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theseshipsshallsail · 4 years ago

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There’s a new club in the Village - Infinity emblazoned in bright, neon letters - and naturally, the building is jam-packed with society’s outcasts on its opening weekend. Oliver grimaces, pressing his third beer to the side of his face, yet the condensation does nothing to soothe his overheated skin. It’s like a furnace of writhing bodies, and with every bead of sweat that bisects his neck to soak into his collar, he can’t help but wonder why he ever agreed to come in the first place.

“Drink up,” Vanessa says, brandishing a bright amber concoction as she slides into the booth opposite him. “You look like you need something a little stronger.”

Oliver raises an eyebrow as he returns the bottle to the table, then plucks the wedge of orange peel from the rim of the proffered glass. It’s been three years since he tasted a negroni, and the potent combination of gin, Campari, and vermouth sends his mind reeling in directions he usually fights tooth and nail to avoid.

“Remind me again why you brought me here?” he asks, trying not to wince at the bitter aftertaste. “This isn’t exactly my scene.”

Vanessa scoffs. “Well, if you ever left your study...”

“I’m up for promotion!”

“You’ll be up for an ulcer if you don’t slow down. Besides, you deserve to let loose after... you know.”

You know, meaning his divorce, and the eighteen month shit-storm that preceded it.

Vanessa has the office next to his, and in between general grousing about University politics they’ve become close friends. It helps, of course, that she understands his situation all too well, and even though her parents never tried to strong-arm her to the altar, she and her girlfriend still have to hide their relationship from the rest of their colleagues.

Oliver sighs as he takes a second sip of his drink. “It’ll take more than a one night stand to loosen me up,” he tells her, and the filthy smirk that curls Vanessa’s lips has him tempted to bang his forehead against the table.

“Whatever tickles your pickle, Professor.”

“Why do I put up with you?”

“Hell if I know.” Slurring somewhat, she taps their cocktails together, and Oliver laughs as she leans forward, poking him in the chest. “Listen, Ollie, you and Micol did a spectacular job of making yourselves miserable, but at least you stayed faithful ‘til the end. Why not enjoy yourself, yeah?”

“Why not indeed?”

He’s aiming for sarcastic, yet his tone falls somewhere short of exhausted. She’s right, he realises, but Oliver hasn’t had much interest in men or women for a while. He’s not so deep in denial to admit his heart still belongs to another, and being hopelessly in love with someone he can’t have has done a real number on his libido.

“Damn! This place is heaving!” Simone says, slumping in her seat when she returns from the bathroom. Slinging an arm around Vanessa’s shoulder she drops a quick kiss to her cheek, and Oliver averts his eyes, the casual intimacy leaving him yearning for the impossible. “A few too many student-types for my liking, though. Makes me feel like I’m back in the theatre department.”

“Makes me feel like I’m pushing thirty,” Oliver mutters, painfully aware of the significantly younger crowd as he tugs at the cheap material of his shirt. Too many curries and not enough exercise has made him self-conscious of the few extra pounds at his waistline, and depressingly, twenty-eight feels ancient in comparison.

“You wanna call it a night?” Vanessa asks, and Oliver nods absently as his gaze catches on a couple in the middle of the dancefloor.

Caught in a world of their own, they make a striking picture. The taller of the pair is bleached-blond and athletic, his arms wrapped tightly around the slim waist of the man in front of him in a surprisingly protective gesture. Oliver can’t see his partner clearly from this angle, but his skin is pale and shimmering as they move to the beat, dark curls falling in a tousled mess. Whether it’s by artful design or sweat-damp from dancing, he can’t quite tell, yet Oliver is hypnotized by the way they bounce as he loses himself to the music, obscuring his vision until the other man reaches forward, gently brushing them away.

The bass pounds in his rib cage, and Oliver’s throat feels constricted as he watches the brunette link his hands behind his lover's neck. Profile half in shadows, he raises up on tiptoes to whisper in the shell of his ear, and Oliver experiences a crisis of tenderness when he butts their temples together. Something squirms in his stomach. Something raw and envious. Memories flare, unfair and brutal, and he immediately blames the burning of his retinas on the relentless assault of the strobe lights surrounding them.

“Oliver? You okay?”

No.

Definitely not.

The jostling crowd causes the blond to alter their position, and Oliver’s head spins from more than just the alcohol as his blood runs cold in his veins.

“Elio…” he murmurs, vaguely aware of Vanessa’s stifled gasp when she tries to get a better look.

“Your Elio?”

He wants it not to be - wants his eyes to be deceiving him - yet there’s no denying the truth. All that he’s forgotten - all that he’s clung to - coalesces in a rush of unslaked longing, and between one blink and the next, Oliver remembers everything.

“Not anymore,” he whispers, but then, why would he be?

Elio was seventeen when they first met, and Oliver isn’t naive enough to think he hasn’t fallen in and out of love many times since then. He’s beautiful, intelligent, talented beyond measure. Was he really so arrogant to imagine he would still be single? Pining for him, maybe? Saving himself? And for what? A six week romance one too-hot Italian summer? Something his cowardice cut short with a long-distance phone call?

