Oz FlashFiction #22: The Fork in the Road
Easter fic! Happy Easter. :D
Title: The Fork in the Road
Prompt: 22 - Encore Presentation (Challenge #02: Storytelling)
Character/Pairing: Beecher/Keller
Timeframe: Early S6 AU. Chris has been paroled. It doesn't matter why or how. AU kicks ass.
Authors Notes: This started out from a First Sentence prompt from ozsaur. The sentence is actually used near the end of the fic. :)
Word Count: 2169
The Fork in the Road
by Severina
Toby runs a hand through his hair, surveys the organized chaos of his dining room.
Two stuffed bunnies, one pink and one blue, take up most of the space on the north end of the long table, oversized heads flopping and glassy eyes staring at him skeptically. He’s only managed to assemble about half of the chocolate and candy into appropriate-sized packages, he still has only the vaguest idea about where to hide half of the shit, and he’s getting a cramp from writing out the damn instructions. He feels a renewed appreciation for all the hard work his parents must have put in to their annual Easter Treat Hunt for him and Angus when they were kids.
And the treats do look appealing. He reaches out for one of the chocolate bunnies, ponders putting in an extra half-hour on the treadmill in payment for his lack of will power, and manages to stop himself with a muttered “no, they’re for the kids” under his breath.
Of course, there are other pursuits that would also burn off those extra calories, and were a lot more entertaining that mindlessly jogging in place and getting nowhere. And the night? He steals a quick look at the clock. Yes, still young.
Toby squints down at the index card in front of him before glancing over at Chris. He’s been fine-tuning his come hither stare, shooting it toward Chris at regular intervals for the last half hour, but the results are unsatisfying. Finally he gives up, stretches to ease his tired arms.
“Do you think we should hide the fourth thing under the stairs,” Toby asks, “or behind the piano?”
Chris flips one of the chocolate eggs between his fingers, doesn’t bother to look up. “Wherever.”
Toby resigns himself to not getting lucky anytime soon.
“Maybe under the stairs isn’t such a great idea. Harry still has that phobia about tight spaces.” His eyes narrow when Chris only shrugs, and maybe the lack of any sex on the immediate horizon makes him a tad snippy. “You know, you’re not exactly helping.”
“Good, ‘cause I don’t remember volunteering to help.”
Toby sniffs at that. “You don’t volunteer for the Easter treasure hunt. Or birthday parties with a dozen screaming kids, or getting woken up at the ass crack of dawn on Christmas morning. It’s just something that you’re conscripted into when you’re a parent.”
“Yeah well--” Chris drops the shiny foil-wrapped chocolate egg back onto the pile, pushes away from the table with a grunt -- “I’m not a parent. And I’m going down to O’Malley’s.”
“Uh… no,” Toby says. When Chris just snorts, he reaches out to wrap his fingers firmly around Chris’s forearm, smoothly ignoring the look that Chris sends his way. He’s had years of practice, after all. “You got conscripted the moment you joined this family. So sit your ass down, stop playing with that chocolate and make yourself useful.”
Chris arches a brow, glances between the hand on his arm to Toby’s face with a look of incredulity. “You really think you can stop me?”
“Absolutely not,” Toby says. Physically he’s no match for Chris, he knows that, no matter what his personal trainer says. He releases his hold, flexes his fingers. “Go, if that’s what you really want. But the disappointment in Holly’s eyes in the morning… the look on Harry’s face when he realizes his new best friend, his goddamn fucking hero, is too hung-over to give a shit about the treasure hunt and the Easter Bunny…” Toby shrugs.
“I think Harry’s already well versed in parental abandonment,” Chris snips out.
Toby bites down on his own retort, forces his face to remain blandly impassive, and allows himself only a small sliver of satisfaction when Chris‘s shoulders slump. Knowing when not to push his luck is also something he’s learned through many painful lessons in living with Chris Keller, both in and out of Oz. So he drops his gaze, watches from beneath lowered lashes as Chris flops back into the chair, draws a cluster of eggs, a miniature pink basket and a pile of sparkly red ribbon toward himself resignedly.
