Let Up The Suicide Doors [Oliver]

[Damien Gregory Hawkins]

Even before he opened his eyes, Damien knew something wasn't right. There was a crick in his neck from sleeping with his head on an armrest, but that was not nearly the worst of the pain. My head. Where the fuck am I? The couch felt distinctly unfamiliar. Groaning, he chanced opening his eyes, but when blinding light sent spears through his head he quickly shut them again. Great. He had a hangover. And he wasn't home. Still keeping his eyes closed, Ian sat up. The motion, although not sudden by any means, sent his stomach rolling. Oh, it was a bad hangover. Great. His throat was unbelievably dry, but getting up for something to quench his thirst would probably leave him doubled over with nausea. Resting elbows on knees and head in hands, Ian stared at the ground between his feet. He opened his eyes millimeters at a time, grateful that looking at the floor, at least, was not sending pain shooting through his head.

For a moment he was preoccupied by one thought. Where are my shoes? For some reason, the man found the absence of his shoes greatly alarming. Socks, too. He had all of his other clothes though, so there was a plus. Not in the mood to feel positive, Ian struggled to remember what he'd been doing last night.

It had started off normally enough. A long conversation with some family that could pretty much be summarized with: "Don't tell me how to live my life!" A trip to a bar. A slight buzz that carried all harsh feelings away. Several shots of various liquors. God, the vodka. So much vodka. After that, a cab ride home. Except it wasn't, obviously. Had he broken in to someone's apartment? He knew for a fact that he didn't go home with anyone. Well, almost sure. Shit.

Ian racked his brain for more details, but before long the incessant pounding in his head drove him away. He returned to staring at his feet and wondering where his shoes were. He would have to look up and figure out where he was eventually. The bright light that he knew awaited him kept him at bay, though. Judging by the intensity and detracting his increased sensitivity, he judged it to be late morning. At least he didn't have to work today. "I don't sleep with coworkers." Wait, what? "Oh, and I'm not gay." Yeah, he had said those things. Eventually some more colorful things, too.

And that's when it occurred to poor Mr. Hawkins exactly where he was. He had not staggered in to someone's place and passed out on the couch. He had been fully awake, albeit extremely drunk. And he hadn't one the intelligent thing and retired for the night. No, Drunk Ian could not keep his fucking mouth shut, could he? What stimulating conversation he must had been. The fact that details of that conversation were missing did not put his worries to rest in the slightest.

He had no idea how long he'd been sitting with his head in his hands. Finally, he said hoarsely, "I'm never drinking again." Running his hands through his hair, effectively smoothing the stray brown locks back into place, Ian lifted his head and looked around.

[Oliver Ken Toulson]

To say last night had been interesting would be an understatement. No, the understatement. One of the biggest understatements of his life, actually. Fortunately for him, the anatomy professor hadn't voiced the statement. He was currently rummaging around in the kitchen, not caring if he woke his odd guest. Oliver wasn't the best cook, so the scrambled eggs and bacon he managed to come up with looked like a child had made them. He was now nursing a few burns on his fingers, too. Why did he even have a stove? He could have gotten rid of it a long time ago; maybe saved some money on the various times he had broken it. But of course, he didn't think that his employers would be very happy about that. After all, whoever had assigned him this apartment was probably going to assign it to someone else if he ever got fired. Someone else that would need a stove, right? And seeing as it was a real possibility that he would get fired soon, removing the offending device was a bad idea. The mongoose sighed, pouring a glass of orange juice and grabbing it in one hand, the plate of badly made breakfast on the other. Sloppily scrambled eggs, slightly burnt bacon, and really burnt toast. Okay, so Oliver would never be on a cooking show, that much was obvious as he walked into the living room, expecting to see his guest still sleeping.

