At The Wake (Peter, Casual) -FIN-

[OSRIC YOUNG]

"I particularly like cinnamon buns. I appreciate anyone who can make those."

These were the words that popped into Osric's head at 8:07 PM on a Saturday night, while he sat on his couch and watched whatever was on, wondering how long it would take for his wrist to stop hurting (it had turned out he'd just bruised the bone badly) and how long it would take for the drugs to chase that away.

He wanted company, and Peter had offered it once, in an indirect way, and so, Peter's house was only a logical place to go, besides to sleep. And he was so sick of sleeping, even if it was his own fault.

Funerals depressed him so badly, and yesterday, he'd found himself at the head of Hank's grandfather's coffin. His friend had practically been raised by his grandparents, and Osric was as lost as he ever was when he saw something sad.

So he looked Peter's address up in the phone book, got a cab, and then knocked on Peter's flat's door, a plastic bag with sugar and flour and eggs in hand, barely wondering why the hell he was here and not at Hank's or Wilson's, because he'd been yelled at by them yesterday and he didn't want to face up to that just yet.

[DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS]

It was a rare night when Peter wasn’t working, either at the bar or on the backload of cases waiting on his desk. And yes, despite the fact he was considered to be a glorified social worker, there were always cases he needed to work on. With the amount of gang violence and domestic disputes in the city, he had his fair share of bloody crime scenes and murders to keep the simple case files from moving off the corner of his desk. So when he had free time, he usually worked at those, but not tonight. Tonight was a mental health night. Just him, Baze, and a bag of potato chips in front of the TV. After the week he’d had, he needed it. He’d found a stress relief in Max last Saturday night, but that hadn’t gone the way he wanted it to, and now he couldn’t even talk to anyone about it because they’d just laugh at where his overactive libido had landed him this week. So it was just easier to stay at home and spend some time with his best friend, even if said best friend was eating more of the chips than he was.

There was a basketball game on – the Suns and the Celtics, but Peter found it didn’t matter all that much who was playing in the long run. He didn’t follow professional basketball. Still, it was interesting to watch from time to time. He liked to mentally critique the plays, the calls, and the players themselves. Normally he would be talking at the TV, critiquing the plays, but he didn’t feel like it tonight. He was happy to sit, watch, and hand Baze chips every so often.

Seeing as how he’d planned a night at home, he was surprised when there was a knock at his door. Baze jumped up, sniffing at the door and growling low in his throat, so it wasn’t anyone Peter’d had over before. Still, if anyone was coming here to kill him, it wasn’t likely they’d knock first, and the door was unlocked – just like it always was. So Peter wasn’t all that worried when he hauled himself off the couch and gripped Baze’s collar before opening the door.

To say he was surprised was an understatement. Standing there was none other than Osric Young with a bag of something that looked suspiciously like cooking supplies. The first thing that crossed his mind was that Osric wasn’t going to kill him, and the second was to wonder what Osric Young, out of all the people he knew, was doing there. He would have expected Greg or Gerry, even Max over Osric, but perhaps it was better that it wasn’t who he would have expected.

“Hey, Osric. What are you doing here?”

[OSRIC YOUNG]

Peter opened the door. Osric could hear the TV on in the background and at Peter's feet was a large dog whom was logically Baze. Baze growled at him and Osric stared blankly back until Peter got over his obvious few seconds of shock and said, “Hey, Osric. What are you doing here?”

Well, of course, what was he thinking anyway? That Peter would be expecting him or something? He was lucky Peter was even at home, being a bar tender and all. Bar tenders worked evenings, obviously. Jesus, he was awful at this whole planning thing.

For a second he didn't know what to say, because really, why had he come? But finally he managed to say, "I can make cinnamon buns. For you." He looked down, just a tad… ashamed? No, just… he felt like he was intruding. Which he was. He had basically invited himself. Not basically, literally. So… awkwardness was sensical.

He held the bad out in front of him for Peter to see inside. "Like… if you want."[/b]

[DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS]

Peter waited patiently, curious as to why Osric was there, and how he’d found out where he lived. Finally Osric seemed to gather his thoughts. "I can make cinnamon buns. For you."