“You don’t play fair, Beecher.”
“Never said I did, Keller.”
They work mutely for a time, Chris making short work of separating the chocolate and candy into brightly coloured bags and baskets, Toby labouring over the treasure hunt instructions. He‘s never really noticed just how loud the ticking of the grandfather clock is, or been aware that the kitchen sink has a intermittent drip. Finally he can’t stand the silence any longer. “Don’t sulk,” he says.
“I’m not sulking.”
“Of course you‘re not.”
“Don’t fucking push it, Beecher.”
Toby presses his lips together before scratching out the last clue on one of the cards, somewhat ridiculously pleased with the rhyme on this one -- though, granted, he has lots of experience in the rhyming department -- and props it next to the set of gaily wrapped yellow peeps that Chris has just finished preparing. He glances over at Chris, still slumped morosely in his chair, before sitting back to gaze proudly at the array of presents.
He cocks his head, and considers.
“You know,” he says, “my parents did this for Angus and I every year. Even long after we knew there was no such thing as the Easter Bunny. Fuck, I think by the time we stopped doing the treasure hunt I had to be at least… hmm… fourteen or so. By that time we were getting movies and gift certificates along with the chocolate. I remember, we used to get so excited, following the trail of clues from one gift to the next. It was almost better than Christmas.” He smiles softly in reminiscence. “What about you?
When Chris doesn’t respond, he looks across the table. “Chris? Did you have any Easter traditions?”
“Church,” Chris says shortly.
“Oh.” Toby nods. Somehow the whole death-and-resurrection aspect of the holiday had never factored into the Beecher plans. But Keller? He thinks quickly. “We could… we could go to church, if you want. I’m sure there‘s… yeah, there’s a Catholic church on… I think it’s Pine. Or maybe Hazelhur--”
“Relax, Toby. We don’t gotta go to church.”
“I’m just saying we can if you want. It could be good for the kids to--”
“We went to church so my mom could have a couple hours of peace away from the son of a bitch she married, same reason we went to church on Wednesday nights, Saturday afternoons, and Sunday mornings. By the time we got home my old man’d be three sheets to the wind, same as he was any other day. Only difference was on Easter, we got to listen to him rant about how the turkey was too dry and on any other day it was the meatloaf or the pork chops. On a good Easter he’d lodge his complaint by slamming mom’s face into the wall half a dozen times. You don’t want to know about the bad Easters.” Chris bares his teeth in a savage grin. “That’s my Easter tradition, Toby. Happy now? Think maybe we can incorporate it into your little Ozzie and Harriet world of rainbows and puppies?”
Toby blinks. Swallows past a suddenly dry throat. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?” Chris leans back in the chair, crosses his arms. “Not like it has fuck all to do with you.”
“Chris--”
Chris pushes away from the table, rises in one fluid motion. “We gonna hide this shit or what?”
* * *
Toby half-expects Chris to bolt for the front door, head off to the long-delayed beer at O’Malley’s, maybe take out his frustrations with a pool cue (and hopefully not on someone’s skull). He’s surprised, then, when Chris merely follows him meekly around the house, lugging the box filled with chocolate and candy, answering in monosyllables and handing over the appropriate treat when asked.
It’s unnerving.
He finds himself keeping up a steady rhythm of chatter to compensate, keeping his voice low so Harry won’t overhear them, not concerned about Holly because she sleeps like the dead.
He edges from beneath the desk in the den after depositing the last items, a pair of solid white-chocolate hens, silently disappointed that his comings-and-goings beneath the furniture haven’t elicited a single comment about his ass. He sits on his haunches and cocks his head from side to side, ensuring that the edges of the hidden goodies can’t be seen from a child’s point of view. Nodding in satisfaction, he gets to his feet. “This one directs them back to the dining room to the big basket and the stuffed bunnies.”