”Oi, you're awake?” he asked, setting the food down on the little coffee table in front of the couch. ”You were so drunk... I expected you to sleep longer.” He narrowed his eyes jokingly at the other man, bringing his finger up to his tongue. Damn, it still hurt. That stove was just a dastardly fiend, the sworn enemy of the poor chef. The mongoose himself had a pretty high tolerance for alcohol, and though his thought process was still a little fuzzy, he wasn't really that affected from his little night out. Of course, he hadn't drank anywhere near as much as Damien had. Hawkins had been drinking to drown whatever sorrows he had been carrying, that much was obvious to the man that loved manipulating others oh so much. But of course, he hadn't pried into the man's life last night. He had attempted to pry into the man himself, sure, but that hadn't worked too well. He sniffed slightly, wandering back into the kitchen to retrieve his own breakfast. He studied the man's face for a moment, a worried expression crossing his face as he saw how green Damien was turning. It wasn't concern for the man himself, but rather concern for his couch. He had just cleaned it, for fuck's sake. ”If you need to throw up, the bathroom's down the hall,” he said, jerking his thumb towards the dark square in the wall, then sitting himself down next to Damien and taking a bite of the eggs that he had just cooked. Okay, yeah, they were nasty, but at least they were food. He watched Damien curiously, wondering if he would eat the ones in front of him or not. After Oliver had gone to the trouble of cooking them, too.

He stretched, then reached over and tucked a strand of hair that Damien had missed behind his ear. The man really was quite attractive, if not a little old. Maybe thirty-three or something? It was no surprise that the tipsy flirt had gone a little farther than he had intended to do last night, earning him some verbal abuse and a few shoves. Oliver just didn't seem to know when to stop, though this morning he was going for the innocent look. He could always pass off last night as 'drunken antics', though if Damien had been paying any attention to him during work, he would know that it wasn't true. Oliver could pass as innocent if he was around strangers, but anyone that had known him for more than a month would know that he was manipulative and flirty. Not innocent in the least bit, though he could sometimes appear that way around... er... certain people. He patted the man's cheek, trying to seem comforting. Though, just in case, he stood up and moved to the chair beside the couch. Damien had gotten slightly violent last night, and Oliver hadn't liked it one bit. He hadn't even had the chance to get in the man's pants to make up for it!

[Damien Gregory Hawkins]

Well, he had been expecting to see Oliver. This was his apartment, after all. But... the food was not so expected. Even with his hazy memory of the previous night he was sure that the other man would be less than pleased to see him. Just the fact that he wasn't rudely awoken and shoved out the door was odd. But then, Oliver was not your typical guy. Ian had done everything in his power to avoid him at work, and never saw him outside of the campus if he could help it. Sure, they lived in the same apartment complex, but Ian had avoiding the guy down to a science. Damien, being the conflict-avoider that he was, hadn't gotten around to confronting the guy and telling him to back off. Perhaps he should have done that in the very beginning... Hindsight is 20/20 though.

Wait, he was talking. Better pay attention. Straining against the fogginess in his mind, Ian just caught the end of what Oliver said. What time was it, exactly? He stared blankly at the food that was placed in front of him. Everything looked... extra crispy. With the exception of the eggs. They looked very... egg-like. Staring at the food did not help with his nausea, but when his mind registered the glass of orange juice he reached out and snatched up his tried and tested miracle cure. A jug of this stuff and he'd be feeling fine. "Thank you," he said slowly as the other man exited the room, presumably to retrieve his own food. He was still feeling very awkward about this situation, but at the moment he could put that aside and focus on getting himself together a bit.

Damien really did feel like throwing up, but it never brought relief as it did for some people. Besides, his stomach was empty. Even though what had been offered wasn't exactly gourmet, Ian had been dealing with hangovers for nearly half of his life. Food helped. But honestly, how could you mess up toast? The extra crunchy bread froze halfway to his mouth when Oliver sat down on the couch beside him. Ian's entire body stiffened. He felt paralyzed for a second, stuck trying to think of some way to respond. Oliver seemed to be feeling extra-helpful today, though, because he managed to break Ian out of his indecision. The second he reached out and tucked a lock behind his ear, Damien sprang away. Well, jumped and scrambled was a better way to describe it.

He had the presence of mind to go to the side, not the front, and thus managed to avoid tripping over the coffee table. Taking a couple of extra lurching steps backward, Ian's expression turned into a glare. "Do not. Fucking. Touch me." His homophobia, compounded by the irritability that accompanied his hangover, left him with very little patience. The fast motion had some undesirable side-effects, though. Feeling himself go shaky, Ian doubled over, clutching his stomach. "Motherfucker." He stood very still, taking slow, even breaths. Before long he was back in control, and slumped onto the couch once more.

He noticed that Oliver had relocated, which suited him very well. He glanced at the guy as he took a bite of toast and forced it down. No doubt this guy knew his entire life story and how he felt about everybody. The thing with Drunk Ian, you didn't have to pry. He wasn't a private guy even while sober, so it just took a buzz to get him talking. He didn't attach any emotion to anything he said, so he shared freely.