Osric looked down before holding out the bag, as if Peter would want to inspect it for a bomb or something before letting him into the apartment.

"Like… if you want."

“I...uh, sure,” Peter replied, not sure what was up with the other man, but knowing that he clearly needed to be there, making him cinnamon buns, instead of wandering the streets. Peter had the feeling that he would be doing just that if he turned him out, and who knew what harm could come to the guy after dark in Brooklyn.

“Come on in,” he directed, tapping Baze on the nose when he growled again. “Don’t mind Baze, he’s just like this with strangers.”

Actually, he really wasn’t. He’d only ever reacted like this when there was something off about the person at his door. He studied the other man, concerned now. He’d just have to keep an eye on him and figure out what was wrong.

He tugged Baze back, gesturing Osric in. His place was less than clean. Ok, it was barely habitable. He had been sorting through things all week, thinking if he owned less, the place would be more manageable. Unfortunately, it just had the effect of making a bigger mess at this point. His kitchen was the worst of it all. Osric was going to have an adventure trying to cook anything in there. At least the attempt would keep him busy.

[OSRIC YOUNG]

“I…uh, sure,” Peter said, looking a bit confused but not really annoyed. The last thing Osric wanted to do was annoying someone else. “Come on in. Don’t mind Baze, he’s just like this with strangers," Peter added, as Osric quietly stepped into Peter's house and Baze growled at him again.

Osric looked around - okay, the place was… really messy. But it wasn't like he could talk, so it didn't matter. It was homey, anyway. Lived in. He wondered if he should get a new apartment a live with someone; it was too lonely living by himself. He wanted someone else's mess everywhere, so he didn't feel so… secluded, in his own house.

He glanced towards the kitchen: also messy, but workable. But first he had to pet Baze. "Hey sweetheart," he cooed lowly, reaching down to rub the dog behind the ears. He looked up at Peter, who was taller than him and nice and far too tolerant of Osric for his own good. He smiled tiredly and said, "I don't think your dog likes me."[/b]

[DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS]

Peter watched as Osric stepped in and looked around. He took the opportunity to push the door closed. It was useless, seeing as how it wasn’t locked, but it would keep the neighbors from having a floor show to whatever this turned out to be.

"Hey sweetheart."

Osric was cooing at his dog. Now he’d seen everything. He covertly held up a finger in warning to the dog as Osric reached to rub between his ears. The last thing he needed was the dog biting someone. He looked wild enough as it was, so it was in everyone’s best interest if he didn’t get on the wrong side of animal control.

"I don't think your dog likes me."

Osric was smiling tiredly, like the dog not liking him was disappointing, but not the end of the world. He shrugged a bit in response.

“He doesn’t know you. I don’t normally have people over who he hasn’t met somewhere before,” Peter explained, leaving out his suspicions that the dog knew exactly what was up with Osric.

“So, you came over here to make me cinnamon buns?” Peter was still trying to wrap his head around that. “That’s really nice of you.”

He’d already decided Osric needed to be in his apartment, so he wasn’t about to tell him he didn’t have to do that or some other nonsense.

“I wish I knew you were coming. The place is...Well, I kind of quit in the middle of my cleaning.”

It was true. He’d been doing it in his spare time, and there wasn’t much of that. The place was definitely suffering for it. The living room was almost uncomfortable. He had stacks of newspapers tied and ready to be taken out, despite the fact Peter never had bought a single paper in all his years living in New York City, so it was a wonder where they all came from. His laundry basket was sitting by the couch, full of clean clothing that needed to be folded and taken down the hall to be put away. The couch was covered in dog hair and he was sure his spare gun had been in the living room the last time he had seen it. He really should put it in a lockbox at some point. His bedroom was a lost cause, but his bathroom was clean. He always made sure to scrub it down when he was too wired to sleep because it was a germ issue rather than a clutter issue.

