Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/308187.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Dragon_Age
  Relationship:
      Malcolm_Hawke/Carver_Hawke, Malcolm_Hawke/Garrett_Hawke, Garrett_Hawke/
      Anders
  Additional Tags:
      Incest, Modern_AU
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-12-30 Words: 1557
****** The Disaster That Wasn't ******
by gingersnapdragon
Summary
     Modern AU: Carver's birthdays always ended in some form of disaster.
Carver’s birthdays always ended in some sort of disaster.
Sometimes they were small disasters, like not being able to blow out all the
candles on his side of the cake he shared with Bethany, and Garrett saying,
“Hope you didn’t wish for anything important!” in front of the girl Carver
liked. He couldn’t even remember her name now, just the way she’d looked
giggling at him behind her hand, the plastic crown of her Princess Peach
costume slipping down crookedly over her hair.
There were the bigger disasters, like the year Garrett had missed the piñata
and hit Carver instead, all his blindfolded twelve-year-old strength bringing
the stick down against Carver’s arm. When he first heard the loud crack, he’d
thought the stick had broken -- until the pain blossomed, slowly at first, then
spreading up his entire arm and into his brain until it was all he knew. He’d
worn a cast for what had felt like half his life.
There were also the after-the-fact disasters, like how the puppy they’d gotten
Carver the year after Mother and Bethany died liked Garrett better, or how his
first iPod now had more of Garrett’s songs on it than his and stayed in
Garrett’s book bag most of the time. And now Carver was wondering if he might
have to add a different kind of disaster to the list: the false alarm.
Carver had been annoyed when Garrett hadn’t shown up at the restaurant in time
for birthday dinner reservations, sick with panic and resentment when Malcolm
insisted they take the table anyway, belly tight with worry that unknotted into
anger when Malcolm got a text twelve minutes after their reservation time that
just said WITH ANDERS DON’T WAIT FOR ME.
Carver tried not to scowl, tried not to make Malcolm feel guilty, but then he
didn’t like the appetizer, and the spices on his steak were unfamiliar, and it
bled a little when he cut into it. He didn’t want to send it back, didn’t want
to ask for it to be cooked more because he was afraid of looking like a child,
but his stomach turned a little when he bit into it and the center was cool and
tasted like copper.
As much as he tried to hide it, something must have shown on his face. Malcolm
wasn’t even halfway done with his cedar plank salmon -- whatever that meant -
- when he asked the waiter for their check.
“What…?” Carver looked down at his plate, at the food that would have been gone
if it had been something he liked, and wanted to apologize but couldn’t force
the words past the guilt in his throat.
“I think I’m ready for dessert, and they don’t have anything here I’m in the
mood for.” Malcolm winked, and the tightness in Carver’s throat suddenly felt
less like guilt and more like…want. Carver wasn’t an expert at flirting, not
like Garrett was, but that sounded like a line. A come-on. A hint.
Which was why he was confused when Malcolm pulled up in front of a 24-hour
diner, a real dive place with flickering neon lights, housed in a silver-sided
repurposed Airstream camper. Malcolm stopped the car and turned it off, then
smirked over at Carver.
“Best fries and shakes in town,” he said. “But we’d better dress down a
little.” He gestured to Carver’s tie, then reached for his own. Carver
struggled with the knot, frowning when his clumsy fingers tugged it tighter
instead of looser, then froze at the sound of Malcolm’s tie slithering through
the collar when he pulled it off. Nimble fingers unbuttoned the top three
buttons, just enough to see the dip in the base of his throat and the barest
hint of salt-and-pepper chest hair. Carver swallowed, feeling his tie like a
noose around his throat, and then those nimble fingers reached for him.
“Need help, son?”
He let go and let Malcolm untangle the silk-polyester blend, heat rushing up to
his face when Malcolm’s blunt, strong fingers brushed under his chin.
“There,” Malcolm said, popping open the buttons on Carver’s collar and leaning
in just a little, just enough that Carver could feel warm breath stirring
against his hair. “Now you’re ready.”
And that was how he’d come to be sitting on a torn, red vinyl seat, drinking a
vanilla shake -- so plain, Garrett’s voice mocked him, so boring -- and dipping
french fries in ketchup. They were the perfect combination of grease and salt,
crispy and tender, and the look in Malcolm’s eyes across the chrome table amped
the flavor into something even better.
