a look in his eyes that tells Mars he’s lying, “and two, I took it. How else?”
“I guess no one would ID you anyway,” Marshall muses. Dash cracks a grin.
“Gray hair occasionally comes in handy,” he says. Then, leaning over, he rummages in the pack and pulls out a beer. He tosses it to Mars, who manages to catch it.
“Join me?” he questions, raising an eyebrow.
Mars looks down at the beer in his hands-it’s Miller Lite, he notices, and it’s still cold to the touch. He then looks back up at Dash, who in turn looks… expectant? In that instant, he decides; cracking the can open, he goes to the picnic table and sits right beside Dash, so close they’re almost touching. Dash grins, a small triumph.
“Gotta say I’m a bit surprised,” he admits, taking a puff of his cigarette. The light from it creates odd shadows on his face. “I didn’t think you’d actually drink.”
Marshall shrugs, trying to play it cool. “Some rules are meant to be broken.”
“Well, well. Saint Teller has a rebellious streak after all,” Dash jokes. Marshall’s about to object to his teasing, but he decides to let it slide this time. After all, it’s rare for him and Dash to sit in peace; he doesn’t feel like disturbing it. So instead he takes a sip of his beer. The taste makes him grimace.
“Ugh,” he says. “You’ve drank three cans already?”
“It’s an acquired taste,” Dash says in reply. “I was gonna get something stronger, actually, but I was lucky to get out with this.”
“You’re losing your touch.”
Dash stops mid-sip. “Huh?”
“I thought you could steal whatever you wanted,” Marshall says. “You know, being the town delinquent and all.”
“Maybe I’m going soft.”
Marshall stares at him for a second, then they both laugh. They know that such a statement couldn’t be further from the truth, but neither voices the thought aloud. They lapse into silence for a while after that, quietly drinking, until Mars says suddenly, “We’re missing pizza.”
“What?”
“Beer’s supposed to go really well with pizza.” Mars puts a hand out, trying to illustrate the picture in his head. “I can see it: sitting in the living room, drinking beer, eating pizza, and watching the Giants kick some ass.”
“Do you really think I fit in that scene?” Dash questions. Mars doesn’t get a chance to answer before he adds, “I’d rather watch boxing.”
“Boxing, really?”
“Yeah. You and I would be great at it,” Dash says, smiling. “You’ve got one hell of a right hook.”
“Uh, thanks?”
Just then, Dash tosses his now-empty beer can down on the grass; he does the same thing with his cigarette, grinding it into the grass with his boot. When he straightens up, he’s almost nose-to-nose with Mars, who freezes.
Is he drunk?! Mars thinks, blinking in surprise. He knows he should back away, that this is rapidly becoming mega-weird, but something keeps him rooted to the spot. Dash’s eyes are intently fixed on his.
“What?” he snaps, growing more nervous by the second.
“Speaking of fights, d’you remember when you and the kid were investigating the Loyal Order of Corn?” Dash asks. Marshall can smell the smoke and booze on his breath, and it makes him dizzy, unable to keep his focus-
No, Mars, no, no, no, keep it together!
“Yeah,” he replies, fighting the tremor that keeps trying to betray his frayed mental state. “Yeah, I remember. What about it?”
“When I told you to gimmie your best shot, I didn’t mean with your fists.”
Let it go! a voice in his head warns, but if there’s one thing Marshall Teller can’t ignore, it’s his inherent curiosity. So he takes the plunge and asks, “Then what did you mean, Dash?”
Dash smiles, and it sends shivers down Marshall’s spine-not the usual dude-you’re-one-crazy-bastard shivers, but shivers of anticipation.
“Do I gotta spell it out for ya?” Dash fires back, and then, without waiting for any kind of response, he puts his hand on the nape of Marshall’s neck, clenches his fingers in Mars’s hair, yanks him forward-which isn’t all that far-and crushes their lips together.
Marshall’s so startled that he drops his beer, and it spills all over the bench seat. He tastes beer, he tastes cigarettes, and underneath it all, he tastes Dash, the thought of which makes his head spin.
“Dash-“ he gasps, trying to pack away just to get some air, but Dash shoves him down so he’s splayed on the table. Dash then leans over him, his eyes dark and dangerous. His fingertips graze over the tiny scar on Mars’s neck, the one he made with his switchblade, and Marshall almost stops breathing.
