Chapter Text
Ethan stared at Heisenberg over his water glass, thumb tapping the table. Heisenberg, for his part, peered at Ethan over his sunglasses.
"Just so I get this right," Ethan began, hardly able to believe the conversation he was having. "You want me to be your plus one to your mother's funeral because your family would hate it?"
"And it'd be fuckin' boring otherwise," Heisenberg said. He kicked out his feet and lounged back in his chair like he hadn't just proposed something absurd in the last ten minutes of Ethan's lunch hour.
Ethan stared at him for a long moment, trying to decide if this was a prank, trying to run the math of how awful this request actually was, and also trying to figure out how the hell he kept ending up in these situations. But Heisenberg hadn't cracked so much as a self-satisfied smirk, instead letting his attention wander to the people passing their table on the sidewalk.
It was weird, right? It was definitely weird to invite your new friend with benefits to your estranged mother's funeral.
Ethan thought about it.
Well, there were worse ways to get to know someone, as he had learned.
Ethan put his elbows on the table and rubbed his fingers against his eyes. Why the hell was he even entertaining this?
He didn't know Heisenberg that well. They had met in a bar and, following a discussion about cars and a suggestive offer to look at Heisenberg's motorcycle, Ethan had woken up in Heisenberg's bed thoroughly well-fucked and having enjoyed every second of it. They had maintained a casual standing arrangement over the last few weeks, and Ethan had appreciated how low-maintenance it was. Heisenberg could be as comforting as a punch in the mouth, but hell, was he upfront about it. It was kind of fun, in a way, because he allowed—expected—Ethan to be every bit as frank as about what he thought and what he wanted. Their whole relationship was straightforward and uncomplicated, which was frankly a relief after the death throes of his marriage the year before.
Being invited to attend the funeral of Heisenberg's mother was...well. It was straightforward.
But it wasn't like they were complete strangers, anymore, and they had progressed to doing things other than just having lots of sex whenever they saw each other. They were having lunch right now, at an entirely respectable sandwich place. Plus, this clearly wasn't for emotional support, it was more...requesting an audience while kicking a beehive.
Ethan heaved a sigh. The fact that he wasn't surprised Heisenberg would suggest such a thing should have been much, much more concerning.
"You want me to walk into a room full of strangers that will probably hate me," he said. "While they're mourning a loved one."
"Don't kid yourself, nobody even liked Miranda, much less loved her," Heisenberg scoffed, tossing his crumpled straw wrapper into the street. He usually became restless after a few minutes of sitting still, and now that he had finished eating his hands had begun to wander. "This is more like a cocktail party where everyone wears black. They'll forget her as soon as the coffin's out of sight."
Ethan couldn't help but raise his eyebrows. He had the sense that Heisenberg didn't get along with his family, between rarely acknowledging their existence and the glib way he had invited Ethan to the funeral. But being on bad terms with your family was different from announcing that no one could have loved your mother.
He shook his head. "Okay, but you're missing the point. I don't want to be in a room of people that hate me."
"First of all, it's only my family that will care, so we're talking three people, one of which probably won't even speak to you. And you won't even see them again," Heisenberg said, waving a hand. "Think of this as a license to be a dick to a bunch of rich assholes. It'll be fun."
Ethan took a drink, buying himself time. He knew Heisenberg was well off, that was obvious just from the souped-up bike and the nice apartment, but Ethan had assumed that was due to Heisenberg's very successful high-end auto shop. The idea of Heisenberg being a rich kid felt...wrong. Rich kids grew into entitled businessmen that wore watches worth more than Ethan's car payment, not some public menace that worked with his hands and often smelled faintly of gasoline.
"What kind of rich are we talking about? Like, what level of pretentious bullshit would I have to deal with?"
Heisenberg considered Ethan like he was weighing his odds, then shrugged. "About...name a hospital wing after Miranda wealthy."
"Well, shit."
"If nothing else, now you know the food will be good," Heisenberg said, reaching over to steal one of Ethan's chips.
"Oh, this just got so much messier," Ethan said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
So, this was a bad idea. Ethan absolutely knew this was a bad idea. Family drama was a nightmare even for normal people, but add a few million dollars at the very least, and it could turn into a shitshow very quickly.
The bitch of it was that now a part of Ethan really wanted to do it. Heisenberg was right—Ethan didn't actually care what these assholes thought. Honestly, it might be a bit cathartic being able to laugh at terrible people and then swan home...but that might also be Heisenberg's bad influence speaking.