He was, wasn’t he?

Arrogant.

And so very stupid.

“Of all the gay bars in all the world…” Vanessa takes a swig of her piña colada as he continues to spiral. “I thought you said he lived in Italy?”

“He did,” Oliver replies, picking at his thumbnail. “He moved here for school.”

“And you didn't contact him?”

“To say what?” His ears ring from the shrillness of her tone. “Hey, Elio. Remember that time I broke both our hearts ‘cause I’m a gutless schmuck? How about I buy you a coffee to make up for it?”

“It would’ve been a start.”

“It would’ve been selfish,” he says, tearing his eyes away. “He has enough on his plate with Juilliard. I’d only get in the -”

“Juilliard?” Simone’s low whistle interrupts his self-reproach. “Impressive.”

“Son of a professor,” Oliver explains. “I always knew he was a genius.” He gathers himself with a quiet huff. “Though he’ll probably say he knows nothing.” The spark of nostalgia is crippling, and it takes everything he has not to break down on the spot. “I should go,” he says, draining the remains of his drink as he rises to his feet.

“Oliver -”

“Why don’t you come back to ours?” Vanessa offers, making to follow, but whatever expression is on his face causes Simone to catch her by the wrist.

“We’re here if you need us, alright?”

“I know,” he says, eternally grateful for their support as he pushes some cab money into her hand. “Get home safe. I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”

“You’d better,” Vanessa tells him, obstinate in her concern, yet all he can focus on right now is leaving.

The swirling thoughts inside his head are all-consuming, but Oliver is determined to reign in his emotions for a little while longer. Ignoring the way his shoes stick to the tacky vinyl flooring, he grits his teeth as he snakes his way through the crush of humanity. He needs space. Fresh air. Hell, a damn time machine wouldn’t go amiss. He has nobody to blame but himself, and he’s halfway to the exit sign when his pace grinds to a halt, his masochistic streak unable to resist one last glimpse.

A flash of irrational panic makes him breathe in deep - hold it for a count of three - and when he turns to scan the roiling bodies that fill up the dance floor, he finds them immediately. The shock doesn’t lessen, and if Oliver thought his heart had broken when they’d clung to one another on a train station platform, it’s naught compared to when Elio tips the other man’s chin up with the same fingers that used to play his body like a finely tuned instrument. White noise fills his ears as he ghosts a kiss to his lips - two chaste pecks at first - and then harder. Hungry. Mouths open. Tongues swirling. Deep and dirty.

Just the way he likes it.

Fool that he is, Oliver doesn’t turn away. But he’s not the only one. Their bawdy display has garnered a small audience of the jealous and horny, and when the cat-calls eventually die down he notices a clearly disappointed red-head stalk past them on route to her table of friends.

Time has not domesticated him, it seems, and Oliver feels like crying as the world returns frame by frame - the oscillating pulse of the dance track. The lightning burst of colour from the laser system above. An innate sense of powerlessness floods through him - the depths of which he hasn’t experienced since Elio sobbed against his chest in an attic bedroom - and a heavy weight settles in his belly as he recognises the cues and rituals that were once directed at him alone.

Elio has obviously flourished in his absence. His body language is looser, more relaxed, assured in a way his younger self could only dream of, and Oliver allows an almost-smile as the couple laugh for a moment before turning to walk away.

His fingers itch for a cigarette - a habit he’s struggling to waive - and the next thing he knows he’s taking a seat at the bar, a double shot of bourbon in his hand he doesn’t remember ordering, and a screaming admonishment from his better judgement to not do anything stupid.

All I had to do was find the courage to reach out and touch, Elio said once, rife with self-mockery, and Oliver’s advice was to try again later. Was this it? Their later? And if not now, when? Because whatever his feelings of bitterness - whatever his misguided envy - if he lets this opportunity pass him by, he will always wonder. Always look.

In truth, he already does.

Ever since Samuel mentioned Elio was moving to the States, he’s carried the idle fantasy of crossing paths in some random book store, eyes locking across a busy street, a name - his, theirs, both - shouted across a bustling coffee shop. Of all eventualities, though, he hasn’t prepared for an Elio who might not be happy to see him. Who might dismiss him. Cast him aside like some ill-fitting chapter in the editing process. The context is all wrong, and for it to happen like this is akin to being plunged into the icy waters of the berm.

“Accidenti!” an achingly familiar voice says from somewhere behind him. “Are all Americans incapable of taking a hint? Or is it just an East Coast thing?”

“It’s the accent, mio amico. Fries their brains.”

“Never mind their brains,” Elio replies in the same lazy drawl. “I think you’ve sprained my tonsils.”

There’s a snicker to his left, and like a moth to a flame, Oliver peers up into the mirror behind the bar, only to find his living nightmare mere meters away, sharing a cigarette. Elio’s still wearing the same bracelets he did that summer, and three years of sleepwalking collapses around him as Oliver hunches over, palms sweating.

“Seriously though,” the blond continues. “Look at this place! Wall-to-wall entreés, and you won’t so much as skim the menu. You’re spoiled for choice, compagno.”

