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Shut Up and Drive [Hahvy & Bathos]

Took what he said wrong...again.

Abel thought with a sigh and eye roll as he mentally slapped himself. Why did he always seem to jump to conclusions around this guy? Because he wanted him to think more of him for some reason. He didn't want Bishop to think of him as...lowly. He sighed as he ate his food, actually tasting it. He was only a fast eater when in a hurry and he wasn't in much of one now as he ate and savored his meal. Watching Bishop eat was like watching tennis: hardly any appreciation for what was before him. It made Abel frown in the slightest, but at least he got a thanks. He watched Frank almost like clockwork, knowing the man had to be OCD about his place being cleaned. Tira was the same way when it came to the house and garage.

He listened to Bishop clean the pans and it felt almost like he was home with Tira or a lover. He blinked at the word that popped into his head and felt a steady heat creep up his cheeks. He stared down at his food before he popped what was left of his omelet into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. He could have used a little less pepper and a tad more salt. He almost choked on his food when Bishop suddenly asked about Rina. Swallowing hard and taking a drink, he shook his head slowly.

"Nah, she wasn't mine...she was my sister's."​
 
"Your sister's," Frank echoed back at Abel, thoughtful. If his suspicions were correct, that would mean that Abel was none other than the murdered woman's brother. It would explain why Rina had been such a mess--grief for a lost lover--and why she had sought refuge in the arms of the closest facsimile available: the brother.

Frank was distantly aware that he was indulging in one of his long silences again, and he looked up from where he had been focused randomly on the counter top and fixed his gaze on Abel. Tira, the sister, had been the McLaren's previous mechanic, and Rina had been understandably upset that Abel had moved on so quickly, though it was only logical that he did. Logic, as Frank already knew, did not play into the stages of grief.

"The kind of car you drive draws a lot of admirers," Frank went on, not exactly changing tactics, but drawing the conversation away from dark topics, at least. "You got someone special riding shotgun?"
 
He sighed and finished up the rest of his meal, not leaving any scraps behind. He rinsed off his plate and silverware in the sink went about cleaning it with some dish soap. He normally wouldn't have, but the use of his hands to distract his mind was definitely a good idea. He took his time cleaning since he didn't have nothing better to do than twiddle his thumbs and Bishop wasn't the type to let go of a conversation even if it was uncomfortable. Still, it was better than being alone right now, even if it did cause some heartache. He wasn't letting go of things like Rina believed, but he had to keep up some semblance of moving on and getting things back into a somewhat normal fashion. The cops believed that if they didn't find Tira's killer, Abel would go off the deep end if he found the guy first. It wasn't question of whether he would or not and so he would occasionally see a cop around and give him a nod.

"Someone special? No."

He shook his head as if to add more weight to it. His fingers felt pruny from cleaning the dishes for so long and so he simply wiped it dry and put it back in the cabinet with the others. Wiping his hands, he tucked them back into his pockets and let out a sigh, feeling his fingers fidget. Since Tira's murder, he was always in constant motion and only took time to sleep and eat. Abel wouldn't admit it, but soon he found himself examining Bishop's form from lowered lashes as he kept his eyes-mostly- on the floor.​
 
Frank was free to openly watch Abel as he cleaned up after himself, and he did exactly that. From the mess of odd colors on the top of his head, down to the play of his shoulder blades as he moved his arms, the clean line of his back, the shape of his backside leading into what he assumed were strong, tight legs; Frank took it all in. When Abel finally turned back to him, nervous hands sliding into his pockets and continuing to move beneath the fabric, Frank swept his gaze upward. It was a slow trip, with many pauses, particularly at the flatness of Abel's abdomen and where he imagined his dusky little nipples were, and the smooth expanse of olive-toned throat.

By the time Frank had finished his thorough inspection of Abel's physical attributes, the faint crackle of tension in the room had escalated into a full-on electrical storm, and there was something glittering in Frank's eyes. They were blacker than they had been in the dim light of the parking lot, pupils blown wide and blotting out all but the thinnest sliver of iris.

He came forward, without warning, but slowly enough that Abel could move if he felt threatened. And there was something vaguely menacing in the look found on Frank's face, eyebrows drawn low over his eyes and mouth set into a hard line, as if behind that face there lay a great well of steely resolve.

Frank was taller than Abel, though not by much, but it was enough that when he came to a halt, with few enough inches between them that they shared heat off of one another, he loomed over Abel. He braced his left hand against the counter behind the younger man, the smooth skin of his inner forearm brushing tantalizingly against Abel's elbow.