His kitchen was the worst culprit, though. Everything was on the counters. He had been going through everything in his cupboards and just never put anything back. He mostly lived out of take out boxes, so it wasn’t a huge deal, but it was a bit embarrassing when someone wanted to use his kitchen for kitchen-y things. Like baking cinnamon buns.

“So, sorry about the mess,” he apologised lamely, scratching Baze behind his left ear in a way that made his tail brush the floor in a wag. "Hopefully you can work around it."

[OSRIC YOUNG]

“He doesn’t know you. I don’t normally have people over who he hasn’t met somewhere before,” Peter shrugged, and Osric believed him, because really he'd believe anything Peter said at this point. He was desperate to believe everything.

“So, you came over here to make me cinnamon buns?" Peter asked, looking rightfully confused. "That’s really nice of you... I wish I knew you were coming. The place is...Well, I kind of quit in the middle of my cleaning.”

Osric glanced around, just now noticing the lack of order in the place. It didn't seem dirty, really, just… unorganised. Much like his own place, except larger and the piles of things were slightly less towering. Suddenly he was frustrated with jealously; that it appeared Peter had it marginally better than he did. Usually seeing others' contrasting success made him happy, but now… now, he was just jealous, which also made him guilty. It was frustrating, how bad he was bad at running away. Maybe because he never had tried before, and it was hard to start now.

“…you can work around it," Peter's voice interrupted Osric's thought process, and he blinked away he blank expression that had made its way throughout his face.

"Yeah, I can. Of course I can,"[/color] Osric said, somewhat more forcefully than he'd meant to sound. He shuffled and took his hand which had been up to this point shoved in his pocket out, staring at his wrist, inspecting the white and minimally dirt-brushed gauze that had been wrapped for protection. It was tight, and though without pain because of the meds he really didn't need anymore, it tingled strangely and felt almost foreign to the rest of his arm. He wanted to itch at the ache of numbness, see how far he could push himself.

Since he'd slept through a concussion and made his very rushed trip to the ER - or maybe much before that, though he wouldn't admit it - he hadn't felt much like himself; he hadn't smiled very honestly, and it disturbed him. He wanted to be himself, and to get that back. Perhaps a bit suffering was all he needed. Self-harm was on his personal list of sins, but if they were accidents, then it was just that, accidents, that caused pain. And he almost them it.

"I can get used to anything,"[/b] he mumbled almost wistfully, and then immediately after as if they were connected thoughts, "I have stuff to make cookies too. Do you like chocolate chips?"[/b]

[DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS]

"Yeah, I can. Of course I can."

Peter blinked at how forceful Osric sounded. He didn’t know what to do with that. Osric was always one of those people who was happy and easy to get along with. Peter’d never dealt with him while he was in a mood like this, even if he firmly believed that everyone was entitled to be in a mood every once in a while. When he saw the gauze on his wrist, his interest was piqued. Something was definitely up.

"I can get used to anything. I have stuff to make cookies too. Do you like chocolate chips?"

“I’m sure you can,” Peter replied honestly. “And I like chocolate chips just fine.”

But what he really liked were puzzles, and tonight Osric Young was being just that – a puzzle. He wasn’t sure what to make of him. He had clearly gotten hurt and now he wanted to bake in Peter’s kitchen – an unlikely combination if there ever was one. It was certainly something he was going to have to handle gently. If Osric was getting snappy over Peter’s attempt at casual, then there was no telling how he would react to an attempt to get him to open up. He had people like this at the bar all the time, so he’d just do what he did at the bar.

“Did you want something to drink? I’ve got pop in the fridge,” Peter offered. “Then maybe we can talk for a bit before trying to use the kitchen.”

And maybe Osric would tell him what happened and get whatever was haunting him off his chest before it suffocated him. Either way, Peter was going to put his own less than comforting thoughts on the back burner and try and help out his college acquaintance and new friend.

[OSRIC YOUNG]

“I’m sure you can,” Peter said, and the reassuring, confident tone bothered Osric. His now purposeful aversion to the reasonable was something he did not want to lose, too. “And I like chocolate chips just fine.”