Elio scoffs as he brings the filter to his lips. “Didn’t I tell you choice is an illusion?”

“As is time, according to Adams.” The man slings an arm over his shoulders. “And here you are, free as a bird, wasting the perfect opportunity.”

Elio flips him the middle finger. “Stronzo,” he says, leaving Oliver more confused than ever as he studies him over the rim of his glass. “It’s a curse.”

“Self-inflicted, maybe.”

“So what’s the answer? And don’t say forty-two.”

The guy chuckles. “Variety,” he says, signalling the harried bartender. “Things didn’t work out with the violinist - I get it. È la vita! You’re not in the mood for pushy red-heads? Fine. But don’t sell yourself short. Trust Fund Tina’s not the only one checking you out.”

“Perhaps.”

“What perhaps?” A knowing smirk shoots in Oliver’s direction. “See for yourself.”

It’s like experiencing the first tremor of an earthquake. Elio was always a force of nature, and bracing for disaster, Oliver feels the fault lines buckle beneath him. He thought he was done letting fear and shame dictate his life, yet even now, at peace with his true self, he can’t bear to witness the seismic shift between past and present. Instead, he falls back on avoidance, tearing strips off a frayed beer mat until the hair prickles at his nape.

He can feel it - the instant his fate is sealed - and taking a deep breath Oliver returns his eyes to the mirror, meeting Elio’s stunned features. Dark brows climb towards his hairline as the happiness on his face shifts into something else. Something measured. Unrecognisable. A blank slate, almost. For a moment, Oliver fears he’s going to ignore him completely, but then Elio straightens his spine, offers the half-smoked cigarette to his friend, and with a few whispered words strides forward with purpose.

His daring is a law unto himself, but the look he’s giving him now exudes superiority - omniscience, almost - as if he can read every thought that’s going on inside Oliver’s mind, and has already deemed them wanting. It shouldn’t be such a turn on, yet his heart skips a beat regardless. Then another. Every instinct in his body tells him to reach out, to hold Elio’s hand, tuck those wild curls behind his ear, but it’s no longer his place - if it ever really was to begin with - so Oliver takes a deliberate sip of his whiskey, scared and aroused simultaneously, before swivelling towards him.

“Oliver.” His name on Elio’s lips - three smooth syllables - and he feels reborn. “Long time no see.” Hesitating, he offers up a pack of Luckies. “Fumo?”

“I shouldn’t,” he says, dragging trembling fingers through his hair. “I told myself I’d quit. God knows it won't take much to -”

“Tempt you?”

Heat rises to Oliver’s cheeks. “Yes,” he admits, and Elio’s smile is a shallow, brittle thing.

“Well, you know yourself,” he says, returning the cigarette carton to his pocket. “Don’t let me ruin your good intentions.”

His flippancy is like a red rag to a bull, and Oliver’s hackles rise as he sets his drink on the counter, irritated enough by Elio’s calm exterior to try and provoke a reaction. “Is your boyfriend not the jealous type?”

All he receives is an eye roll. “Bruno’s not my boyfriend.”

“Could’ve fooled me. From what I saw earlier.”

“You saw nothing,” Elio replies, defensive. “We’re friends. Roommates.”

“Roommates?” Rising from his stool, Oliver takes a step towards him. “That kiss -”

“Is none of your business. Not anymore.”

It hits him like a punch to the gut. Oliver’s lips part, but no sound passes between them. He’s being irrational, he’ll accept, but old habits die hard, and through sheer force of will he quashes down his guilt, knowing better than to use it as a weapon.

“Of course,” he says, chastened. “You’re right.”

“I usually am.”

“Elio…” This isn’t how he wants the conversation to go. “I know it’s too much to expect your forgiveness, but please don’t be angry with me. We were friends, once. Before anything else.”

“I’m not angry.” A beat. “Not anymore.” Tipping his chin, Elio folds his arms in front of him. One more barrier despite the brush-off. “I’m processing.“

“Processing?”

“Yes, processing. Originates from the Old French proces. Related to the Latin processus, and from the verb procedere in Middle English.”

“Wise ass.”

“Sempre.” Elio shrugs, watching him openly. “What are you doing here, Oliver?”

“My friends saw the flyers,” he says, bypassing the here, specifically, when Elio’s attention drops a few inches lower, and he realises he’s staring at his ring finger.

At the white line that’s all but vanished since he signed his way to freedom.

“You’re…”

Oliver clears his throat. “Divorced,” he manages, shuffling his feet. “Almost three months now.”

“Divorced?” Elio’s mask slams back into place, the distress in his voice palpable. “Why?”

And there are so many things he could say to that - the stress of his job, money, differing expectations - but this is Elio. His first love. His forever love. He, above anyone, deserves the truth.

“I think you know why.”

“Do I?” That same phony indifference. “What the eyes see, and the ears hear, the mind believes.”

“The truth is never that simple.”

“Not for us, it seems. Not in this world.” Elio gives his head a small but firm shake, blowing out a frustrated breath. “You know, tonight was supposed to lower my stress levels, not raise them,” he says, granting them a temporary reprieve. “But then, you always were hazardous to my blood pressure.”