"Lucky me," Frank said, mouth forming a smirk around the words despite the deadly seriousness of his tone. His free arm, he hooked around Abel, between the crook of his elbow and his ribcage, sliding forward until there was nowhere Abel could go, nowhere he could look other than right into Frank's eyes. It looked as if Frank was going to kiss him, eyes zeroed in on Abel's mouth, face close enough now to feel the breath gusting past those tempting lips, and he even lowered his eyelids, nearly shut, nothing but a thin crescent of reflection under the harsh lights of the kitchen.

Then there was a loud click where Frank had flipped a switch, the dishwasher hummed to life, and he withdrew. When he spoke again, his tone was light and his grin sly.

"We'd better get to work on that cherry ride of yours, yeah?" He pivoted, and lead the way out of the kitchen and back toward the garage.
 
Abel had gone from being mildly uncomfortable to practically sweating bullets. It felt like he was up for sale or something. He didn't understand Frank's interest because he had never noticed something akin to it before except from females. Abel wasn't sure which way he went in that aspect of life, and he had never tested it. He had stuck with what was safe: women. Perhaps in his grief he was considering what Bishop could possibly embody and mean to him, but he wasn't exactly willing to test it- at least his mind wasn't. His body told him that getting physical with anyone would be a welcome relief for him. He could work himself into exhaustion and maybe sleep for once. It's probably what he craved most: a peaceful night's sleep. Oh, and Tira back.

He had been working his way up Bishop's legs, before he saw them moving towards him and his eyes shot up to Frank's face. He looked like a predator on the prowl and Abel was in his line of sight. He swallowed, unable to really think about moving. It made him think of how a deer in headlights might feel, unable to move but wanting to so badly. He watched Bishop put his arm next to his and felt the heat from his skin. It felt like the inklings of a brand and he felt his body heat up to match. Before he had felt so cold and now he was feeling heat again from another person. It was strange and he felt himself ask in a quiet, unsure tone,

"Bishop..?"

The other man wasn't much taller than him, but it soon felt like he had lost about five inches of height in the span of a few seconds. Bishop towered over him and he felt cornered yet wanted to just lean in and see what might happen. But he kept his body taut, despite some protests. His knees felt like they would break under the pressure of those two words and that heavy stare, but he was able to hold himself up by sheer willpower. He knew that despite his skin color, his cheeks had to be fire red as he kept a grip on himself and tried to grasp the situation. He felt Frank get ever closer and all he could do was look into Bishop's eyes. He didn't want to, and yet he did because it was either that or the inside of his eye lids. He could feel the man's breath on his lips and it made them tingle in anticipation, though Abel himself was terrified. The click of the dishwasher and Bishop withdrawing made it seem like air had been suddenly filed back into the room and Abel took a slow breath, trying not to draw more attention to himself.

When Bishop spoke again, Abel blushed out of embarrassment and a little bit of anger. He waited until he had cleared the room before he took a few more breaths and forced himself to calm down. He had been repressing any and all needs to get out his grief in the physical way and now he felt like he needed to do something-with Bishop! It made him a little edgy but after a minute or two, he calmed down and followed after the man, thinking all the while that the man was deadly and a goddamn tease that might become more.​
 
It wasn't until his back was turned and he was halfway down the stairwell that Frank allowed himself to break into the self-satisfied grin that was itching to rise to the surface. Even then, it was a struggle not to laugh.

He didn't want to laugh at Abel. Far from it, in fact. The obvious heat that had crept into his cheeks, the way he'd gone all tense and wide-eyed like a frightened rabbit and held his breath when Frank leaned in close; none of that inspired laughter. What it did inspire was a gnawing hunger in his gut and the very real need to take him by the scruff of his neck and draw him roughly into the bedroom to teach him a thing or two about his exquisitely responsive body.

No, what was funny was that Abel frequented the races, a high spirited and dangerous crowd that Frank preferred to avoid whenever possible, and that he was willing to overlook it this once, great enough was his desire to get Abel into his bedroom, but there simply wasn't time. In under an hour, the place would be crawling with clients and employees and that just wasn't enough time to break in something sweet like Abel.

He could also admit, at least to himself, that teasing him had been a lot of fun.

Down in the garage again, Frank went straight to the McLaren. Whereas last night the car was off limits, now he was its mechanic and it was on his turf, and he had no qualms running a hand over the body, like an exultant lover.

