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“Evening, Oscar.”
“Evenin’.”
Oscar just barely resists the urge to slump over the counter, feel the cool press of stone against his cheek. Instead, he reluctantly keeps himself upright, scrubbing his hand over his face to convince himself he feels fine. It’s not true, of course. He feels drained and tired and uncomfortably sober, but at least today he’d managed to hold off until after the sun had set. He would even allow himself a small glow of pride at that, but it’s just left him bothered and stressed and distracted.
So distracted, in fact, that it’s only after the bartender has turned his back that he clocks that the man in the next seat over is staring directly at him.
He clears his throat, scraping his composure together. “...Er- everything alright?”
The stranger’s eyes have found Oscar, and for a moment he is pinned in a place, like a butterfly on a board.
“Oscar, huh?”
Oscar pauses, holding off an answer as he takes stock of the man. He’s rail-thin, more folded than he is slouched against the counter, and makes all the angles of his frame look… sharp. The line of his jaw, the bend of his elbow, the way his fingers delicately crook around a silver lighter he’s toying with. There’s a shiny white scar beneath one of his eyes, another thick and jagged along his neck. He’s handsome, in a rugged, beaten-up sort of way, like if one of the men from the movie posters had just returned from the war. He is a complete stranger.
“...Aye– have we met?” he asks carefully. “I- I haven’t seen you ‘round before.”
The man watches him for… for an eerily long moment, and Oscar can’t help thinking there’s something strange about his eyes. They’re a warm shade of amber, unnaturally bright in the modest lighting of the bar. They’re unfocused and seem to rove almost restlessly, even as the man leans casually against the bar. Oscar resists the urge to shift uncomfortably in his seat.
“Well, that makes sense,” the man says, tucking the lighter into the pocket of his slacks. “I arrived in town just yesterday.”
“Right,” Oscar says. He’s about to frown, point out that he’s barely answered the question, when his drink arrives. And as he’s taking it, the stranger leans forward, holding up a slim, bony finger.
“Ah- I’ll pay. And another of what he’s having, please.” The bartender glances over at Oscar, who shrugs noncommittally. The stranger pays then clears his throat, turning back to Oscar with a relaxed kind of smile– that of someone who knows what they’re doing. Or at least thinks they do. He’s leaning comfortably against the bar, resting his chin in his hand.
“Sorry, who are you?” Oscar asks over the rim of his glass. He’s still hesitant, half wishing the man gives up and leaves so he can drown his sorrows in peace.
“Right, where are my manners? I’m Parker.”
It’s nice to have something to call the man, but it doesn't make the interaction too much less strange. Oscar only vaguely recognises the name, and is sure he’d know if he’d seen this… Parker’s face before.
“Is… is there something you need from me, Parker?”
“Do you know Marie? Pilon.”
He looks down into his drink. Not only does he not want to be thinking about Marie at the minute, there's a lot there he can’t talk about. He’s always hated having to weave his way through a conversation with something unsaid, a lie he has to keep attention away from. He’s not good at it.
He’s saved by Parker’s drink arriving, and he clears his throat to make a motion at it. Parker hesitates, before turning his head to look at it and sitting up straighter.
“Oh- thank you, I didn’t see.”
Parker nods to the bartender, shifts where he’s leaning his arm against the counter to not risk spilling it, and does not touch the glass.
“Go on,” he tells Oscar.
“Y-yes. I know her from church.”
This could be a plainclothes police officer, he realises. To keep himself from stammering and saying anything else, he picks up his drink again. Parker’s eyes follow as he sets down the empty glass, the alcohol buzzing on his lips as he mourns how quickly it went.
“Oh, yes. For you,” Parker says, as if reminded– and slides the drink he’d just ordered for himself over to Oscar.
He starts to reach for it, then hesitates. “Are you payin’ for all my drinks tonight?”
The man laughs amicably, crow’s feet crinkling around his eyes. “As many as you like, friend. Now, tell me more about Marie.”
“How… how do you know her? How do you know me? ”
“Ah- you’re right. I’ve left you in the dark, haven’t I? My apologies. I’m the tenant staying in her home at the minute. I only recognised your name because she’s mentioned you.”
Oscar blinks, and a comfort washes over him at the familiarity of the name– of course, Parker had been what she’d called out when he’d last visited. He… he isn’t lying. He really is just a tenant of Marie’s.
A part of him is still suspicious, careful of the kind of dangers they’re working with here. The rest, considerably more of him, says to drown it, listen to the familiar man with the nice laugh and unexplained generosity and make the most of some free drinks. It’s even made easier when the man shifts the topic of conversation, asks instead about the things Oscar likes.