“Trust me. The feeling’s mutual,” Oliver tells him wryly. “Might I recommend some deep breaths?”

“Deep breaths?” Elio rocks back on his heels. “If I had any peaches I’d be using my right hand.”

It catches him unawares, and Oliver can't help it. He snorts. Overcome by relief. Then he laughs - a weak sound, and damn near helpless - but a laugh, nonetheless. Cupping a palm to his mouth. Moving it to his eyes. Feeling the tears he’s been fighting since this whole debacle began.

“My God you’re incorrigible,” he mutters, the sharp stab of regret cutting him to the core as he glances over his shoulder, and the blond - Bruno - shoots him a wink. “When you said I saw nothing...”

The hesitant curve of Elio’s smile lights a fire in his chest. “There was a girl on the dance floor who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Lucky for me, Bruno’s never been shy about putting on a convincing performance.”

Oliver winces. “Well, I bought it.”

“Mission accomplished, then.” Elio edges closer. “I could’ve said the same for you, once upon a time.” The air between them grows charged. “Do you ever miss it?” he asks. “Italy, I mean?”

“Every single day.” Oliver finds himself captivated by the smattering of stubble along Elio’s jawline. The touch of smudged kohl beneath his lashes that turns his gaze smouldering. “Do you?”

“In a way.”

“Just a way?” He’s not entirely certain they’re talking about the same thing, and Vanessa’s advice seems all the more pertinent. “Let me buy you a coffee?” Oliver asks, and Elio frowns.

“What? Now?”

“If you like.”

“It’s gone midnight!”

“Tomorrow, then. Whenever you’re available.” Suddenly desperate, he closes the gap between them. “I can’t excuse my actions, Elio - I know I can’t - but at the very least I owe you an explanation.”

“Oliver...” This time it’s Elio who reaches out, his usually steady hands uncertain as they entwine with his. “I was young, not stupid. What’s there to forgive? You left because you had to. You married because -”

“I was weak.”

��Cazatte!” The tension in Elio’s body snaps back like a coil. “My father would have carted me off to a correctional facility,” he murmurs, squeezing his fingers tightly. “I’ll never forget those words.”

“I’m sorry...”

“Don’t be!” Elio sounds furious on his behalf. “Weak, you say? No. Control over others is the true weakness. Coercion. Conformity. All it does is breed hatred. And that’s not you. Not my Oliver.”

“Am I still?” he asks, laying his cards out on the table. “Your Oliver?”

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

Oliver swallows thickly. “I guess we will,” he says, dropping his forehead to Elio’s crown.

He’s braver at twenty-one than Oliver could have dared imagine, and for the first time in years the dull ache beneath his ribs is replaced by a different sort of craving. The way they fit together so easily, like no time has passed, fans the banked passions within him - the desire to press his lips against Elio’s neck, to nip his way along countless freckles until he can fist those unruly curls and guide his mouth back to where it belongs.

Flush against his.

Devouring.

But not yet.

This isn’t leading to sex. Not tonight. This is about reconciliation. Reassurance. Redemption.

“There’s a late-night diner on the corner…”

It’s a whisper against his cheek - so quiet he barely hears it - and Oliver leans down, pressing his face to Elio’s collarbone, breathing him in. He knows this won’t be easy - knows there will be dark clouds before the dawn - yet here they are, older and wiser, and three years might as well be yesterday as the parting crowds provide a temporary island in which to weather the storm.

#cmbyn roll the dice challenge #fanfic #oliver pov #elio and oliver #cmbynrollthedicechallenge

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cuttoothed · 5 years ago

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JonMartin: In A Bar, A Bet 👀

OKAY I KNOW A DARE AND A BET ARE NOT THE SAME THING BUT I WOULD LIKE IT ON THE RECORD THAT MY HEART WAS IN THE RIGHT PLACE. 💖

Sasha’s birthday comes around about a month after Martin moves into the Archives. Martin remembers it, of course, because he makes it his business to remember when people’s birthdays are, regardless of whether he’s being menaced by supernatural worm creatures. He goes out and gets her a carrot cake, because it’s her favorite, and walks a card around all the different departments to collect greetings from everyone that Sasha’s friends with. He brings it to Jon last of all, who scribbles his name hastily in the small amount of white space left, frowning.

“I’m sure you have better things to be doing with your time, Martin,” he says. “Don’t you still have the research on the Regan case to do?”

Martin doesn’t rise to the bait, because he’s well ahead on the Regan case, and also he almost died in the line of duty, thank you. Martin’s not letting that one go for at least as long as he’s stuck living in this musty basement. He just snaps the card shut and leaves Jon to his tapes.

Sasha is delighted with the card and the cake, and that evening they go for a drink at the Thistle, which is just around the corner from the Institute and does a curry night on Wednesdays. Tim orders the hottest vindaloo with extra spice, waggling his eyebrows suggestively at the barman. The rest of them order normally and Jon magnanimously gets the first round of drinks in. A few of the Research and Artifact Storage lot pop in for a drink and some happy returns, but after a while it’s just the four of them. Martin’s well into his third flirtini, so he’s too slow to react when Tim declares:

“We should play Truth Or Dare!”