Frank said in a low voice, dripping with promise, "Can't wait to get my hands on you," and then shot a look at Abel at the base of the stairs. "Pop the trunk, would ya?"
 
As he made it to the base of the stairs, he just watched Bishop touch his car. Tira would have been pissed, but he noticed how he treated the car the same as she did-well, almost. She usually had this happy glow, like it was her child and she was going to make it all better after it had gotten sick. But now she wouldn't have babies or give him nieces and nephews to dote on. He sighed at the numbness that was creeping back in. But it was necessary to be emotionally cold, but he felt himself heat right back up at Bishop's words. They may have been directed to his car, but he felt the words as if they had been spoken to his face. He felt his jeans fit a little more snugly before he adjusted them and did what Bishop asked. He went over to the car opened the driver door, finding the trunk button and pressing it, hearing the tell-tale sound of the trunk lock opening. He got out and closed the door and took a few steps back to get the best view of the engine. He wanted to see how Frank worked in much the same way as Frank had watched him cook.

Once again his hands went into his pockets as he leaned forward slightly to peer at the engine better without getting too close to Bishop and his range of motion.​
 
Frank took a moment just memorizing the look of the engine. He'd never worked on a McLaren before, and he doubted he'd ever get the chance again, once Abel had the nitrous system out. It was only through sheer force of will that he managed not to insist they hoist the engine up so Frank could get a better look at things. It wouldn't serve any real purpose, other than letting Frank get his hands on one of the most beautifully designed engines in the history of mankind. He could disconnect everything simply by removing the battery, re-tweaking the throttle back to its original settings, pulling up the superfluous wiring feed line, and making a few cosmetic patches so everything looked good as new in the floorboards.

Luckily for Frank, the job hadn't even been finished, so there would be no reason to dismantle the driver console and try to make sense of the wiring there.

He hadn't even touched the car yet, just stood over the engine with this intense concentration, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and shifting his weight from left to right. He was planning his strategy.

Finally, after several full minutes of this silence, he looked up at Abel and said, "Gonna take a few hours. There's a waiting room over there"--he jerked his head in the direction of the main office--"or you can watch. Doesn't matter to me."

And, without further preamble, Frank reached into the car and disconnected the battery, a soft sigh, sounding a lot like relief, escaping from between his lips.
 
Abel just watched Frank as he thought over what he was going to do in order to get started on the car. He always found the process fascinating. He himself probably could have taken care of it, but he was way out of practice. He hadn't worked on a car since he was sixteen except for little things that didn't require help from another person. After that, Tira had taken over everything involving mechanical stuff while he worked on electrical things. He listened to Bishop and shrugged his shoulders. He didn't mind the wait. Finding a spot so that he was out of the way but able to view easily, he let Bishop have at it without a single word being uttered.

Hours crawled by, but Abel found things that kept him busy. He noted the way Bishop moved as he worked on the car, a light sheen of sweat forming on his skin from the intricate work. He found it all fascinating. When Tira worked, she would usually tell him step by step what she was doing and sometimes would offer to have him help if it was a stubborn bolt or something. He would fetch tools on occasion and the like. He didn't mind the busy work though he had gotten her into the business. But it didn't matter much now. The Ash Beast, as the McLaren had been nicknamed by Tira, had a new mechanic. That ache returned to his chest but he didn't mention anything about it, though it caused him to need to sit down. He let out a deep sigh as he rubbed his temples to stop his incoming headache.​
 
The clock was just creeping past noon when Frank finally put his hand flat on the top of the trunk and swung it shut, releasing a sigh as he did so. He stooped to the concrete floor and scooped the shallow cardboard box that had served as a receptacle for all the parts he'd removed from under the trunk, under the hood--which was kind of a bizarre juxtaposition, considering he worked almost purely on traditional cars--and carried it perched on his hip over to Abel.

"You will be happy to know," he said, handing the box over, "that your car has been restored to its former glory. Take my suggestion and keep her that way. That girl can hit two-forty without the nitrous and you have just as good a chance of blowing out the engine either way."

Frank gave that piece of advice a moment to sink in before continuing. That same lazy smile came over him, the one he'd aimed at Abel earlier that morning, and his speech slowed down, sweet and rough like whiskey poured over honey.