He knew that he'd had hangovers just as bad as this one, even worse, but every time felt more like Hell than the last had. "Did you roofie me?" It was sort of a joke. It didn't sound like one, but it was. He was not taking the thought seriously, which made it a joke. The only thing he was focused on right now was not being thrown out. He didn't want to face the world and navigate o his own place. Not yet. Oh, and also, "Where the fuck are my shoes?"

[Oliver Ken Toulson]

When it seemed apparent that Damien wasn't going to hit him, Oliver moved back to the other couch, a little coo slipping out of his lips. Well, not the couch itself, but the armrest. His feet were resting where his ass would have gone if he had taken the trouble to sit normally. It was obvious to see that he was happy, which was probably an after-effect from last night. Though most people would expect someone like Oliver to become violent or slutty when he was drunk, he was actually quite calm. Happy as hell and laughing easily, but that was better than going around hitting people or having sex with strangers, right? Not like the second one didn't happen often enough... even sober Oliver had sex with strangers.

It wasn't like Oliver had always been so harsh and calculating. Once, he had been a good friend. He had been popular, smart, good-looking. Ah, the school days... Of course, when the days of experimenting came around, Oliver became a bit of a... er... he couldn't really think of the word. Didn't the kids these days call it a 'slut'? Maybe. He wasn't really sure. But he had spent a few nights with a lot of people, and had still managed to retain his popularity and multiple close friends. So he had been there for them when his fellow teenagers had gotten too involved in drinking parties, throwing up nothing but air the next morning while Oliver crouched next to them and tried to comfort them. Stroking faces and petting hair; it was an art that Oliver was skilled with. Back then, it had all been friendly touching, but he wanted to pet Damien that way too. Mixed with the desire to get into his pants, of course... which made it a little less friendly, or a little more. It depended on how you looked at it, and how you defined 'friendly'. Maybe it was a little too friendly that he wanted to screw his co-worker. Damien had made it very clear that he didn't sleep with people he worked with, but Oliver hadn't listened. Since when had he listened to anything he didn't like? He had only left the man alone for the night because he was bordering on becoming violent. Sure, Oliver didn't mind violence, but it was always him dealing it out. Oliver did mind getting hurt.

Watching Damien try not to throw up, he sighed and slid off the armrest, crouching on the couch next to the taller man and wrapping his arm around his shoulders, using his other hand to brush some hair away from his face. He knew that there was a potential for violence lurking in Damien, but he guessed that he would just throw up if he tried anything. Hangovers were the worst, especially bad ones like the one that Damien was experiencing. Oliver kind of felt sorry for him, even though he knew that stroking his face like he was currently doing wasn’t going to help much. It was a kind of reflex, no more. Oliver liked touching people, whether they liked it or not. ”You know, motherfucker is a bad word,” he purred in Damien’s ear, a smile playing on the edges of his lips. He wasn’t going to let go unless Damien hurt him. ”I don’t even let my dear students say it. So you shouldn’t call me something so bad.” His eyes were bright with sincerity, though knowing Oliver, it was all fake. The yelling and swearing didn’t bother him, not one bit. It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard it all before. He was tempted to lick Damien’s jaw or something, but he didn’t. It was too animal of him to do in simple cuddling. He supposed that his need to touch everyone stemmed from his mongoose side. Apparently, the dominant male of a group of mongooses marked each and every member of the group each and every day. The people he touched should be glad that he wasn’t peeing on them. ”Anyway…” he breathed, resting his head against Damien’s. ”I prefer men. So motherfucker isn’t even that accurate.”

[Damien Gregory Hawkins]

In all honesty, Damien was ready to clock Oliver in the jaw. He tensed again when the man returned to the couch, but what could he do? It wasn't his couch. He couldn't claim it and shove the younger man off. Still.... tempting, tempting. He plowed methodically through his breakfast, trying his best to ignore the hovering presence beside him. He couldn't ignore it when Oliver laid a hand across his shoulders and touched his face. Again.

Damien did not need to be in control of every situation, but he needed to be in control of his own space. In his classes, his space extended across the entire flying field. Otherwise, it was just his personal space. Right now, Oliver wasn't playing fair. Normal circumstances, Ian wold have the upper physically. He was sure of that. He would flip his lid and let Oli go to work with a black eye the following Monday. However, in his current state, he was slower, weaker, and sudden movement made him want to hurl. And he didn't want to end up hungover and beat up. An underrated quality of Ian's was his ability to adapt. He pegged himself as a survivor. He did what he had to to get through life with his happiness, sanity and pride intact. And right now, his pride was being damaged. His happiness was out the window. And his sanity.... being pushed.