“No, we shouldn’t,” Jon says at the exact same time that Sasha says: “Oh, fun!” and really, what choice do they have at that point?

In her defense, Martin thinks afterwards, she did have several rounds of tequila bought for her by well-meaning colleagues who each thought they were the first one to have the idea of shots for the birthday girl. Sasha can’t really be blamed.

It’s all simple at first. Martin truthfully answers Sasha’s question about the first person he snogged, and then Tim answers his question about the weirdest place he’s ever woken up, and then...and then Tim looks at Jon and says:

“Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” Jon says firmly. Tim grins.

“If you had to pick one person from the Institute to shag, who would it be?”

Jon’s face goes crimson and he looks away.

“That’s hardly - hardly appropriate, Tim. I am still your manager.”

“I’m flattered, boss, but I know it’s not me. I’d be able to tell if we had...sexual chemistry.” Tim waggles his eyebrows again and Jon goes even redder.

“That’s not what I - ” he mutters, and Martin’s about to tell Tim to lay off him when Jon huffs out a breath and says:

“Fine. Dare.”

“Oh…” Tim muses, tapping a finger against his chin. His eyes slide over to meet Martin’s, glinting with mischief, and before Martin can silently plead no, Tim, he continues:

“I dare you to snog Martin.”

Martin’s heart stops. Fuck you, Stoker, he thinks viciously, and shoots Tim a glare that Tim answers with a smug grin. Martin curses himself for ever letting Tim drag out the truth of his inconvenient interest - purely aesthetic interest, he hastens to add - in their arsehole of a boss. It’s humiliating, because Jon is stuffy and superior and really rather unpleasant at times, but he’s also broodingly good looking in a way that makes Martin’s knees weak, and his voice is probably a sin in several religions.

He is also, almost certainly, tragically straight, because that’s the sort of luck Martin tends to have. It would certainly explain the almost frantic expression on Jon’s face at Tim’s words. His mouth works soundlessly for a few moments, his face going redder and redder, and eventually Martin has to put him out of his misery.

“It’s okay!” he says. “Tim, give him another dare, that one wasn’t fair.”

“A dare’s a dare,” Tim says folding his arms and looking incredibly self-satisfied. Martin has never wanted to strangle someone more than he does right in this moment.

“Go on, Jon!” Sasha cheers, slurring just a little bit. Not her fault, Martin reminds himself, she’s been plied with tequila. Jon hunches his shoulders up and scowls, and the expression really should not be so endearing but it reminds Martin of nothing so much as an affronted cat. Jon sighs.

“Fine,” he says. “Fine, as long as this doesn’t end up in a complaint to HR. Martin, is it okay with you?”

“Err, what? Yeah, I - yeah,” Martin says intelligently, feeling his face go hot. Tim gives him a thumbs up.

“I don’t think we have an HR department,” Sasha notes, frowning.

“Well, just don’t let it get back to Elias then,” Jon says, and shuffles down the bench seat towards Martin. Up close, his brown eyes are framed by incredibly thick lashes, and he smells faintly of some earthy, spicy scent. His Cupid’s bow is possibly the most perfect shape Martin’s ever seen. His gaze meets Martin’s, and for a moment it’s just the two of them in the world, close and intimate.

“Okay?” Jon asks in a gentle tone that Martin’s never heard before, and Martin nods, his breath catching in his throat. Then Jon is leaning in and brushing his lips against Martin’s, and Martin’s heart is hammering in his chest as their mouths move carefully together. There’s the briefest instant when he feels Jon’s mouth open under his, soft and hot, and then it’s gone, and Jon’s pulling away. Jon’s cheeks are red, and he clears his throat awkwardly, glaring at Tim.

“There,” he says. “Happy?”

“Very!” Tim says, and then mouths an extremely unsubtle you’re welcome at Martin. Martin considers sliding underneath the table and army crawling his way out of this situation. His heart is still fluttering frantically behind his ribs.

“Okay Jon!” Sasha says, clapping her hands together. “You get to ask me now.”

“I, uh, I think I’ll just go for a quick cigarette,” Jon says, getting up hastily. “You - you lot keep playing, I’ll be back.”

He practically sprints out of the pub, and Martin watches the tense line of his shoulders as he goes. That inconvenient attraction is still swirling in his stomach, joined now by a sudden surge of guilt, and that terrible need he has to take care of anyone in distress. He sighs, and gets up.

“I’ll get the next round,” he says, and ignores Tim’s eloquent eyebrows as he heads towards the door.

Jon is outside, fortunately, not bolted off into the night without his coat or phone. He’s smoking a cigarette viciously, as if it’s done something to insult him, and Martin clears his throat to catch his attention. Jon’s shoulders sag minutely at the sight of him, and Martin can’t tell if that’s relief or disappointment.

“What brings you out here, Martin?” Jon asks, his tone strained. “I hope you haven’t taken up smoking?”