"Now, as for the matter of payment," he said, eyes flickering briefly over Abel before returning to his face. "We'll call it an even one-fifty for the labor. Breakfast, on the other hand, is going to cost you a little more."
 
Abel easily took the box and put it on his lap before he looked up at Bishop and just listened, facial expression curious yet neutral. He nodded at the suggestion, knowing that putting in the nitrous had more been for show and also because he was used to have nitrous in his cars. But he should have left it alone, like Tira had told him weeks ago. But he hadn't left it alone, but now it was fixed and he didn't have a thing to worry about. He wondered if perhaps he might change the paint job to have Tira's favorite symbol and date of death on the hood. Tira had been nicknamed Spin because of how she could turn around cars that were headed for the junkyard and she absolutely loved Red Pandas. But now he was heading off track with his thoughts and it was giving him a headache.

He turned his attention back on Bishop and found his brows lifting up. The payment was minuscule compared to what it would be at some other shop. He had about a grand in the car's glove box and another two-hundred in his pocket. He was about to remove his wallet and fork over the fifties for the job until Bishop had told him that breakfast was actually gonna cost him something. Unsure what that meant, his curiosity kicked in and betrayed how sometimes oblivious and innocent he was despite his age.

"Hm? What might that be?"​
 
Frank managed not to laugh, but it was a near thing. So Abel was at once utterly responsive to his physical presence, yet unable to to discern a suggestive remark to save his life. There was a part of Frank that found this trait endearing, almost cute, but there was a darker side of him--a side very few of his colleagues knew about--that yearned to shiver with anticipation.

This was going to be too much fun.

"Naturally," Frank said, voice stern in a way he usually reserved for his employees, "you'll need to return the favor. A meal, provided by you at your place of residence. I can cook, if you prefer, but you seem to enjoy having your way in the kitchen, so how about I just bring myself and some refreshment?"

Any other man, speaking the exact same words, and it would have smacked of something like a proposition for a date, but Frank was so businesslike about it, tone clipped and so confident in Abel's acceptance, that it came out sounding more like a polite order.

"My schedule's open this evening," he went on, "but right now I should really lend a hand around here. You can leave your payment and address with my secretary in the main office over there. How's eight for you?"
 
"Wait...my place? But that sounds..."

Like a date, idiot!

His mind filled in for him as he stared almost dumbly at Bishop. If it had been a woman, he would have known right away and had just been thinking that Bishop was messing with him and trying to get him antsy or something to that extent. He had been to a therapist and the guy had tried to make a move on him simply to get an emotional response because he had been so unresponsive after Tira died. It had taken him two weeks before he had finally broken down and accepted that she was dead. Even though it seemed more like just the two of them would be hanging out due to Bishop's tone, Abel wasn't a completely oblivious person.

But he wanted the company, more than he would care to admit. He rubbed the base of the back of his head as he thought about it. Like he had plans, anyways. He usually went home and went around the house to see what was broken or he made a project for himself. He was currently reworking the deck and making it bigger and wider. Rubbing his temples before he stood, still holding onto the box, he just shrugged and nodded, almost like in defeat. He had the feeling he had a target on him that Bishop had locked on to.

"Eight should be fine..I'll see you then. And thanks for the work. I really appreciate it."

He didn't layer it on thick, just spoke in a soft tone. A subtle blush formed on his cheeks but he hid it by turning towards his car and walking away. He put the box in his car before he went to Bishop's secretary and dropped off the payment. He was iffy about leaving his address, but knowing the stories about Bishop, the man would find a way to get to his place. He left his address and cell number before he went back and got into his car. He gave Bishop a small wave good bye before he drove off and back home.

It was about noon time when he got back home and decided to do some more work on the porch to pass away the time.​
 
At several other points throughout the day, Frank had to fight the laugh that threatened to burst up out of his chest when he thought of the look on Abel's face when he'd accepted Frank's 'invitation' for dinner. He could tell Abel was competent and at least relatively smart, but all that togetherness seemed to fall to pieces the moment Frank hinted at anything remotely personal.

Frank passed the rest of the day in his garage, occasionally doing actual mechanic work, but mostly overseeing employees and taking calls in his office. It was actually rare that he was needed to work on an engine, except when he was doing a friend a favor, but he found there were some days he just had to get his hands dirty.

Today was not one of those days. The shop closed, for once, at a reasonable time and once the floor was free of tools and grease spills and the lost causes were out of his bays, Frank rolled down and locked all the doors himself, Frank headed upstairs with Girl, Abel's address creased and crammed into his back pocket.