“Okay.”
He side-glances Chris warily on the walk back to the dining room. “What we’ll do,” Toby says, “is wait until they’re on the second last clue. Then one of us -- or both of us -- has to dart back here and put the stuffed animals on the table, arrange some of the chocolate eggs at their feet, and then get back to the living room before the kids notice either of us is gone.”
“Okay.”
“Jesus Christ, Keller.”
Chris blinks. “What?”
“Yell at me. Tell me I’m an insensitive ass. Punch me in the nose! I don‘t give a shit. Just stop with the fucking monotone!”
“You tell me I’m conscripted, I sit down. You tell me I gotta help out, I’m helping out. What the fuck is your problem, Beecher?”
At times like these, Toby is pretty sure he can actually feel his blood pressure rising. He takes a breath, lets it out, tries to picture a calming image in his mind like his therapist taught him. He unclenches his fists carefully. “Look,” he says softly, when he’s sure he won’t scream, “I know that you had a difficult childhood--”
“Should have got ‘em real rabbits,” Chris interrupts, flicking a long finger at the plush ear of the pink bunny.
“What?”
“Yeah. I always wanted one.” Chris lets the ear flop into place, rolls back onto his heels, stares into the flat eyes of the stuffed animal. “Old man flipped out, said the thing would shit all over the house.” Chris shrugs. “Probably right.”
“Chris--”
“Besides, can you see me with a rabbit? ‘And I will hold him and squeeze him and call him George‘.” Chris sniffs derisively.
Sometimes, when Chris is lying loose-limbed and sated beside him, half-asleep and vulnerable, Toby can close his eyes and almost see the little boy that Chris once was. Sometimes it happens at a moment like this, when every line of Chris’s body is taut, close to breaking, when his eyes dart from place to place, refusing to settle.
“I can, actually,” Toby says. He reaches out to place a hand on Chris’s arm, breathes easier when Chris turns his head to watch him. “I’ve seen you with my kids, remember.”
“Yeah. Well--”
“Holly loves you. Harry, he practically worships the ground you walk on. And I know you’re not used to this,” he waves an arm, shakes his head, “this. But the thing with kids is… they give you a chance to start over. You get the chance to make it better for them than it was for you.”
Chris snorts out a terse laugh. “Thank you, Dr. Spock.”
Therapist-taught visions of cool mountain streams and lush green meadows fly out of his head as Toby throws up his hands. “Fine. Fuck it. Whatever.”
“Toby.”
“No,” Toby says shortly. He turns back to the table, sweeps the leftover ribbon into a pile with savage exuberance. “Never mind. Let’s just get this shit hidden away and call it a night.”
“I don’t want to fuck them up.”
“What?” Toby blinks, stops with Harry‘s blue rabbit halfway into his arms. “No. Chris. You won’t.”
“Don’t let me. Don’t let me fuck up your kids lives, Toby.”
“I won’t. You won’t,” Toby promises, and when Chris’s arms come around his waist, hold him tight, they tremble with the weight of that promise.
Toby hangs on until the shivers stop, pulls away only to run a hand soothingly along Chris’s cheek. He laughs shakily. “Jesus,” he says. “You know, you start a night thinking one thing…”
“Yeah.”
Toby shakes his head, stretches and rubs at the back of his neck. He eyes the chocolate eggs. “You know,” he said, reaching out a hand toward one of the foil-wrapped chocolates, “I think we deserve--”
“No. They’re for the kids.”
“But--”
“Beecher, touch that chocolate and I’ll break your arms,” Chris warns. “Again.”
Toby‘s mouth twitches despite his best efforts. He cocks his head. Licks his lips. “That… shouldn’t make me hot, should it?”
“You are one twisted fuck, Beech.”
“’Why you love me, Keller.”
Chris tugs him forward again, wraps a strong arm around his waist. “One of the many reasons,” murmurs into his ear.
Toby hums softly, makes a mental note to set the alarm extra-early. They’ll have plenty of time to finish up in the morning.