“Look, Jon,” Martin says. “Don’t pay any attention to Tim. It’s just a - a stupid game. He was trying to embarrass you.”

“He’s rather good at it.” Jon barks a humorless laugh. His shoulders hunch up again.

“Yeah, he is,” Martin sighs. “I’m - I’m sorry, I know it was awkward.”

“How are you doing, Martin?” Jon asks suddenly, apropos of nothing. Martin gapes, startled.

“Sorry?”

“It’s been almost a month, hasn’t it? Since you’re been staying at the Archives. I know it’s the safest place, right now, but it can’t be very...well, I never really thought to ask. How are you?”

Jon’s eyes meet his, serious and dark, and Martin can’t tear his gaze away. He feels himself flushing again, and he knows this is incredibly inappropriate, because Jon is his boss, and probably straight (although maybe not so much, judging by that kiss?) and in any case definitely not interested in Martin in that way. But Jon is also asking him how he’s doing, solemn and sincere, the same tone he used when he told Martin he’d be staying in the Archives for safety, and it makes something warm bloom in Martin’s chest. Something more than just aesthetic interest.

“I’m, umm, I’m fine,” he says. “It’s not great, obviously, and I’m - I’m a bit scared. We all are. But, I’m okay.”

“That’s good,” Jon nods. “I’m not always as...observant, as I could be. So, if you need something, or - or something’s wrong, just, uh, let me know, all right?”

“I - I will,” Martin says. “Thanks, Jon.”

Jon nods to him, and then stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray.

“Right,” he says, “Let’s go and get the drinks in, and plan out what incredibly embarrassing thing you can ask our Mister Stoker on your next turn.”

He gives a small, sly grin that makes Martin’s stomach flip over slowly, and Martin grins in return.

“Sounds good.”

#the magnus archives #tma #my fic #jonmartin #writing prompts

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easyfoodnetwork · 4 years ago

Text

Until I Can Go Back to My Favorite Restaurant, This Jerk Paste Is the Next Best Thing

I don’t know how I lived so long without a jar of Walkerswood jerk seasoning | Elazar Sontag

Walkerswood Jamaican jerk seasoning has quickly become a kitchen staple

I smear the dark brown paste on everything. I pat it onto salmon filets before I slide them into the oven and sneak it between tightly stacked leaves of cabbage layered into a steamer basket. I use my hands to massage it into Brussels sprouts, roughly chopped carrots, and broccoli florets. And every time I pull the container from my fridge, I ask myself how the hell I lived so long without a jar of jerk seasoning.

I didn’t grow up eating much Jamaican food in Oakland, California. This city, awash with some of the best Ethiopian and Eritrean, Filipino, Mexican, and Laotian food in the country, has comparatively few spots offering flavors of the Caribbean. And neither of my vegetarian Jewish parents were making a whole lot of curry chicken or braised oxtails.

My introduction to jerk chicken — its skin soaked in the flavor of sweet smoke, of Scotch bonnet peppers, allspice berries, ginger, and green onion — was during my first year of college, across the Hudson river from a New York town called Kingston. That’s where I had my first meals at Top Taste, where you’ll find the best — and more or less only — jerk chicken, curry goat, and oxtails in town. The snug restaurant, painted with wide stripes of yellow and green in the colors of the Jamaican flag, and set on the corner of a sleepy residential street, sells all sorts of groceries you can’t find elsewhere in the area: ackee, saltfish, canned callaloo and Tastee Cheese in vacuum-sealed aluminum containers.

As soon as the door swung open on my first visit four years ago, I was greeted by booming dancehall coming from a boombox propped above the entrance and the smiling faces of owners Melenda Bartley and Albert Samuel Bartley, known to a stream of friends and loyal customers as Sammy. For many, Top Taste brought familiarity and reminders of faraway homes. To me, everything about the experience was new, a welcome and deeply needed change of pace and scenery from the always-boiled, never-baked food of my college dining hall. I didn’t own a car, but whenever I could convince one of my new friends to drive me there, I was at Top Taste.

This wasn’t the sort of recipe I could transcribe, fold up, and stash away for safekeeping.

Over the years, Melenda and Sammy became friends, and their restaurant felt more like home than the cement-block dorm where I slept. I’d order from the menu scrawled on a piece of neon green cardstock on the wall, and while Melenda was filling my square plastic plate with rice and peas, stew chicken, oxtails, and plantains, I’d walk around to the restaurant’s snug concrete patio, where a plume of smoke tipped off the whole neighborhood that Sammy was making a fresh tray of jerk chicken.

That chicken was like nothing I had eaten. The meat was almost blackened by the time it absorbed the smoke, and while the skin was crisp, it gave way between my teeth. The flesh was ever so slightly past the point of juiciness, the fat and connective tissue broken down over hours of gentle cooking, so that the meat melted with each bite, mixing with starchy sweet plantains, steamed cabbage and peppers, and a dot of ketchup and scorching hot sauce.