And...well, Ethan was curious. For all of Heisenberg's bravado and large personality, he was a surprisingly private person. Most of what Ethan knew came from observation, and to suddenly learn that Heisenberg had not only grown up wealthy, but was apparently part of this completely alien way of life...well, Ethan had questions. Mostly why he seemed to have deliberately left it all behind. And if it was at all connected to staying silent about his mother's death long enough for funeral arrangements to be made. And why he wanted Ethan to bear witness to it, or if Ethan was just the most convenient way to give his family the middle finger. There was so much about Heisenberg that Ethan didn't know and he hadn't really noticed before.
Not that Ethan had been very forthcoming about his own private life. Hell, he had only mentioned co-parenting a four-year-old with his ex because it made scheduling booty calls so much easier. There was something nice about the anonymity of their relationship, about being able to leave the baggage and the bullshit for a few hours at a time. He could respect Heisenberg wanting the same. And also not wanting to drag thoughts of his dead mother into bed with him.
"When is this supposed to take place?" Ethan sighed.
"Friday, seven o'clock."
"In the morning?" Ethan asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No," Heisenberg scoffed. "At night. I told you, these people are treating it like a dinner party."
Ethan pursed his lips. Everything Heisenberg said made this more weird.
"Come on," Heisenberg said, seductive and low. He put his boot on Ethan's foot to drive home the point and leaned in. "I'll make it worthwhile."
Ethan gave him a suspicious look. "I'm not going to help you disrupt this funeral by having sex in the bathroom or something."
"You're no fun," Heisenberg said, but he was still smirking.
Ethan decided that was the point to pull his foot back, lest Heisenberg take it as encouragement. He shook his head and looked out across the street, absently rubbing his thumb over the scar tissue where his left pinky and ring finger had been.
"The reason you're on bad terms with your family...it's not because you're gay, right?"
"No," Heisenberg said, easily waving the thought away. "It's because I'm an asshole."
Ethan couldn't help but snort. "Fair, I guess."
"What, you're not even going to try denying it?" Heisenberg laughed.
"Never shit a shitter," Ethan said, checking the calendar on his phone.
Heisenberg stole another one of his chips, then asked, "Are you checking to see if you have the rugrat then?"
Ethan peered at him over his phone. "I might be. You said the service started at seven?"
"Mm-hm. Wake's immediately after."
Well, he didn't have Rose that day, which was something. Hell, this was stupid.
"Well?" Heisenberg asked, stretching forward to brush his foot against Ethan's ankle. Ethan rolled his eyes.
"Fine, I'll do it."
"Perfect," Heisenberg said, all too pleased with himself. "Do you have a suit?"
"Yeah, I have a suit."
"I don't mean something cheap you bought five years ago and haven't touched since. This isn't the place you want to look...under dressed."
Ethan gave him a scathing look. "Heisenberg, you are literally covered in grease stains half the time."
Heisenberg shrugged. "That's because I don't give a shit. You very much do. Anyways, I was going to offer buying you a new one, but if you're going to have attitude..."
"Exactly how formal will this be?" Ethan sighed. "I'm assuming this isn't a black-tie event?"
"No, you won't need a tuxedo. But people will be judging you for what you wear."
"Yeah, well, I'm not going to be seeing them again, like you said," Ethan said, standing up and pushing his chair in. He threw his napkin at Heisenberg, who swatted it out of the air. "You're getting lunch, money bags."
"Sure, sure. I'll pick you up at six-thirty."
Ethan almost wished he had taken Heisenberg's offer of buying a new suit, if only so he could save twenty minutes bellyaching over his appearance. He didn't know how 'people will be judging you for what you wear' translated into the real world. Was this a 'make sure your shirt is ironed' judgment or a 'hate everyone not wearing a designer label' judgment? Heisenberg would have said if it was the latter, right? What the hell, why did Heisenberg come from a rich family, this had not appropriately sunk in during lunch. Were his socks too flashy for a funeral? Was anyone actually going to care? Where the hell was his tie?
Ethan paused tearing through his closet to check the time—shit, Heisenberg would be there in twenty minutes and he still hadn't called Rose to wish her good night. He ran his hand through his hair—fuck, he'd have to brush it again—then called Mia. He waited as she got Rose's attention, checking the damage he had done to his hair. Not awful, all things considered. Maybe even tastefully disheveled, if he combed it back into place with his fingers.
"Hi, Daddy," Rose said, voice distant. Clearly, she had her eyes fixed on the TV.
"Hi, baby. Did you have a good day?'
"Yeah."
"You help Mommy clean up after dinner?"
"Yeah."
"Are you watching the puppy dog show?"
