Old Mistakes 2
Summary: you're forced to start from scratch after the messy end of your marriage.
Character: Curtis Everett, 40something reader
Warnings: dubcon, noncon, NSFW. This is a dark drabble like most of my stuff so take this as your warning to stop reading.
Part of the Trailer Park AU
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It’s not much but it’s the thought that counts, right? You wrap up the pasta bake, the smell making your mouth water, and carry it with a pair of potholders. You use your elbow to knock the latch back and nudge open the door.
You look around the park as the smell of hotdogs on the barbecue further tugs at your appetite. You turn down the lane and head in the direction you saw him go the night before. He said something about a motorcycle…
You see it. The pipes and the body are matte grey. You can tell a lot of love is put into it as you can’t buy a floor model like that. It reminds you of your ex and his beloved custom Porsche. Oh yeah, a wise investment, wasn’t it?
You clear your throat and slow as you approach. Just go home. The bake would last you a week if you’re mindful. You should just leave that man alone.
“You lost?” Curtis’ drawl keeps you from fleeing. He comes around the trailer with a cloth in hand, along with a spray bottle.
You flinch and shake your head. “Uh, no. No,” you repeat as you swallow the dryness in your throat. “I was… looking for you.”
“Fuse box?” He wonders.
You chew your lip. “Settling a debt.”
You step forward and show him the pan. “Penne Parmesan Bake. My own recipe. With little bits of chorizo and…” You stop and look at him. “If you like pasta.”
He sprays the cloth and runs it over the metal of the handlebars. You watch his biceps flex with his effort, the veins in his forearm bulging. You shift on your feet.
“I don’t…” you begin.
“Smells good.” He says as his eyes follow his hands. “But I don’t like eating alone.”
You hesitate. He can’t mean…
“You didn’t eat already?” He glances up at you. His icy eyes send a chill through you. You inhale your nerves.
“No, I was… cooking.”
“Hm.” He hums and folds the cloth over the head of the bottle. “Come on.”
He heads for the trailer. You follow him a few paces back. It’s the heat of the pan making you sweat, that’s all.
He puts the bottle and cloth on the bench next to the steps then hops up to open the door. He waits for you to go through first. He follows and the door snaps shut on his back.
“I’ll get some plates.” He offers.
He sidles past you, brushing close. His trailer is much more spacious than your own. It’s not that… cramped.
You go to the table and set down the pan. The faucet sprays as he washes his hands. The smell of the lemon soap tinges the air.
“Sit,” he insists as the tap twists off.
You wince but do as he says. A cupboard swings on its hinges and plates clink. You stare forward and twiddle your fingers as you wait. The trailer is nice but a bit barren. A sofa and no cushions, walls and no pictures. Yours isn’t much better but you only just got there.
He puts a plate in front of you and one across from you. He lays down a butterknife and fork by the plates then grips the spatula. You reach to pull back the tinfoil over the top of the pan.
“Thank you.” You say.
He looks at you.
“It’s kind of you to invite me in.”
“You brought dinner,” he says bluntly.
“And you fixed up my trailer. I think some boiled noodles isn’t very much.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he rebuffs.
He grabs the plate from in front of you and scoops a healthy square of the bake onto it. His silver rings catch the light. He sets the plate back down and takes his own. He doles out another generous helping.
He sits across from you and picks up his fork and knife. You peek up at him as you do the same. Your stomach growls loudly. You blanch as his eyes narrow.
“Dig in,” he says.
You look down and poke the tines into a cluster of noodle, cheese, and sausage. He does so more eagerly, gathering up a heaping forkful. You take a small cautious bite as he shoves it all in his. He hums.
You chew and swallow. He shovels in two more bites before he swallows. He pauses and covers his mouth with his fist.
“You need something to drink?”
“Oh, I… it’s not–”
“I got Coke? Water? Or… spinach juice.” He stands.
“Water’s fine. Thank you.”
He chuckles. “No one ever wants the spinach juice.”
He goes back to the kitchen. You wait, patiently pick away at the pasta. You could eat just as greedily as him with the way your stomach is roaring.
He returns and sets down a glass of water in front of you. He has a glass bottle of Coke for himself. He sits.
You sip as he scoops up more of the pasta.
“It’s good.” He says as he hovers the wad of cheese and noodle in front of his mouth. “Home cookin’. Always better.”
He gobbles down the bite and you poke two noodles and a bit of sausage. You eat, conscious of each mouthful. His plate is clear by the time you’re halfway through.
“Mind if I have seconds?” He asks.
“Made it for you,” you say.”
“Mm,” he reaches for the spatula. “So… you lived in a park before?”
You shake your head. “No. Um. Needed a change in scenery. Houses aren’t cheap.”
“Neither are these damn boxes,” he scoffs as he slops more pasta onto his plate. “Lucky you got that old beater.”
“It’s not bad. I’m… getting used to it.”
“Huh. It got one of those old spring beds? The one where the fold don’t really come out?” He snorts.
“It’s… a bed,” you say.
“Yeah, I guess it’s better than the floor.”
He takes another mouthful. You do the same but less. Your eyes cross as a string of cheese threads between your lips and the fork. You tug until it snaps.
The string flies off the tine and lands on his knuckle. You pauses and turns his hand, examining the mozzarella. You purse your lips and swallow.
“Sorry,” you eke out.
He brings his hand to his mouth and sucks the cheese off. He watches you as he does. There’s a gleam in his eyes that makes you nervous. He’s not smiling but something about the way his brows tweak makes it feel like he is.
“Delicious,” He licks his lips. “You can call us even.”