So he stays.
As they talk, the night growing later, Parker will occasionally settle into silence, turning away to look over the bar and mumbling thoughtfully to himself. That, or he’ll be completely quiet, fingers dancing idly across the edge of the bar. It keeps happening, and to avoid sitting in silence Oscar’s two options are talking and drinking, and the more he does one the more he feels inclined towards the other.
Parker talks too– sparsely, and with frequent long, thoughtful pauses between phrases. Even so, Oscar learns a fair bit about him. He’s from Arkham, been travelling these past few months and New York is his last stop before heading back home. He learns that he’s actually a private investigator– information that sends a cold lance of terror through Oscar’s chest, but he’s quick to reassure that he’s not working on any cases to do with Oscar or Marie. He chuckles and pats the back of Oscar’s hand jokingly as he does so, and Oscar swears he can still feel the cool press of his fingers hours later.
“Oh, dear. It’s getting a little late,” Parker says as he nods to the bartender cleaning up, breaking another one of his long pauses.
“Yes, I should probably…”
“Right, yes, Oscar. I meant to offer–”
Oscar looks up.
“I’m staying at the Hotel Tudor. It’s fairly close by, if you wanted to join me and chat a bit longer. It’s quite alright if not, but I’m afraid to say you don’t look to be in much condition to walk home on your own.”
Something about that doesn’t sound right, but he can’t for the life of him remember what it is. He’s a PI, as well, and spending any more time drunk and loose-lipped around a detective is less than a good idea. But Parker sounds so terribly kind, and Oscar is so terribly foolish. It’s been a long time since he’s had somebody who truly wants to talk to him like this, who waits so patiently and frowns with such sincere understanding when he talks about himself.
Besides, Parker’s right. He has had a lot to drink, his head muzzy and vision swimming a bit at the edges.
“Aye, you’re… you’re too kind.”
Parker smiles. “It’s no problem at all.”
Parker fixes Oscar another drink when they get to the Hotel Tudor. He’s quite the gentleman about it, sits Oscar down on one of the armchairs in the hotel room, a much nicer place than where he usually sleeps at the parish. Despite his better judgement, Oscar accepts the drink. He might as well. He watches Parker’s expression carefully when he reaches for the glass, but the man doesn’t look to judge, or even pity him for it. He offers a reassuring smile that briefly makes Oscar feel a little like he’s falling. He swallows and tips it back, focusing instead of the familiar burn at the back of his throat.
Parker continues questioning him, though the subject has thankfully long drifted away from Marie and what resides in her home. He’s asking more banal, friendly things that Oscar can still answer this many drinks in— what the weather’s like other times of year, his favourite places to eat in the area, what movies he recommends.
It’s comfortable, having company like this. The hotel room is nice, Parker’s voice is low and comforting, whether he’s speaking directly to Oscar or mumbling to himself as he looks for things.
He… he just likes it. He feels happy and warm like this, in a way he often doesn’t let himself feel. Parker is someone who seems to expect absolutely nothing from him, isn’t silently judging all his actions as inadequate. Parker just wants to talk to him , and something about that makes his heart flutter contentedly in his chest.
“You’re an interesting man, Oscar,” Parker is saying a while later, rifling through a drawer. “You seem very intent on helping people.”
“S’true,” Oscar hums, swirling the rest of the drink in his glass.
He feels almost uncomfortably warm, suddenly jealous of Parker with his thin white button-up and light vest. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows as he gently closes the drawer, shifting to lean one-handed on the nightstand. “It’s quite admirable, I must say.”
“Thank… thank you,” Oscar says. His chest warms at the compliment, but there’s a look on Parker’s face that wasn’t there before. He’s struggling to decipher it.
“But you know, forgive me if I– I just can’t shake the feeling that you… want something from me.”
Oh. Oscar clutches his glass a little bit tighter, convincing himself the slickness on his palms is just condensation on the drink.
“Why- Why’s that?” he replies, not a little breathless.
Parker gives a short chuckle, tapping his nails thoughtfully against the wood. “Well, I can’t think of another reason you would agree so easily to locking yourself in a room with a private investigator. You were terribly cagey when I first spoke to you, Oscar, but you willingly follow me here? Surely you aren’t drunk enough for that.”
Oscar carefully sets his glass down on the end table next to the armchair, ignoring how his fingers visibly tremble. There’s something heavy settling in his gut, the returning dread from the beginning of the night.
“It’s- it’s as you said, detective,” he says. “I… I didn’t want to go home alone, with this many drinks in me.”