Okay, good. He was going to make them whether Peter liked them or not, because he had the stuff, it'd be a waste not to make them. He almost ignored Peter when the man spoke again, in spite of how rude it would have been considering Osric wss the one who intruded on Peter. Thankfully his manners weren't lacking, still, thankfully. “Did you want something to drink? I’ve got pop in the fridge. Then maybe we can talk for a bit before trying to use the kitchen.”

Talk? Talk about what? He came here not to talk. Really, he came to take advantage of Peter; he didn't want to speak at all, rather just feel secure in the presence of someone else. And Hank and Wilson had made it very clear he wasn't welcome unless he stopped his "moping," as they called it. The cinnamon rolls were an excuse.

"That's okay,"[/b] Osric said breathily, almost a sigh. It seemed to take effort to speak, something he had almost never experienced before. "I'm good. Why?"[/b] He had switched subjects in his head mid-prase: he'd begun speaking about the drinks and turned to speaking about the talking scenario some time between then. He assumed Peter understood, and if he didn't, Osric didn't feel like clarifying. He just wanted to fucking bake already.

[DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS]

"That's okay. I'm good. Why?"

From the way that Osric insisted he was ok – rather breathily – to a more defensive ‘why’ Peter knew he wasn’t going to get anything out of Osric at this rate. It was probably best to just let the guy bake before he tried to pry too much.

“Sorry,” Peter apologised. “Western hospitality is a hard thing to shake. Please, make yourself at home.”

Peter shifted on his feet, not sure he wanted to move before Osric, considering how small his kitchen was for people over six feet. God, how had he not noticed Osric was taller than he was? Apparently it was a night for observations. Baze growled again and Peter rubbed his ear soothingly, agreeing with the dog. Something was up and he didn’t like it either. God, he hadn’t seen someone’s mood so off since...he wasn’t going to finish that thought. He hadn’t been down memory lane to examine his past stupidities in a long time. But the pieces were starting to fall into place.

Peter glanced at Osric’s wrist, doing his best to be inconspicuous as he mentally triaged the limb. Anything wrapped meant that it either hurt or it did before they loaded you up on meds and sent you on your way because you weren’t bleeding or dying.

“How’s your wrist? Did they give you anything for it?” He asked casually, knowing that the answer would only confirm his suspicions.

[OSRIC YOUNG]

“Sorry,” Peter apologized. Osric wasn't sure why Peter was apologizing. Well, maybe he had sounded a little defensive, there. He hadn't meant to, but he had done it consciously, still. Shit. “Western hospitality is a hard thing to shake. Please, make yourself at home.”

"Yeah, okay. Kay, thanks,"[/b] Osric said. It was a rare time when Osric refused to meet Peter's eyes. He'd been taught, eyes up, always; eye contact is respectful. But he couldn't, not right now. Western hospitality was indeed a hard thing to shake, at least from the mind. But actions were a little easier to control than thoughts.

Osric shuffled into Peter's tiny kitchen, slowly taking the things he'd brought out of the plastic bags and quietly pushing things off the couture to the corner, organizing his ingredients and finding bowls to take out to use. He had begun to open things when he felt Peter's eyes on his back.

“How’s your wrist? Did they give you anything for it?” he heard Peter ask. Osric couldn't help but be annoyed, because sometimes he sort of forgot about things until someone mentioned said thing. Currently said thing was his wrist.

"Yeah, they did,"[/b] he said tiredly, not really wanting to discuss this with Peter. He just wanted Peter there. Selfishly silent. He added without thinking, tone annoyed, "It was shit though, I mean, just something like fucking Advil."[/b]

[DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS]

"Yeah, okay. ‘Kay, thanks."

Osric wouldn’t meet his eyes, but he shuffled into the kitchen without any further delay. Peter watched after him, feeling a certain amount of embarrassment over the kitchen. His cupboards were quite literally empty, everything on the counter tops because he’d just got tired of sorting it and left it. Had he expected Osric, there wouldn’t have been a lot he could have done about it, but he may have put in an effort.