“W-what? What do you want with me?” he blurts out.
“You, Marshall,” Dash breathes. “I want you.”
With that he kisses Marshall again, slow and deliberate this time. It takes Marshall a few seconds to react; he grips the front of Dash’s shirt and shoves him away.
“Then why?!” he demands, his hands shaking. “Why the fuck did you try to kill me? And why do you still keep threatening me?!”
“You just don’t get it, do you?” Dash says, shaking his head. His tone is mockingly sympathetic, and it drives Marshall mad. “Just because I want you doesn’t mean I like you.”
He bends down, speaking his next words right into Mars’s ear.
“And I do it because your life is in my hands,” he whispers, his lips grazing Mars’s earlobe. “You belong to me.”
He sits up suddenly and pats Mars’s chest, a disturbingly friendly gesture under the circumstances. The smile on his face doesn’t help, either.
“Well, I guess I’m taking the party elsewhere,” he says nonchalantly, like nothing’s happened. “You’re just not cut out for this, Teller.”
Without another word, he hops off the table, grabs the remaining pack of beer, and walks off, leaving Mars lying across the table. And for a while, Mars just lies there, staring up at the starless night sky. His heart’s hammering so loud that he can barely hear himself think.
What just happened? he thinks, shaken. Was he drunk? Just fucking with me again? Or was he serious?
He realizes his mouth has gone dry, so he licks his lips-on them, he can still taste Dash. Shivers shoot down his spine again, and he realizes abruptly that Dash has really gotten to him.
And, what’s worse-he wants more.
I… oh God. I think I need to go to bed.
Sitting up, he slides off the table and gathers the empty beer cans in his arms before making his way back to the house. He’s only fooling himself, though-getting rid of the physical evidence isn’t going to make him forget. And there’s no way he’ll sleep after a night like this.
Somehow, Marshall isn’t the least bit surprised to find Dash sitting on the picnic table in his backyard-it’s the twelve-pack of beer at Dash’s feet that’s the surprise. Three cans already lie empty in the grass. And Dash looks like a bar regular, a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other.
“Teller!” he crows, holding up the can in greeting. “You’re late to the party!”
Mars narrows his eyes. “What the hell are you doing drinking in my yard? And how did you get beer?”
“One, it just happened to be where I ended up,” Dash says, with a look in his eyes that tells Mars he’s lying, “and two, I took it. How else?”
“I guess no one would ID you anyway,” Marshall muses. Dash cracks a grin.
“Gray hair occasionally comes in handy,” he says. Then, leaning over, he rummages in the pack and pulls out a beer. He tosses it to Mars, who manages to catch it.
“Join me?” he questions, raising an eyebrow.
Mars looks down at the beer in his hands-it’s Miller Lite, he notices, and it’s still cold to the touch. He then looks back up at Dash, who in turn looks… expectant? In that instant, he decides; cracking the can open, he goes to the picnic table and sits right beside Dash, so close they’re almost touching. Dash grins, a small triumph.
“Gotta say I’m a bit surprised,” he admits, taking a puff of his cigarette. The light from it creates odd shadows on his face. “I didn’t think you’d actually drink.”
Marshall shrugs, trying to play it cool. “Some rules are meant to be broken.”
“Well, well. Saint Teller has a rebellious streak after all,” Dash jokes. Marshall’s about to object to his teasing, but he decides to let it slide this time. After all, it’s rare for him and Dash to sit in peace; he doesn’t feel like disturbing it. So instead he takes a sip of his beer. The taste makes him grimace.
“Ugh,” he says. “You’ve drank three cans already?”
“It’s an acquired taste,” Dash says in reply. “I was gonna get something stronger, actually, but I was lucky to get out with this.”
“You’re losing your touch.”
Dash stops mid-sip. “Huh?”
“I thought you could steal whatever you wanted,” Marshall says. “You know, being the town delinquent and all.”
“Maybe I’m going soft.”
Marshall stares at him for a second, then they both laugh. They know that such a statement couldn’t be further from the truth, but neither voices the thought aloud. They lapse into silence for a while after that, quietly drinking, until Mars says suddenly, “We’re missing pizza.”
“What?”