"Yeah Daddy and there's a lizard!"
"Okay, baby," he chuckled. "Remember, Daddy's busy tonight, so I can't call you later when you go to bed."
"Uh-huh."
He sighed, shaking his head. He heard the vague hum of Mia's voice, then Rose gave an adorable gasp before saying, "G'bye Daddy good night I love you!"
"I love you too, Rose," he said, biting back another laugh. There was a pause as the phone changed hands, then Mia sighed into the receiver.
"Sorry, I thought she'd manage some rational thought while the TV was on. She'll probably start asking about you in an hour."
"It's okay, I can send a voice message or something before you put her to bed."
"Oh, will you have time? I thought you were going to be at some sort of work thing."
"Uh, no, a funeral with a friend. We'll be at the wake around Rose's bedtime, so it shouldn't be a problem."
"Okay, well—they're having a funeral this late in the day?" Mia asked, confusion bleeding through the phone.
"Yeah, I guess. Apparently, his family is super rich and everyone is going to treat this like a cocktail party or something."
"Wow. That's...kinda bleak."
"Hence the emotional support," Ethan said, cleanly omitting that his support was likely to emotionally needle Heisenberg's family.
"Alright, well...eat good food, I guess? Get some good stories? I never know what to say for these things."
"Yeah, it's a bit of a tossup. He doesn't seem to really like—"
"Oh, shoot, Daddy's calling."
"Daddy." The word dropped from Ethan's mouth like an anvil. Mia's father, Jack Baker, was a bit of a contentious subject. He pressed his tongue against his teeth, trying to school his voice back into something neutral. "What even is the time over there?"
"It's the middle of the morning in Dulvey, don't be mean."
"Mean."
Mia's parents had never been great respecters of time zones, sometimes blithely calling in the middle of the night because they continually forgot Romania was eight hours ahead of Louisiana. Boundaries in general had never been a clear concept between the Bakers, where a thousand strings of obligation, duty, loyalty, habit, and a hefty sprinkling of familial guilt bound them across time and space. Unsurprisingly, they were quick to close ranks against outsiders, which had someone referred to Ethan even before the divorce.
"Ethan, come on, don't start," Mia said, already sounding defensive and tired. "Is there anything else you wanted to go over before I take the call?"
"No, it's fine," Ethan said, working hard not to sound pissy. He wasn't going to pick a fight and he wasn't going to ruin his evening thinking about a damn Baker. "I'll come pick Rose up around ten tomorrow."
"Okay. Have a good night."
"Night."
Mia hung up before he did, rushing to answer her father before it rang out.
He ran his tongue over his teeth—he wasn't going to care, he didn't care, if it had been anyone else, he would not have cared—and went back to searching for his tie. Mia could have called her father back instead of hustling him off the phone. It wasn't unreasonable for Ethan to be annoyed at that, right? Ethan gave up looking for his black tie and resigned himself to a grey one. She wouldn't have hung up on her father if Ethan called, even when they had been married. Well, maybe, before everything had started going to shit, before they had dragged her back—
He needed to stop thinking about this. He was not going to let a mildly annoying thing with Mia put him on edge. Especially not around Heisenberg, who tended to zero in on weakness.
Hell, this was a stupid idea.
Ethan fumbled through tying his tie, then pulled it loose and tried again. Losing his fingers had made ties unexpectedly difficult, and it always took a couple of tries before the knot looked respectable. He opted for a half-Windsor (if anyone bitched about not doing the full one, they could lick his ass), then considered himself in the mirror.
Oh, fucking dammit. He should have shined his shoes.
No, he was being ridiculous. No one was going to care that his shoes lacked an adequate mirror polish. It was too late, anyway, something that should have been done hours ago if he had any hope of letting it set.
Ethan sighed and almost raked a hand through his hair again. This had better be worth it.
Heisenberg arrived on time, shaking Ethan's whole apartment with one of his booming knocks. Ethan sighed again, grabbed his wallet and keys, then opened the door.
"Well shit," he said, stopping short.
Heisenberg looked…good. He was handsome to begin with, almost dangerously so, between the endless confidence and assholish swagger, but that was usually muted under his unkempt appearance. His wardrobe consisted largely of hardy, well-worn leather and denim, and he typically looked ready to rebuild an engine or wrestle a bear at any second. It was a point of regular amusement for Ethan to play the 'Where Are The Holes on Heisenberg's Pants and How Did He Get Them?' game.