Still, Osric could clearly view all the dumb things his sister liked to send him from the bath and kitchen store she’d bought in on. She got a ton of free things and apparently she thought Peter needed them. That or she was too lazy to buy him things he would actually use. He had mixers, makers, presses, fancy painted dishes, baking pans...At least he was prepared for random people to show up and cook for him because he sure as hell couldn’t manage for himself...

"Yeah, they did. It was shit though, I mean, just something like fucking Advil."

Just Advil, and apparently it was shit. Peter felt drained already, wondering if he should just give up before he got started. Still, he’d kick himself for it later, he was sure, so why not give it the old college ho? Baze leaned against his leg a bit more, and Peter was glad for the support.

“Just Advil...so I take it you popped something stronger when you got home?”

He was willing to bet on it. Whatever they’d given him was probably enough to lay out a horse, so whatever was on top of it probably hadn’t helped at all. Didn’t they give kids talks about drugs or something? It probably wouldn’t have helped; it hadn’t helped him, after all. But this was just...he was suddenly irrationally grateful that Osric had gone somewhere safe, even if he had wandered through Brooklyn to get there.

[OSRIC YOUNG]

As Osric moved things around in Peter's kitchen, he began to realize that Peter was not exaggerating the state of disarray. Additionally, he could see a strange of assortment of fancy cook ware, and yet, basically no food. It was an odd sight to see, but it almost put him at ease, strangely enough. Something he could work on; could fix. He held an elaborate mold for... something, he wasn't really sure of, but hummed in approval at the layer of ceramic on it.

“Just Advil...so I take it you popped something stronger when you got home?” Peter's voice interrupted his amused observations, and Osric looked back at him with a neutral expression.

"Well, yeah, of course,"[/b] Osric said dully, as if - obviously. He missed catching the worried tone in Peter's voice. "I mean, wouldn't you?"[/b] It only made sense, after all. He was being logical.

[DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS]

"Well, yeah, of course, I mean, wouldn't you?"

Peter didn’t feel gratified that his suspicions were confirmed. In fact, he felt worse, if possible. Osric really didn’t need someone telling him that he was high, and Peter didn’t want to be the one to do it, but there wasn’t a lot of wiggle room there.

“Actually, no. I really wouldn’t,” Peter replied. “I have bad reactions to pain killers. It’s a side effect from overdosing on them when I was a teen.”

When in doubt be frank and honest with people. He had learned that the hard way a long time ago. It helped him out as a cop, and it helped him out as someone who dealt with kids. People could smell bullshit, so why shovel it onto their feet, as his father used to say.

“Doctors only give you what you need, so taking more on your own...well, I know how easy it is to take too much doing that,” Peter told him, watching as he picked things up off the counters. “So, the question is, are you aware that you’ve crossed that line?”

There, it was out there. Too much tender footing always did make him nervous. It was better just to put it out there and move on with life.

[OSRIC YOUNG]

“Actually, no. I really wouldn’t,” Peter said, sounding uncharacteristically stern. Osric didn't like the tone; it reminded him of when Wilson yelled at him, except Peter wasn't yelling. “I have bad reactions to pain killers. It’s a side effect from overdosing on them when I was a teen.”

"I didn't know that,"[/b] Osric said flatly. He wanted to tell Peter he was sorry and that that must have sucked, but the fact that Peter was apparently using this to tell him off for taking, what, a few extra pills? He didn't like it.

“Doctors only give you what you need," Peter continued, and Osric turned back to the counter, unceremoniously opening a bag of flour. He so did not need this. He knew when to stop, he did. "...so taking more on your own...well, I know how easy it is to take too much doing that. So, the question is, are you aware that you've crossed that line?”

How do you know I've crossed any line?"[/b] Osric snapped back, knowing that he probably shouldn't be talking back so confidently at Peter when he was in Peter's own house, but this... this wasn't fair. "Your lines aren't the same as everyone else's."[/b] He willed himself to stop talking, because maybe then Peter would just let him alone and let him back the damn pastries, but as usual, his poor impulse control won over and he quickly added with an air of angry childish pettiness, "And anyway, I can take care of myself, I can. Why do you care at all?"[/b]