.
Title: The Fork in the Road
Prompt: 22 - Encore Presentation (Challenge #02: Storytelling)
Character/Pairing: Beecher/Keller
Timeframe: Early S6 AU. Chris has been paroled. It doesn't matter why or how. AU kicks ass.
Authors Notes: This started out from a First Sentence prompt from ozsaur. The sentence is actually used near the end of the fic. :)
Word Count: 2169
The Fork in the Road
by Severina
Toby runs a hand through his hair, surveys the organized chaos of his dining room.
Two stuffed bunnies, one pink and one blue, take up most of the space on the north end of the long table, oversized heads flopping and glassy eyes staring at him skeptically. He’s only managed to assemble about half of the chocolate and candy into appropriate-sized packages, he still has only the vaguest idea about where to hide half of the shit, and he’s getting a cramp from writing out the damn instructions. He feels a renewed appreciation for all the hard work his parents must have put in to their annual Easter Treat Hunt for him and Angus when they were kids.
And the treats do look appealing. He reaches out for one of the chocolate bunnies, ponders putting in an extra half-hour on the treadmill in payment for his lack of will power, and manages to stop himself with a muttered “no, they’re for the kids” under his breath.
Of course, there are other pursuits that would also burn off those extra calories, and were a lot more entertaining that mindlessly jogging in place and getting nowhere. And the night? He steals a quick look at the clock. Yes, still young.
Toby squints down at the index card in front of him before glancing over at Chris. He’s been fine-tuning his come hither stare, shooting it toward Chris at regular intervals for the last half hour, but the results are unsatisfying. Finally he gives up, stretches to ease his tired arms.
“Do you think we should hide the fourth thing under the stairs,” Toby asks, “or behind the piano?”
Chris flips one of the chocolate eggs between his fingers, doesn’t bother to look up. “Wherever.”
Toby resigns himself to not getting lucky anytime soon.
“Maybe under the stairs isn’t such a great idea. Harry still has that phobia about tight spaces.” His eyes narrow when Chris only shrugs, and maybe the lack of any sex on the immediate horizon makes him a tad snippy. “You know, you’re not exactly helping.”
“Good, ‘cause I don’t remember volunteering to help.”
Toby sniffs at that. “You don’t volunteer for the Easter treasure hunt. Or birthday parties with a dozen screaming kids, or getting woken up at the ass crack of dawn on Christmas morning. It’s just something that you’re conscripted into when you’re a parent.”
“Yeah well--” Chris drops the shiny foil-wrapped chocolate egg back onto the pile, pushes away from the table with a grunt -- “I’m not a parent. And I’m going down to O’Malley’s.”
“Uh… no,” Toby says. When Chris just snorts, he reaches out to wrap his fingers firmly around Chris’s forearm, smoothly ignoring the look that Chris sends his way. He’s had years of practice, after all. “You got conscripted the moment you joined this family. So sit your ass down, stop playing with that chocolate and make yourself useful.”
Chris arches a brow, glances between the hand on his arm to Toby’s face with a look of incredulity. “You really think you can stop me?”
“Absolutely not,” Toby says. Physically he’s no match for Chris, he knows that, no matter what his personal trainer says. He releases his hold, flexes his fingers. “Go, if that’s what you really want. But the disappointment in Holly’s eyes in the morning… the look on Harry’s face when he realizes his new best friend, his goddamn fucking hero, is too hung-over to give a shit about the treasure hunt and the Easter Bunny…” Toby shrugs.
“I think Harry’s already well versed in parental abandonment,” Chris snips out.
Toby bites down on his own retort, forces his face to remain blandly impassive, and allows himself only a small sliver of satisfaction when Chris‘s shoulders slump. Knowing when not to push his luck is also something he’s learned through many painful lessons in living with Chris Keller, both in and out of Oz. So he drops his gaze, watches from beneath lowered lashes as Chris flops back into the chair, draws a cluster of eggs, a miniature pink basket and a pile of sparkly red ribbon toward himself resignedly.