At a few minutes past eight, Frank's Charger rumbled to a stop in front of Abel's place and he took a moment to crane his head and look the place over.

((Pause for description of where Abel lives?))
 
Abel's place was like an old Victorian slashed with a ranch house. It seemed like an odd combination, but it ended up working it its favor. It had the elegance of old England while having the hardened edges and worked in look that was common amongst ranch houses. The porch that wrapped around the front and sides was half destroyed and being rebuilt to be bigger. It would end up giving the house a more relaxed look and less snooty. The driveway wasn't very long and led to a garage that matched the house but had been built years later. The color patterns of both the house and garage were opposites: The house was a blackish red color with white and black marble colored shutters while the garage was white and black marble with blackish red shutters. The set up was rather different, considering where they lived. The land the house used to sit on had been cut down considerably over the years, but there was still a big enough bit for a nice yard and a few trees.

The house was held two floors and a cellar and the garage had been converted from a barn years ago, but some of the old equipment still lingered in the loft above where the cars were usually parked. Abel had heard the car's engine rumbling from down the road and had stepped out in a nice pair of jeans that hugged his legs and a band t-shirt. He had taken time to style his hair, but other than that, he hadn't done much for his appearance. He had flicked on the lights so the house and garage was illuminated. He walked out in front of the car and motioned for him to follow. He hefted up the garage door to reveal two more beautifully restored cars: An old roadster which had been Tira's project and a 1969 SS Chevy Camaro. Once Frank had driven up to park, Abel let him walk out of the garage before he pulled the door shut and reset the alarm.

"Dinner will probably be done within the next twenty minutes. I hope you have an appetite for steak."

Abel murmured with a gentle shrug of his shoulders.​
 
On his way out of the garage, Frank couldn't very well pull his eyes away from the Camaro he'd parked along side. It was the exact same year as his Charger--a good year for cars, all around, in his own not-so-humble estimation--and his fingers actually twitched with the urge to touch it. However, he viewed his relationship with cars much as that between a doctor and a patient. The Camaro wasn't his patient and he had no excuse to be prodding at it.

His arms were full, anyway, a six-pack of brown ale in one hand and a bottle of pinot noir in the other. He hadn't been able, in their short acquaintance, to discern whether Abel was the kind of guy who enjoyed beer or wine or any sort of alcoholic beverages, so he covered all his bases. And if he didn't drink at all, then Abel could drink water while Frank enjoyed a beer.

Frank himself was dressed in jeans--moderately faded blue ones, free of oil stains--and a white long-sleeved t-shirt pushed, with the sleeves pushed back nearly to his elbows.

"Red meat," Frank replied, mouth quirking up into an amused little smile. "Perfect."

He glanced around as he followed Abel up to the house, impressed by all that he saw. "Nice place," he said casually. That was, of course, excepting the partially demolished porch, but Frank could recognize work in progress when he saw it.
 
"I..had a hunch that you would like it."

Abel said softly, his lips quirking up at the corners a smidge. Was he actually flirting? Perhaps. Abel didn't mind alcohol, but he was more of a hard liquor or sweet drink kind of guy. The wine looked good, though he wasn't much of a wine fan, but pinot noir was good stuff. He led Frank up the small set of steps and surveyed the work in progress.

"Yeah, it's out of place here, but it's home. Been here for awhile now and fixed it up. Still working on it, but it keeps me busy, at least."

The door instantly led to the rest of the house. It opened up into a large kitchen with the living room to the left and a wide hallway to the right. The bathroom and office were down the hall along with a small guest room and a set of spiraling stairs that led to the master bathroom, two bedrooms, and attic. All of the floors were made of solid oak hardwood. The counter tops in the kitchen were made of black granite while the appliances were a mixture of stainless steel and older model stuff. The living room was padded with very comfy couches and two chairs and a nice-sized TV with a stereo system. A fireplace was in the process of being refurnished to go with the rest of the house. There was an amount of space between the living room and kitchen where the table sat. It was small, meant for two or four and was decorated with a table cloth and a glass centerpiece. Plates had already been set but alas, there were no candles. Abel may have been a romantically inclined person, but he wasn't gonna go so far as to put out the candle sticks and mood music.

"Well...this is the place."