A few months into my often twice-weekly trips to Top Taste, I asked Sammy how he made his jerk chicken. He sat down next to me with his spice-smudged apron still on, and explained the process in very matter-of-fact terms: The meat gets marinated overnight in a rich jerk seasoning blend (very, very heavy on the ginger), and the next day — rain or shine — he lights a spark under the pimento wood in his old barrel grill, caked with a thick layer of seasoning from good use, and cooks the chicken until it’s done.

I’d known as soon as Sammy first walked me through his process that this wasn’t the sort of recipe I could transcribe, fold up, and stash away for safekeeping. He’d made the dish on so many occasions that each step was second nature: an inkling that more scallion, garlic, or Scotch bonnet was needed, a sniff test confirming the salt, heat, and herbage was balanced to his liking.

When I moved to the city after leaving college, I made it a point to seek out jerk chicken whenever and wherever I could, always comparing it to the meat that came off Sammy’s grill. Some restaurants in Brooklyn had plantains more plump than the ones at Top Taste. Others had the perfect rice and peas, each grain and bean whole and separate, never mushy. Many served a jerk chicken that was good — exceptional, even. But despite following every recommendation, no one’s chicken compared to Sammy’s.

I came back to Oakland to spend the first month of shelter-in-place with my family. But like so many others who up and left cities with no real plan, a month turned into three, and then four, and now here I am, writing from my childhood home six months later. When I lived in Brooklyn, I hadn’t once tried to make jerk chicken in my own kitchen, knowing when a craving really hit — which it reliably did — I could buy an Amtrak ticket for $38 and be perched comfortably at one of Top Taste’s plastic-upholstered booths by lunch. Now, I feel pangs of sadness thinking about Sammy and Melenda and the plate of jerk chicken and rice and peas I could be eating 3,000 miles away.

But on YouTube, where I spend so much of my life now, I recently came upon Terri-Ann, a Saint Lucian home cook who walks viewers through hundreds of incredibly appealing recipes. They include pandemic classics — banana bread and dalgona coffee, our old friends — but also some favorite dishes I didn’t get a chance to peek into the kitchen and watch Sammy or Melenda make on visits to Top Taste. Terri-Ann has recipes for oxtails robed in velvety gravy, flaky golden beef patties, and, to my great satisfaction, jerk chicken. In one video showing viewers how she makes her chicken, Terri-Ann pulls out a glass jar of Walkerswood Jamaican Jerk Seasoning, a pre-blended mixture of spices and herbs which she says she swears by. She plops a generous spoonful of the deep brown mixture into a bowl of chicken drumsticks, along with a big spoonful of her herby green seasoning blend and a drop or two of browning sauce for color. I hastily switched tabs and bought three jars of the seasoning blend with expedited shipping. It wouldn’t be the same, but maybe it’d do the trick.

Since then, the Walkerswood blend has become a staple in my kitchen. The spicy mixture of scallions, Scotch bonnet, allspice, nutmeg, and plenty of thyme finds its way into more or less everything I cook. It’s notably lacking in the generous heaps of grated fresh ginger I know Sammy adds to his blend, but still, it’s excellent. I live just blocks from Minto, one of few Jamaican markets in Oakland, and I regularly stop in to add new sauces and seasoning blends to my growing pantry. I have a jar of browning sauce now, and I’ve bought as many of the hot sauces I remember seeing on the tables at Top Taste as I can find. But nothing I’ve added to my pantry since coming home comes close to my jar of jerk seasoning. In addition to using it in recipes from Terri-Ann and other Caribbean and Caribbean-American YouTubers and food bloggers, I add the paste to fried rice, to tofu, to — you get it.

The boldly flavored mixture is a perfect match for chicken, but that’s where I use it least, instead opting to put it on a thick slab of salmon or slather it on vegetables before roasting. Perhaps there’s just too much dissonance when I pair it with chicken, the bar too high to meet.

I miss Sammy’s jerk chicken like I’ve never missed food before. It’s a yearning that’s become familiar during this pandemic, for those things I know I can’t have. There is no takeout order that will meet the craving, which is as much about the environment surrounding a plate of chicken as it is about the blend of spices or the kiss of smoke that permeates each bite. Those meals were colored by a sort of care and hospitality that you can’t pay for and that’s hard to even seek out. The extra steamed cabbage and carrots because Melenda knew I liked to run the mixture through a pool of curry goat gravy on my empty plate. A piece of bubblegum set on the table as I finished eating, just something to chew on during the drive back to campus. Later, Melenda would send me off with a warm slice of her homemade rum cake wrapped in aluminum foil. It sat in my coat pocket and warmed my hand as I boarded Amtrak to go back to Penn Station.

The first time I bit into a piece of baked chicken I’d marinated in the Walkerswood seasoning blend, I felt pulled in two directions: It was delicious — fragrant and hot, every spice and herb present but not overwhelming. I also felt a little disappointed, as if I’d really expected my thrown-together Wednesday night dinner to taste anything like what Sammy pulled off his smoker after hours and hours of slow cooking and constant attention. I know now, as I go on seven months without a single meal in a restaurant’s dining room or even on a reopened patio, that what’s missing isn’t a handful of grated ginger or the smoke from pimento chips (though both would improve my chicken game dramatically). What’s missing is something only a restaurant like Top Taste can provide, that can’t be found in a jar of seasoning. But right now a jar of seasoning is what I’ve got, and until I find myself in that tiny dining room again, this one is pretty damn good.