Ian set down his fork and pushed away his plate. He reached up and very deliberately grabbed one of Oliver's outstretched wrist in one hand, then turned his body so that he could shrug off the other arm and get a hold of that wrist as well. Still moving slowly, he pushed the other man's hands away and released them. "Lucky for you, I'm not one of your students." He had actually been referring to the entire situation when he had said it, cursing his debilitated state.

"Man, back the fuck off." The guy was like a leech, honestly! Putting a hand on Oliver's chest, Ian pushed him back firmly. Clenched jaw, clenched fists, all the signs were there. If he didn't take the hint, Damien would hit him. And then probably hurl all over his stuff. Poetic justice is what it would be.

[Oliver Ken Toulson]

If Damien hadn't had such a bad hangover, Oliver was sure that he would probably be bleeding by now. Yes, the older man would definitely have the upper hand when it came to psychical things, but it wasn't like Oliver would mind going to work with a black eye. It would make his bratty students giggle like crazy, sure, but just the other day he had been sitting on his desk with a burn hole in his pants. There couldn't be much worse than that, right? He stared at Damien innocently as he started removing his grip on him. He wasn't touching any places that would make it awkward, so Oliver didn't think that Damien should be getting so tense. Sure, he was the reason for it just fine, but he didn't really think that it was a good reason. He normally would have smirked and just tried to make the older man even more uncomfortable, but he was acting less... normal. It could also be said in another way. That today, he actually cared about other people's opinions. Probably just an aftermath of the drinking, just like the happiness.

He purred as the taller man put a hand to his chest. If Oliver couldn't have a night with someone, he at least wanted psychical contact. It was like an addiction or something. He grabbed the other man's hand, wrapping his fingers between his. Hand holding would do, even if it made Damien freak out more. ”You're too smart to be one of my students; they're all idiots. Hand-picked idiots, but idiots all the same,” he said, pretty much ignoring the demand to 'back the fuck off'. Why should he? It was his house, if Damien didn't like it, he could leave. Sure, it might have been sexual harassment... just maybe, but it was on his territory, so rules were just... non-existent. Personal space didn't exist either, in his little apartment. ”Also, your shoes are in front of the door. You were tracking mud everywhere last night, and your socks were wet. I took them off while you were sleeping.” It wasn't like he'd completely ignored the little habits of the headmaster all those years ago. Even though Oliver had obviously been the dominant one in that relationship, the snake had still gotten fussy whenever he wore his shoes in the house. After a while of that, anybody would have the habit rub off on them. So Damien's shoes were sitting by the door, still covered in mud. How the mud had gotten there, Oliver had no idea. Maybe it had been raining last night; he wouldn't have noticed.

He looked over at the empty glass, letting go of Damien's hand and standing up. ”Do you want some more orange juice?” he cooed, not mentioning the rest of the breakfast. Who could mess orange juice up? Even after squeezing it out of some actual oranges (and making a mess in the process), Oliver had managed to make some decent orange juice. He just couldn't stand store-bought things, seriously. So most of the food he made was horrible, but at least it was edible, right?

[Damien Gregory Hawkins]

Damien was a little surprised when Oliver clasped his outstretched hand. Why the man's behavior was still surprising him was beyond Damien. He was adapting, though. Ian always followed through on threats, even the wordless ones communicated solely through body language. Clenching his free hand into a fist, Ian jerked the entrapped hand out of Oliver's grasp, simultaneously aiming a punch at the other man's face. Due to his awkward position and need to twist his body it was not the strongest of punches, by far. Not enough to break a nose or split any knuckles, anyway. Ian stood up again, glaring down at Oliver.

Ian did not like to get close to people, in any sense of the word. His circle of friends was limited to Duke, and even that relationship had taken ages before Ian assigned much feeling toward it. He love his family in some vague way, but he did not like the majority of them. Actually, out of all of them, he probably only liked his niece. And she was nine, still uncorrupted. All of this disdain for human contact and relationships was reflected on his face now as he stared down at Oliver.