“You don’t play fair, Beecher.”
“Never said I did, Keller.”
They work mutely for a time, Chris making short work of separating the chocolate and candy into brightly coloured bags and baskets, Toby labouring over the treasure hunt instructions. He‘s never really noticed just how loud the ticking of the grandfather clock is, or been aware that the kitchen sink has a intermittent drip. Finally he can’t stand the silence any longer. “Don’t sulk,” he says.
“I’m not sulking.”
“Of course you‘re not.”
“Don’t fucking push it, Beecher.”
Toby presses his lips together before scratching out the last clue on one of the cards, somewhat ridiculously pleased with the rhyme on this one -- though, granted, he has lots of experience in the rhyming department -- and props it next to the set of gaily wrapped yellow peeps that Chris has just finished preparing. He glances over at Chris, still slumped morosely in his chair, before sitting back to gaze proudly at the array of presents.
He cocks his head, and considers.
“You know,” he says, “my parents did this for Angus and I every year. Even long after we knew there was no such thing as the Easter Bunny. Fuck, I think by the time we stopped doing the treasure hunt I had to be at least… hmm… fourteen or so. By that time we were getting movies and gift certificates along with the chocolate. I remember, we used to get so excited, following the trail of clues from one gift to the next. It was almost better than Christmas.” He smiles softly in reminiscence. “What about you?
When Chris doesn’t respond, he looks across the table. “Chris? Did you have any Easter traditions?”
“Church,” Chris says shortly.
“Oh.” Toby nods. Somehow the whole death-and-resurrection aspect of the holiday had never factored into the Beecher plans. But Keller? He thinks quickly. “We could… we could go to church, if you want. I’m sure there‘s… yeah, there’s a Catholic church on… I think it’s Pine. Or maybe Hazelhur--”
“Relax, Toby. We don’t gotta go to church.”
“I’m just saying we can if you want. It could be good for the kids to--”
“We went to church so my mom could have a couple hours of peace away from the son of a bitch she married, same reason we went to church on Wednesday nights, Saturday afternoons, and Sunday mornings. By the time we got home my old man’d be three sheets to the wind, same as he was any other day. Only difference was on Easter, we got to listen to him rant about how the turkey was too dry and on any other day it was the meatloaf or the pork chops. On a good Easter he’d lodge his complaint by slamming mom’s face into the wall half a dozen times. You don’t want to know about the bad Easters.” Chris bares his teeth in a savage grin. “That’s my Easter tradition, Toby. Happy now? Think maybe we can incorporate it into your little Ozzie and Harriet world of rainbows and puppies?”
Toby blinks. Swallows past a suddenly dry throat. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?” Chris leans back in the chair, crosses his arms. “Not like it has fuck all to do with you.”
“Chris--”
Chris pushes away from the table, rises in one fluid motion. “We gonna hide this shit or what?”
* * *
Toby half-expects Chris to bolt for the front door, head off to the long-delayed beer at O’Malley’s, maybe take out his frustrations with a pool cue (and hopefully not on someone’s skull). He’s surprised, then, when Chris merely follows him meekly around the house, lugging the box filled with chocolate and candy, answering in monosyllables and handing over the appropriate treat when asked.
It’s unnerving.
He finds himself keeping up a steady rhythm of chatter to compensate, keeping his voice low so Harry won’t overhear them, not concerned about Holly because she sleeps like the dead.
He edges from beneath the desk in the den after depositing the last items, a pair of solid white-chocolate hens, silently disappointed that his comings-and-goings beneath the furniture haven’t elicited a single comment about his ass. He sits on his haunches and cocks his head from side to side, ensuring that the edges of the hidden goodies can’t be seen from a child’s point of view. Nodding in satisfaction, he gets to his feet. “This one directs them back to the dining room to the big basket and the stuffed bunnies.”
“Okay.”