Now, though, he was…hell, he looked great. His suit was ink black, tailored perfectly to accentuate his height and broad chest, and his shoes were a sleek, dark obsidian. Even his hair was carefully, albeit roguishly, groomed into place. He lacked a tie, which was a bit more casual than expected, but he honestly looked good enough that it didn't matter.
The one thing that stood out from this sleek appearance, though, were his scars. Ethan had grown used to Heisenberg's facial scars fairly quickly—it was hard not to, when Heisenberg was so belligerently confident in all things—but now they grabbed his attention, the one thing belied he wasn't just a polished businessman or socialite or someone that sat behind a desk and made phone calls for a living. There was a story written on his face, and Ethan might have asked about it, if not for the keen awareness of his own mangled left hand.
Heisenberg pursed his lips at Ethan's gawking, then lowered his sunglasses to look him up and down in turn. It was considerably more critical, but after a moment he shrugged in approval.
"Not bad," he said. His rolling Transatlantic accent made it seem like he had stepped out of a movie screen. "I was half worried you'd come out in an oversized jacket and a mangled tie."
"Thanks," Ethan said, rolling his eyes. He was honestly a bit offended that Heisenberg thought he would dress himself like a slob. "Glad to hear you'd let me crash and burn."
"I already offered to buy you a suit, I'm not here to save you from yourself."
"Whatever. Did you seriously just…have this lying around?" Ethan asked, gesturing helplessly at Heisenberg's middle.
"Crumpled up on the floor, actually." Heisenberg ran Ethan's lapel through his fingers as he spoke, grey-green eyes considerate. Ethan swallowed. He was almost forty, he wasn't about to start blushing like a teenager.
"Is it—do I really look okay?" he asked, trying hard not to stammer. There was some scent lingering on Heisenberg's skin, cedarwood with a hint of citrus, maybe, just faint enough that Ethan wanted to lean in. "I don't want to look under dressed."
Heisenberg smiled and rolled his eyes. "You look good, papa, pretty as always. Shoes could use a shine, though."
"Oh, for fuck's sake—"
Heisenberg snickered as Ethan locked up the apartment, elbowing him as they descended the stairs to the parking lot. Ethan started to relax as Heisenberg started up his usual spiky banter, then stopped dead as they reached Heisenberg's car.
"You're shitting me," Ethan breathed, staring at the sleek, dark muscle car in front of him. It was exactly the kind of thing he would have expected Heisenberg to drive; broad and aggressive with a seductively dark tint. And, knowing Heisenberg, it probably had more than a little tinkering under the hood.
"Though you might like that," Heisenberg said, obviously trying not to look too pleased as he walked around to the driver's side.
"How did I not know about this?" Ethan demanded. The first thing he and Heisenberg ever talked about had been cars, they had talked cars for ages after Ethan mentioned his '70 Dodge Challenger, the thing that had finally lured Ethan home with Heisenberg had been his very big, very nice motorcycle, it was so obvious Ethan liked cars, how had he not known Heisenberg had such a nice car?
"Gotta keep some things a surprise," Heisenberg said, unlocking it to underline his point. "Plus, you might have creamed your shorts if I told you right away."
Ethan ignored him and climbed in. The interior was unsurprisingly dark, sexy leather with a center console that boasted a promising number of features. He needed to drive this thing as soon and as fast as possible.
Heisenberg turned on the engine and the resulting growl actually made Ethan start laughing.
"Oh, you're such an asshole," Ethan said, trying not to get too excited. Heisenberg just smirked a little wider.
"Still getting laid, though."
"Yeah, you're getting laid. Remind me why I'm not sugaring for you?"
"Pride, I'd imagine," Heisenberg said, gliding out of the parking lot. He brushed Ethan's ear with the back of a knuckle. "Though I can still call you 'baby girl' if you want."
"Stop it," Ethan said, trying not to smile as he smacked his hand away.
"Feeling bratty now, I see."
"You're a dick."
Heisenberg flashed him another smirk, then focused on the road. He flicked a hand over the stereo, letting low rock music fill the air. He was back in his element once more, effortlessly commanding his car like he had been born to it.
And then Ethan remembered they weren't just on their way to some fancy party. This was the funeral for Heisenberg's mother. The mother Heisenberg hadn't mentioned before now. The mother that made Heisenberg's mouth tighten with dry derision every time she came up.
'Miranda' he had called her, shorthand for 'my fucking bitch mother' if ever Ethan had heard it. And yet he had still dressed up, affording her death the respect he couldn't rustle up for anything else in his life. And yet here he was, making suggestive jokes and showing off his car.
Ethan let out a slow breath and settled back into his seat. Well, he had wanted answers. He was a damn fool if he thought any of them would be pretty.