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I don’t know how I lived so long without a jar of Walkerswood jerk seasoning | Elazar Sontag

Walkerswood Jamaican jerk seasoning has quickly become a kitchen staple

This wasn’t the sort of recipe I could transcribe, fold up, and stash away for safekeeping.

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blog-perfectgiverbouquet-blog · 7 years ago

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12 Donburi (Japanese Rice Bowls) Recipes • Just One Cookbook

Recipes Roundup: Here’s a scrumptious selection of Japanese donburi (rice bowl) recipes to make on your busy weeknight!

Donburi rice bowls are the quintessential Japanese comfort meal. “Don 丼” refers to the bowl that the dish is served in, so for a typical donburi, you get a bowl of fluffy steamed rice with toppings such as vegetables and meat or seafood all in one meal.

In Japan, you can even find fast food chains specialize in donburi where you make your order and payment through a vending machine before picking up at the serving counter. Fulfilling and super convenient, it’s no wonder why they are a popular choice of quick meal amongst the office workers.

For me, the concept of donburi is nothing short of genius. From the grains and protein, to the veggies and sauce, the wholesome components of a rice bowl makes it ideal to cook at home. Because they are weeknight-friendly, I often include donburi in my meal plan for the family. My favorite part? Its flexible template for using up seasonal and leftover ingredients.

If you like the idea of delicious rice bowls, here are some of the popular donburi recipes you can throw together anytime of the week.

12 Popular Donburi Recipes You Must Try at Home

Thinly sliced beef simmered with onion in a savory-sweet sauce, Gyudon (beef bowl) is probably one of the most popular types of donburi in Japan. You’ll love how easy it is to cook at home. I like to top it off with a beaten egg for extra protein and garnish with some pickles and chopped scallion for colors and freshness.

Chicken Katsudon (Chicken Cutlet Rice Bowl) features crispy chicken katsu that has been simmered in savory dashi sauce with thinly sliced onion and a scrambled egg. My recipe teaches you how to shallow fry the chicken cutlet, so it’s less messy and less oily to cook at home.

Golden crispy shrimp and vegetable tempura served over steamed rice and drizzled with tentsuyu (tempura dipping sauce), this ten don recipe is a real treat for a special Saturday night dinner. For a complete meal, enjoy with a bowl of miso soup and a side of refreshing salad.

Silken tofu with ground pork mixture cooked in an intensely flavorful sauce and served in rice bowl style, this Japanese Mapo Tofu recipe will not disappoint when you crave for something bold for dinner. It’s milder and less spicy than the Sichuan-style Mapo Tofu so children can enjoy.

Soboro Don (Minced Chicken & Egg on Rice) is colorful, nutritious and easy to pull together. If you have little kids at home, this is the kind of recipe you want to keep in your back pocket. I call it the ‘happy meal’ for my children.

This Salmon Ikura Don recipe features raw fish but served in a casual donburi style, which is perfect for Japanese home cooking. If you cook the rice in advance, 15 minutes is all you need to assemble the rice bowl together.

Oyakodon literally means “parent-and-child rice bowl” in English. A play on the chicken-and-egg combination, this protein-filled home style dish wins for its simplicity. It’s hearty yet nutritious, making it a favorite meal to start the week.

Soft fluffy egg stir fry with garlic chives served over hot rice, Niratama Danburi is homey and extra comforting. The distinctive flavor of garlic chives defines the simple dish. You can find the deep green, flat-shaped garlic chives (also known as Chinese chives) at your local Asian grocery stores or Asian produce markets.

Unagi is a specialty in Japanese cuisine. The delicious combination of warm rice and sweet caramelized sauce over the perfectly grilled unagi is simply irresistible. To make Unagi Don at home, you can buy pre-grilled unagi or the ones that are grilled and vacuum-packed for a minimal effort.

10. Poke Bowl

A Hawaii’s soul food, we have seen an explosion of popularity of poke across the US. This raw fish salad in a bowl is heavily influenced by Japanese cuisine. My version of poke is very easy make and you can adapt the toppings to your preference. It’s so good that you want to make it over and over again.

Savory and juicy sliced beef served over steamed rice, this delicious Yoshinoya Beef Bowl is a weeknight meal keeper. It consists of a bowl of steamed rice topped with thinly sliced beef and tender onion, simmered in a sweet and savory dashi broth seasoned with soy sauce and mirin.

Juicy deep-fried pork cutlet and runny egg cooked in a savory and sweet dashi broth and placed over hot steamed rice, this Baked Katsudon recipe will be your new favorite weeknight meal!

More Donburi Recipes?

I hope you enjoy making these delicious donburi rice bowls recipes at home. If you are looking for more donburi and other rice recipes, click here to get inspiration! Thank you so much for reading and till next time!

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