Parker laughs again, reaching up to thread two fingers through the knot of his tie. He loosens it casually, leaving the strip of black fabric draped over his chest. “It’s just a question, Oscar. We can be friendly about this.”
Oscar slowly gets to his feet. His vision ebbs and he sways where he stands from the drinks, but he manages a few steps over in Parker’s direction. He has to hold the back of the armchair to guide himself.
“I’ve been very open with you tonight, much more than I’m used to in a job like this,” Parker admits, neatly moving to unbutton his vest. He does it with one hand, but the movement is still smooth and practised. Effortless. “And I appreciate that which you’ve already told me, but if this is going to work I’m going to need a little bit more honesty from you.”
“S’true, everything I’ve told you-”
Parker clicks his tongue disapprovingly, running a hand through his hair. “Ah, but that’s not what I’m asking, is it?”
“Then… then what…?”
“Oscar,” Parker says, voice low. And all of a sudden Oscar is standing in the dim light of a nice hotel room while a gorgeous man with slightly mussed hair and scars decorating his face looks him dead in the eyes and asks him–
“What is it you want?”
How it aches.
“I…”
He takes a step closer and Parker instinctively stiffens, and Oscar can’t get enough air into his lungs because of course he is the sort of man who is so used to fighting that his muscles tense whenever somebody is close to him. His vision is smeared and the lamplight behind Parker has blurred into a gentle amber haze, glowing behind his head like a halo.
He has to back down. He has to. He’s going to back down and get out of this hotel room because there is no other possible outcome. He…
He takes another step forward. Parker doesn’t flinch this time.
“Look, I…”
Before he knows what he’s doing he sets a hand on Parker’s arm, and his eyes snap to it sharply. There’s something wrong with one of his fingers, an irregularity that he didn’t notice at the pub. He doesn’t care. He feels like something’s constricting around his heart, and it draws a little tighter at that.
“Oscar,” Parker says quietly, a thread of caution in his voice.
“Parker,” Oscar echoes, and his voice trembles helplessly at the edges. He lifts his other hand and sets it against the side of Parker’s face.
His skin is warm. At the contact Parker draws in a short, surprised little breath like he hadn’t seen it coming, but he doesn’t pull away or push Oscar back. His eyes are wide, and fixed very intently on Oscar’s face. Parker, caught again in one of his odd, delicate pauses, is silent– and he is so, so beautiful.
Oscar kisses him.
Regret instantly stings in his chest, but fades upon realising that it is already far too late. He cannot go back now. He is still in danger and he is still terrified, but it’s been so long since he made the mistake of kissing someone and it– it’s wonderful.
Beneath Oscar’s palm is a thin, rough sliver of stubble Parker must’ve missed while shaving, and the skin on the ridge of his cheekbone is textured with scar tissue, but his lips are soft. It’s warm and close and even in his impulse Oscar is careful, as gentle as he dares to be.
There is a moment after he breaks away when it still isn’t real, and he allows himself a moment to study Parker’s face, his eyes shining gold in the low light. His lips are parted and expression is soft and open with surprise, a stark contrast from his casual, collected presence. Oscar can see his chest rising and falling slowly. Briefly, he can almost convince himself that this is okay, this too-long moment a porthole into something far too beautiful and terrible for Oscar to ever know. He wants to keep it in a locket, hold it close to his chest beneath his robes and his rosary, let it warm against his heart where nobody but him knows it’s there–
Then reality crashes into him like a train, and it’s over. Everything’s real and he knows exactly what he’s done, his brief moment of serenity shattered in his grasp. He gasps so sharply his lungs feel like ice, stumbling back like he’s been punched.
“Oh- oh, no,” he breathes, voice shaking. “No, no.”
Parker hasn’t moved, eyes following Oscar. He’s clutching his right wrist tightly.
“I- I don’t understand,” he says.
Oscar feels nauseous, the alcohol doing very little to help. “I’m sorry,” he chokes. “I’m sorry, God forgive me, I- I–”
He smothers a hand over his mouth and slumps back against the wall, forcing back the rise of bile in his throat. He wants to panic, move away and do something to fix what he’s just done, but he can’t. The room is spinning and every small shift is making him feel like he’s about to vomit, but he knows that closing his eyes won’t help at all. He breathes too-quickly through his nose, watching Parker with mortification. This is- this is probably exactly what he wanted.