It turned the whole thing into more than a dirt-cheap diner on the edge of town
after a disappointing birthday meal that his brother couldn’t be bothered to
attend.
Malcolm swiped a fry through his chocolate shake and popped it in his mouth,
smirking at him over his plastic straw, and Carver watched, curious. It wasn’t
a flavor that should be good, but his father liked it, and he wanted to see,
wanted to know if he would like it too. But he couldn’t do it. It felt too much
like not knowing what he wanted, like not having any opinions of his own. It
felt like doing something only because his father had, and even though that
also felt true, he didn’t want to show it. Didn’t want Malcolm to think that
anything he did tonight wasn’t of his own ambition. His own desire.
“Thank you,” Carver said finally, and it felt like the first thing he’d said in
hours. Too many words in his mind that couldn’t be forced out of his mouth. Too
many feelings he didn’t know how to name.
The lines around Malcolm’s eyes deepened and the ones around his mouth went
soft. “You’re welcome, Carver,” he said, and the sincerity in his voice made
Carver hard under the table. “You’re always welcome.”
Unlike the steak and the salmon, they finished their milkshakes and fries,
barely leaving any traces behind. And when they climbed into the car, closing
the doors behind them, Malcolm put the keys in the ignition but didn’t start
the engine, and Carver felt his heart skip when the diner’s neon sign
flickered, casting searching pink fingers over Malcolm’s face.
Carver tightened his hands in his lap, hoping for the words that would let him
say Hey Dad, could I ask you for one more thing for my birthday?
It was something Garrett would say, something Carver couldn’t imagine coming
out of his own mouth. He got as far as, “Hey, Dad?” before his throat closed
up.
“Yes, Carver?” There was amusement in Malcolm’s voice, but something else there
too. Something lower, hotter, more secret. That something else that gave Carver
what he needed to turn and lean over the console between them to brush a soft,
searching kiss over the corner of Malcolm’s mouth.
Malcolm’s soft intake of breath was all too audible in the silent car, none of
the noises from outside making it in through the insulation and the soft
leather seats. Carver hesitated, but he didn’t pull back, and finally Malcolm
turned his head just a little, just enough that his lips met Carver’s fully. It
wasn’t even really a kiss, no pressure applied, nothing but softly touching
mouths and the breath they shared between them. But when Carver licked his
lips, a nervous gesture, his tongue brushed over Malcolm’s and they shared a
groan.
Something broke, something they’d kept between them, a barrier -- and Malcolm
reached over its remains to wrap a firm hand around Carver’s neck, hooked the
other hand under Carver’s knee to pull his leg across Malcolm’s lap. Carver
couldn’t relax into the kiss, too busy trying to remember how to tilt his head,
how to breathe through his nose, how to suck his father’s tongue into his mouth
and fill himself up. He didn’t know where to put his hands, but one of them
landed on Malcolm’s lap and found a familiar hardness behind the zipper of his
dress pants, heat pressing up into the palm of his hand. When he pulled down
the tab and slipped his hand inside, fingers curving through gaps in the
underwear, Malcolm jerked but didn’t push him away.
Carver pulled back from the kiss, though, dazed and a little insecure, and it
wasn’t until he saw Malcolm’s smile that he relaxed.
“Baby boy,” Malcolm said, voice rough in all the right places, and it made
Carver want to take Malcolm’s hand and put it over his own hardness straining
at his skin, at his clothes. He sucked in a deep breath, leaning in for another
kiss so he wouldn’t have to see the shadows of doubt that sometimes invaded
Malcolm’s expression at times like these, but before he could kiss the smile on
his father’s face, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket.
“Answer it,” Malcolm suggested, looking wicked in the neon flicker, and Carver
only hesitated a moment before doing so.
The readout displayed Garrett’s name, and the text message said HAPPY BIRTHDAY
BABY BROTHER. PS YOU’RE WELCOME.
Carver turned the phone so Malcolm could see it, and his laugh reverberated all
the way down Carver’s spine before the phone hit the floorboard with a thud and
Carver went back to unwrapping his birthday present.
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