He side-glances Chris warily on the walk back to the dining room. “What we’ll do,” Toby says, “is wait until they’re on the second last clue. Then one of us -- or both of us -- has to dart back here and put the stuffed animals on the table, arrange some of the chocolate eggs at their feet, and then get back to the living room before the kids notice either of us is gone.”
“Okay.”
“Jesus Christ, Keller.”
Chris blinks. “What?”
“Yell at me. Tell me I’m an insensitive ass. Punch me in the nose! I don‘t give a shit. Just stop with the fucking monotone!”
“You tell me I’m conscripted, I sit down. You tell me I gotta help out, I’m helping out. What the fuck is your problem, Beecher?”
At times like these, Toby is pretty sure he can actually feel his blood pressure rising. He takes a breath, lets it out, tries to picture a calming image in his mind like his therapist taught him. He unclenches his fists carefully. “Look,” he says softly, when he’s sure he won’t scream, “I know that you had a difficult childhood--”
“Should have got ‘em real rabbits,” Chris interrupts, flicking a long finger at the plush ear of the pink bunny.
“What?”
“Yeah. I always wanted one.” Chris lets the ear flop into place, rolls back onto his heels, stares into the flat eyes of the stuffed animal. “Old man flipped out, said the thing would shit all over the house.” Chris shrugs. “Probably right.”
“Chris--”
“Besides, can you see me with a rabbit? ‘And I will hold him and squeeze him and call him George‘.” Chris sniffs derisively.
Sometimes, when Chris is lying loose-limbed and sated beside him, half-asleep and vulnerable, Toby can close his eyes and almost see the little boy that Chris once was. Sometimes it happens at a moment like this, when every line of Chris’s body is taut, close to breaking, when his eyes dart from place to place, refusing to settle.
“I can, actually,” Toby says. He reaches out to place a hand on Chris’s arm, breathes easier when Chris turns his head to watch him. “I’ve seen you with my kids, remember.”
“Yeah. Well--”
“Holly loves you. Harry, he practically worships the ground you walk on. And I know you’re not used to this,” he waves an arm, shakes his head, “this. But the thing with kids is… they give you a chance to start over. You get the chance to make it better for them than it was for you.”
Chris snorts out a terse laugh. “Thank you, Dr. Spock.”
Therapist-taught visions of cool mountain streams and lush green meadows fly out of his head as Toby throws up his hands. “Fine. Fuck it. Whatever.”
“Toby.”
“No,” Toby says shortly. He turns back to the table, sweeps the leftover ribbon into a pile with savage exuberance. “Never mind. Let’s just get this shit hidden away and call it a night.”
“I don’t want to fuck them up.”
“What?” Toby blinks, stops with Harry‘s blue rabbit halfway into his arms. “No. Chris. You won’t.”
“Don’t let me. Don’t let me fuck up your kids lives, Toby.”
“I won’t. You won’t,” Toby promises, and when Chris’s arms come around his waist, hold him tight, they tremble with the weight of that promise.
Toby hangs on until the shivers stop, pulls away only to run a hand soothingly along Chris’s cheek. He laughs shakily. “Jesus,” he says. “You know, you start a night thinking one thing…”
“Yeah.”
Toby shakes his head, stretches and rubs at the back of his neck. He eyes the chocolate eggs. “You know,” he said, reaching out a hand toward one of the foil-wrapped chocolates, “I think we deserve--”
“No. They’re for the kids.”
“But--”
“Beecher, touch that chocolate and I’ll break your arms,” Chris warns. “Again.”
Toby‘s mouth twitches despite his best efforts. He cocks his head. Licks his lips. “That… shouldn’t make me hot, should it?”
“You are one twisted fuck, Beech.”
“’Why you love me, Keller.”
Chris tugs him forward again, wraps a strong arm around his waist. “One of the many reasons,” murmurs into his ear.
Toby hums softly, makes a mental note to set the alarm extra-early. They’ll have plenty of time to finish up in the morning.
.