“Beer’s supposed to go really well with pizza.” Mars puts a hand out, trying to illustrate the picture in his head. “I can see it: sitting in the living room, drinking beer, eating pizza, and watching the Giants kick some ass.”
“Do you really think I fit in that scene?” Dash questions. Mars doesn’t get a chance to answer before he adds, “I’d rather watch boxing.”
“Boxing, really?”
“Yeah. You and I would be great at it,” Dash says, smiling. “You’ve got one hell of a right hook.”
“Uh, thanks?”
Just then, Dash tosses his now-empty beer can down on the grass; he does the same thing with his cigarette, grinding it into the grass with his boot. When he straightens up, he’s almost nose-to-nose with Mars, who freezes.
Is he drunk?! Mars thinks, blinking in surprise. He knows he should back away, that this is rapidly becoming mega-weird, but something keeps him rooted to the spot. Dash’s eyes are intently fixed on his.
“What?” he snaps, growing more nervous by the second.
“Speaking of fights, d’you remember when you and the kid were investigating the Loyal Order of Corn?” Dash asks. Marshall can smell the smoke and booze on his breath, and it makes him dizzy, unable to keep his focus-
No, Mars, no, no, no, keep it together!
“Yeah,” he replies, fighting the tremor that keeps trying to betray his frayed mental state. “Yeah, I remember. What about it?”
“When I told you to gimmie your best shot, I didn’t mean with your fists.”
Let it go! a voice in his head warns, but if there’s one thing Marshall Teller can’t ignore, it’s his inherent curiosity. So he takes the plunge and asks, “Then what did you mean, Dash?”
Dash smiles, and it sends shivers down Marshall’s spine-not the usual dude-you’re-one-crazy-bastard shivers, but shivers of anticipation.
“Do I gotta spell it out for ya?” Dash fires back, and then, without waiting for any kind of response, he puts his hand on the nape of Marshall’s neck, clenches his fingers in Mars’s hair, yanks him forward-which isn’t all that far-and crushes their lips together.
Marshall’s so startled that he drops his beer, and it spills all over the bench seat. He tastes beer, he tastes cigarettes, and underneath it all, he tastes Dash, the thought of which makes his head spin.
“Dash-“ he gasps, trying to pack away just to get some air, but Dash shoves him down so he’s splayed on the table. Dash then leans over him, his eyes dark and dangerous. His fingertips graze over the tiny scar on Mars’s neck, the one he made with his switchblade, and Marshall almost stops breathing.
“W-what? What do you want with me?” he blurts out.
“You, Marshall,” Dash breathes. “I want you.”
With that he kisses Marshall again, slow and deliberate this time. It takes Marshall a few seconds to react; he grips the front of Dash’s shirt and shoves him away.
“Then why?!” he demands, his hands shaking. “Why the fuck did you try to kill me? And why do you still keep threatening me?!”
“You just don’t get it, do you?” Dash says, shaking his head. His tone is mockingly sympathetic, and it drives Marshall mad. “Just because I want you doesn’t mean I like you.”
He bends down, speaking his next words right into Mars’s ear.
“And I do it because your life is in my hands,” he whispers, his lips grazing Mars’s earlobe. “You belong to me.”
He sits up suddenly and pats Mars’s chest, a disturbingly friendly gesture under the circumstances. The smile on his face doesn’t help, either.
“Well, I guess I’m taking the party elsewhere,” he says nonchalantly, like nothing’s happened. “You’re just not cut out for this, Teller.”
Without another word, he hops off the table, grabs the remaining pack of beer, and walks off, leaving Mars lying across the table. And for a while, Mars just lies there, staring up at the starless night sky. His heart’s hammering so loud that he can barely hear himself think.
What just happened? he thinks, shaken. Was he drunk? Just fucking with me again? Or was he serious?
He realizes his mouth has gone dry, so he licks his lips-on them, he can still taste Dash. Shivers shoot down his spine again, and he realizes abruptly that Dash has really gotten to him.
And, what’s worse-he wants more.
I… oh God. I think I need to go to bed.
Sitting up, he slides off the table and gathers the empty beer cans in his arms before making his way back to the house. He’s only fooling himself, though-getting rid of the physical evidence isn’t going to make him forget. And there’s no way he’ll sleep after a night like this.