Along with the lovely decor by Tira, smells wafted in from the outside where the grill sat and the potatoes cooking in the oven. Ears of corn were being cooked atop the stove in a large pot and cupcakes had been set out to cool, frosting topping them. He shrugged lightly. He liked sweets, especially cupcakes. Besides, simple to make. He didn't remove his shoes, but instead went to check on everything and make sure it was cooking properly. Leaving Frank to scope the place out, he went through the French doors in the living room to check on the steak. In a sense, he was avoiding Frank while trying not to make it obvious. No one had been to his house besides the cops in weeks.​
 
Frank took his time scoping the place out, though he tried not to be too terribly obvious about it. The place had a good vibe, a family vibe, and he almost said as much before he thought better of it. He didn't know exactly what Abel's deal was with his sister, what their arrangement was, but he didn't want to break the carefully constructed mood by bringing her up.

And it was carefully constructed. The table had already been set, the food smelled delicious, and Abel had even done a little something different with his hair.

Not so oblivious, after all, Frank thought to himself, biting back the urge to chuckle.

He made himself at home in Abel's house, tucking the beer immediately into the refrigerator, and he dug around in the kitchen drawers until he was able to find a corkscrew. He popped the cork on the wine bottle, poured a glass, and left it to breathe.

Soon after, with an open bottle of ale in his hand, he found himself trailing Abel through the living room and out the wide French doors. He didn't announce his presence until he stood directly behind him, clearing his throat before he went on to say,

"Nice cuts." He was referring, of course, to the beef laid out on the grill. "Seems you really know you're way around a kitchen. And a grill. There anything you don't know how to do?"

He took a pull off his bottle, one hand tucked casually into his pocket as he watched Abel work from a respectful distance.
 
"I can't fix complicated mechanical things on my car."

He quipped as he carefully turned over the cuts, seeing beautiful sear marks on them. His mouth watered from the thought of finally getting down to eating them. But he had patience-sometimes. Had to be patient with cooking. Closing the grill top to seal in the smoky flavor, he turned around to look at Bishop, who seemed right at home. It bothered him a bit, but he didn't say anything as he tucked his hands into his pockets and made his way back inside. Once Frank was in, he closed the doors and looked at the man.

"Tira was my twin and she was murdered by a street driver, if you didn't know the last bit. I could tell you were gonna say something but didn't. But it seems like it was necessary to say. Thanks for not actually bringing it up, though."

He added at the end with a shrug. He was feeling a multitude of emotions, but he was calm though melancholy for a moment or two. He noticed the wine set out in a glass and he went over to it and swirled it before taking a test sip. It tasted sweet though a little dry. Not too bad, but not his favorite.

"You got questions, you might as well ask them."​
 
Frank's eyebrows lifted in mild surprise and he attempted to hide his reaction by taking another swig off his ale. Also, it gave him time to ponder his reaction.

Abel thought Frank should have questions, though he didn't, not really. This was Abel's private affair, and Frank didn't pretend to know him well enough to expect him to share. But maybe, just maybe, the real issue was that Abel wanted to share a little bit, and hadn't been able to. With Rina running around like a basket case, it wasn't really any wonder. And although 'holding hands and sharing' wasn't on his prepared agenda for the evening, he found himself oddly compelled to take an active interest in Abel's life. He shuffled that thought off to another part of his brain for later inspection.

Frank lowered the bottle from his lips, swallowed slowly, and finally prompted, voice soft but still clear, "Do you know why she was murdered?"
 
He shook his head slowly. Why was it that he could share information so easily with Frank, practically heft it up onto the table, but he couldn't with his therapist? The only thing he had been able to really accomplish was that he was angry, so very, very angry. But most of the time he was numb yet hurting all the same. He sighed with a hint of frustration.

"I don't know. But..."

The words went unsaid. He was going to get revenge for her somehow. Drinking down the rest of the wine in his glass, he soon went back out to the porch and took the steak off the grill and let it rest while he removed the potatoes from the oven and the ears of corn from the pot. The whole meal came together nicely and soon enough he was setting everything on the table. He was silent the whole time. He got salt and pepper and ketchup and put those on the table as well before he motioned for Bishop to sit. The wine didn't go with the meat, so he got himself a screwdriver to drink with his meal instead. He would save the wine for later and limit his alcohol intake.

Abel took his seat and knew that Bishop would follow suit. He gave the other man a small, practiced smile before he picked out what he wanted and put it on his plate. It didn't take him long before he started to eat.​
 
Frank was content to follow Abel's lead for the time being. He polished off the bottle in his hand, tossed it, and snagged a second out of the refrigerator before he joined Abel at the table and tucked into his meal.