Parker is standing in the same place, head lowered and locked into another one of his- his strange pauses. Oscar doesn’t interrupt as he inhales, muttering something to himself that sounds like, “I know that. Where…”
His eyes lift to stare directly at Oscar, and there is a long, agonising moment of silence. He’s lightheaded with panic, reaching behind him with his free hand to press his sweat-slick palm to the wall.
“Oscar. Calm down.”
Oscar draws in a shaking breath, a thin, terrified sound slipping from the back of his throat. Parker is a detective. He’s digging for information and Oscar has just fallen hook, line and sinker for a glaringly obvious trap. Whether or not it was the information Parker was expecting Oscar has cracked himself open and something terrible has spilled out, and now there is no way to return from this. A small, broken part of him desperately hopes that all Parker will feel is brief shock, then be glad for some very powerful leverage over Oscar. Perhaps he will forgo hatred and disgust for the sake of getting the information he needs. Parker would not be wrong to be disgusted, of course, but he– he hopes.
“Detective Parker, I– I will tell you whatever you need, just- please don’t tell anybody–”
Parker turns his head to the side, toward the door, and his hand lifts to touch his fingers to his lips. His face is doing something strange, thumb tracing his bottom lip in something that could be repulsion, amusement, curiosity, reverence– in order of most to least plausible. It only makes Oscar feel worse– as if he needs to be reminded of the unsalvageable mess he’s made.
His legs feel weak, so he sinks to sit on the floor, holding his knee close to his chest protectively. The position presses up against his lungs, breaths coming harsher and too-fast. “I’m, I’m a priest, I’ll be ruined, I beg of you–”
Parker lowers his hand, turns back to Oscar. “Let’s do it this way, alright?”
Oscar nearly chokes on his relief at the idea of an offer, something he can give in exchange. “I’ll tell you anything,” he pleads.
Parker draws closer, voice low and deadly serious. “Tell me everything you know about Scratch.”
“Wh- what?” The name strikes a shrill chord in his mind. He shouldn’t know that.
“Oscar.”
Parker has moved to stand over him, one thumb hooked on his belt loop. His head is tilted as he stares down with those strange, unfocused eyes, the lamplight gleaming like the sun behind his head. Oscar’s heart is beating so hard that it hurts.
“Of, of course–” he gasps, swallowing. He scrubs his hand over his face, and tells Parker everything he knows.
When Parker finally stops asking questions, he’s settled to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of Oscar, one hand resting on his opposite forearm. Between the half-hour they’ve been sitting there and the glass of water Parker had fetched him when he started feeling sick again, Oscar is feeling marginally more sober. It’s less of a good thing than he was hoping for. At least the warm haze of alcohol had given him a shred of hope that this was just another nightmare– that he would wake in a few hours soaked in sweat and shaking with guilt, but he could confess and move on. Now he just feels cold, exposed and horrified with himself. It’s so real .
“Detective Parker?” he asks, mouth dry.
Parker looks up. “Hm.”
“Please- please don’t tell anybody,” he pleads. “About that, or the drinking, it’ll ruin me and this- this work, it’s- s’all I have.”
Parker presses his lips together, turning his head to the side. Oscar doesn’t dare interrupt him, having grown used to the odd breaks in conversation. Parker even, at one point, held up his finger to silence Oscar while he was thinking, a frown carved deep on his lips. The hotel room is hauntingly silent, until finally Parker nods to himself.
“My thoughts exactly,” he says quietly.
“S- so you won’t–?”
Parker looks back at him directly. “I have what I need from you, alright? Ultimately, my intention is to help Marie and her sister, and I seek to harm only monsters. And Oscar?”
He swallows. “Yes?”
Parker leans forward, reaching out to set his fingers on Oscar’s. “You are not a monster.”
It is a moment before Oscar can make himself reply. It feels like something’s lodged in the back of his throat, and he fights for a short, shallow breath of air. He nods sharply, clearing his throat.
“Th- thank you, Detective.”
“Thank you for your help. You’re welcome to stay here overnight, as I need to speak with Marie. If all goes well, we won’t speak to each other again.” Parker says plainly, all cool professionalism once more. He winces slightly when he gets to his feet, knees cracking. “You ought to get some sleep, friend. I doubt you’ll feel very well in the morning.”
“Heavens,” Oscar mutters, sinking back against the wall. He already feels terrible, sick and overwhelmed and voice aching from apologising over and over.
“My apologies for that,” Parker says, slipping one hand back into the pocket of his slacks. “Farewell, Oscar.”
He turns for the door of the hotel room without another word, sighing and whispering incoherently to himself. Oscar doesn’t catch a word of it, but just before he passes out he swears he sees the man reach up to touch his lip once more.