The nausea came, as he knew it would, but Ian didn't succumb to it. Instead he let it come, let it wash over him, felt the blood drain from his face, but did not shift. Despite it all, Ian felt good. He was back on solid ground, feeling like himself again. Besides, after a morning as shitty as his had been, it could only get better from here. He felt a flicker of guilt when Oli stood and simply offered to get more juice. "That's an odd way to kick someone out." His voice was edged with caution; Ian had been fully expecting a counter-attack. He had accepted whatever consequences would come with the punch when he'd made the decision to act. This was not a foreseen consequence.

Brows knitting together with confusion, Ian had to accept that he was beginning to feel a grudging respect for Oliver. He obviously had his own motives for everything, but thus far his behavior had been incredibly hospitable. The guilt flickered up again, but cold Hawkins pride fought it back down. Stooping to stack up the plates, still covered with the abandoned breakfast, Ian followed Oliver into the kitchen.

[Oliver Ken Toulson]

Though Oliver had stood silent through worse, the punch still surprised him. Maybe because it was physical violence instead of, well... getting burned. Or maybe his face had just been relatively unhurt before this. Whatever it was, the punch (no matter how weak it had been) made him flinch and hold a hand up to cover his face as he recovered. Both his controlled expression and his nerve endings needed a little while before he could look at the older man again, blinking in surprise. Yeah, okay, he had learned his lesson... for now, at least. Note to self; no trying to get into someone's pants if thy were five inches taller than you and angry. Rubbing his face and wincing slightly, he stood up, choosing to ignore the man for a moment. He could have punched the man back, but oddly enough, he wasn't in a violent mood. He was still happy, though a bit of that little feeling had faded away when his face had been assaulted by Damien's fist. But hey, at least it hadn't left a bruise... yet. Even if a bruise appeared later, the dark marking was better than having his arm smell like a bonfire for a week.

The mongoose was very tempted to pin the man to the counter as he entered the kitchen. Yes, he had his motives for everything. The motive for making more orange juice was that he needed some time away from Damien, so he could control the urge to push him to the floor. The man following him like a lost puppy really wasn't helping. He took a deep breath, trying to calm down and not slice his finger off as he cut open another orange. He didn't think that Damien would be able to drive him to the hospital if his finger went missing, and he didn't really want to bleed to death in from of his guest, though that might take his mind off the intense desire to get in his pants. ”I wouldn't kick you out,” he said, gritting his teeth. ”You probably couldn't find your way back home. And that would be pathetic.” He hadn't meant for it to come out in such a rude fashion, but he had said it, and he had meant it. Well, sort of. He hadn't meant it to be so mean, but he had still meant it. Anyway, he didn't want to get in trouble for letting Damien wander around on his own. People with hangovers were like kids, in Oliver's mind. They got into trouble easily.

Oliver swallowed, the glass of orange juice now done, and he without his time to calm down. He opened his dishwasher with his foot, silently showing Damien where to put the dishes that he was holding in his hands. He was starting to realize that he was quite lonely, actually. He didn't have any friends, and his family was all back in London... Maybe that was why he was so reluctant to kick out his odd little houseguest.

[Damien Gregory Hawkins]

Damien checked out the kitchen as he entered, casting a quick glance at Oliver to make sure the man stayed the hell away from him. He lifted an eyebrow at the comment, noting the bite in the words. Really? That was the worst he was going to get? Damien was surprised people didn't punch Oliver all the time. Of course, this thought caused the logical side of his brain to start buzzing. Oli couldn't possibly react like that every time, and he had the strength of his personality to deter most people. Just not hungover, homophobic people who liked their personal space. Ian wasn't sure how he felt about getting special treatment. Still, the thought of lurching around outside, fumbling for keys, and stopping every few steps to keep from vomiting over the rail was repulsive enough that he just kept quiet.

After loading the plates and forks into the opened dishwasher, Damien stepped away from the counter and looked around. Oliver was done mangling fruit, so he turned to look at him. He couldn't say he felt guilty anymore, per se, but he still felt the need to repay Oliver for... something. Not leaving him on the street, not shoving him out the door, not being too much of a dick. With a few long strides he was by the fridge, looking down at the contents. There was plenty of food. "I don't mean to criticize your breakfast of champions, but would you mind if I made some hangover healing food?" He had turned to look at Oliver when a thought occurred to him. He wasn't acting hungover at all. Then again, he hadn't been paying attention to how much the man had been drinking. Too busy knocking back shots of liquor. And Damien knew he wasn't done drinking. The after-effects just kept the binges few and far between.