After his first bite of beef, Frank shut his eyes and chewed and came up just short of making an obscene noise of enjoyment. The steak was grilled to perfection, still pink in the middle just the way Frank liked it, and the potatoes soaked up the excess juice.

"Delicious," Frank said between bites.

Abel didn't elaborate much on Tira and Frank wasn't interested in pursuing the topic of murder, so he kept his own mouth shut, except when he was shoveling it full of food. He ate a little slower this time, but still much faster than Abel, and when he was finished he sat back in his chair, full and satisfied, and sipped his ale.

He watched as Abel continued to eat, not bothering with finding a polite distraction. He could have fiddled with something on his plate or sucked down his ale and run off to the refrigerator to get another, but he chose instead to watch, an easy smile curving his mouth.

When Abel was nearly finished with his food, Frank spoke up, "You really didn't need to go to so much trouble, you know."
 
"I'm glad you liked the food. And it wasn't a big deal...not like I have anyone to cook for much these days other than myself."

Though he tried to come off as nonchalant, he was blushing a light pink. He finished the last of his food and drink before standing up and clearing away the plates out of habit. He put them in the sink to clean up later. He got himself some water and turned to look at Frank. A question had been nagging him for awhile and he supposed it would be a good idea to ask now before he forgot what exactly the question was.

"Besides my car, why do you talk to me?"

Curiosity laced his tone as well as feeling like he knew the answer. But he wanted to hear Bishop say it because he was confused as hell. He'd never been one to smoke cigarettes very often, but he definitely felt like he needed one right now. He was fidgeting again and he knew it. He tapped his fingers lightly on the counter as he watched Frank, wondering what the man could be thinking right now. It was driving him nuts.​
 
Frank had a natural inclination toward cleanliness, so when Abel set to work clearing the table, it was an automatic reflex to get to his feet and help out. He cleared away his own plate and assisted in bringing the various dishes away from the table and to the kitchen.

He was in the process of covering the remaining ears of corn and putting them in the refrigerator when Abel turned to him and asked a question that put Frank at a momentary loss it was so surprising.

He straightened slowly, shutting the refrigerator as he did, and took a long moment to examine Abel from the short distance across the kitchen. Then, quite suddenly, the scene that unfolded that morning started to repeat itself. Frank pushed away from the refrigerator, advanced slowly on Abel, his eyes going dark and dangerous in the span of a single blink, and he stopped only when they were a scant few inches apart.

Frank reached out, brushing his fingertips against the apple of Abel's cheek and tracing it back to his hairline. There was still a lingering bit of color there, remnants of his earlier blush, and the skin of his face was warm against Frank's fingers.

"Because of this," he said, cryptically, because there was no way that Abel could know about his obvious physical cues, the way he responded so perfectly to Frank's every manipulation. "Because you want me to," he went on, a smug expression stealing into his face just before he slid his fingers back through Abel's hair, and rested them firmly against the nape of his neck, pinning him in place.

"Don't you?"
 
Abel felt that same deer-in-headlights-feeling that he had had from earlier as he watched Bishop stalk towards him almost in slow-motion. He didn't react at first, but stayed where he was until the elder man was just before him, towering over him again and taking all of his air and space. And when he touched his cheek, he felt like a brand was moving over his skin because Bishop's fingers were so hot. Unbidden, his eyes shut as his body tensed up, trying not to lean. This man was so dangerous; he felt it in his bones and yet he couldn't resist. Why? Why couldn't he say no?

His eyes opened as he heard Frank speak and he found himself swallowing as fingers moved through his hair and to the nape of his neck. He was trapped now and he knew it and felt terrified of looking up towards Bishop's face. He focused on the man's neck before he allowed his eyes to meet those orbs of black abyss. He looked so smug, like he had won a game or something and Abel knew that he was losing to his own body and possibly his grief as it seemed to manifest into a physical need. He didn't answer Bishop at first because of his fear, because he had never been with a man before, had never really had any notions of it except only in passing. But with this, so raw and in his face, he couldn't deny that he felt something.

"...Yes."

He murmured, so quietly that he didn't even know if he had spoken. He swallowed and felt like perhaps he had just made a mistake by admitting his attraction, as confusing as it was to someone he hardly knew. What could he do? He didn't have control of the situation and not really himself anymore. His body and Bishop were taking over for him.​
 
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