Deciding that he needed decent food regardless, he started unloading random groceries and supplies. It was obvious he knew his way around a kitchen. Side effect of being both raised on high quality food and living as a bachelor for his entire adult life. Only the strong survive. "Ironically enough, I aced home economics. And back when I still had spare money floating around I took a cooking class." He set about chopping assorted vegetables, letting the familiar activity do its work at dulling the pounding in his head and the aching in his neck. "Frying pan, full heat?" He phrased it as a question, in essence asking if Oliver was going to help him or not. Yes, he'd commandeered someone else kitchen, but in the end he'd present his "host" with a nice meal, so he saw it as a nice trade off.

[Oliver Ken Toulson]

Oliver's shock somehow managed to get past his emotional filter as Damien offered to make food. The professor knew that he wasn't being rude, yet at the same time he was a little offended. "Was it really that bad?" he asked, even though the taller man had just specified that it wasn't. It was just another way of saying 'no offense' right before you said something extremely offensive. This wasn't extremely offensive, but Oliver had lived on his cooking for five years; it wasn't like it was poisoness or anything. Oliver himself was still in top shape, wasn't he? "But I guess you can..." he muttered. "As long as you feed some to the dog." The dog, who just moments before had wandered into the kitchen looking for scraps. The same dog that only answered to one name; Sawyer, the name that Oliver absolutely refused to call him. So he was just 'the dog', and would remain that way.

There was no history behind the dog. It was a mutt, probably part collie and part something else. Oliver had adopted him off the streets of London, much to the displeasure of his... well, he didn't want to go into that. He had taken Sawyer with him to Florida, and now he lived with the mutt. It was really as simple as that. Sure, he had caused a few problems over the years, mainly consisting of jumping up on the bed in the middle of the night when Oliver was... er... busy. Not much more than that, though. Sawyer was almost a sentimental little reminder of London and the little family he had been in there, even if Oliver didn't particularly want reminders. Especially reminders that had to be bathed every other week and produced five pounds of shit a day. The mongoose wasn't the type to throw something like Sawyer out on to the street, though. So the mutt stayed... for now. He wondered absently if Damien liked dogs.

Pushing the fluffy lump out of the kitchen, Oliver got to cooking. Or, at least, heating up a frying pan. He doubted that Damien would let him anywhere near the food after experiencing what Oliver normally came up with. After a few moments of rummaging through the kitchen, Oliver realized why Damien had bothered to ask for his help. The frying pan was hidden deep in a corner, as were the rest of his cooking supplies. He hadn't known that he had enough corners to hide all of this stuff! He set the frying pan where it needed to go, tensing slightly as he got closer to Damien than he wanted to be. Well, consciously wanted to be. There was still that need to push him on to counter, though in the clearer part of his mind he knew that everything would burst into flames if Damien wasn't taking care of it. Oliver wasn't the best at keeping track of things, and the oven had broken quite a few times due to his carelessness. He couldn't stop himself from bumping his shoulder to Damien's though. It was a friendly little gesture, but he might get punched again. The thought made in inwardly flinch, and he backed away again, waiting for the frying pan to heat up.

"What exactly categorizes as hangover healing food, anyway?" he asked, trying to get over the awkward moment that he had just caused. The dog was back in the kitchen again; he really needed to get a baby gate or something.

[Damien Gregory Hawkins]

Ian only laughed dryly at the question of Oliver's breakfast, realizing a second too late that it was probably not a nice thing to do. It couldn't be helped, though. Damien was a man of routine, and part of his routine was making food and sharing it with anyone who happened to be present. During his four years in the Peace Corps he'd eaten plenty of non-gourmet food; since he'd been back he figured that as long as he had the capability, why bother with sub-par cuisine?

Damien's years in the Peace Corps were probably the only evidence that he was not a self-absorbed arrogant brat from a wealthy family. He wasn't whiny, and despised people who were, but he did not show a lot of concern for his fellow man. Would he intervene and break up a fight? Probably. Would he step up if he saw someone getting mugged? Undoubtedly. He did care about the well-being of those around him to some extent, but only as long as it was something that could be solved without too much involvement. He didn't dig down and look beyond the obvious.

He was completely oblivious when a large dog entered the kitchen until Oliver said something about it. He turned, asking, "You have a dog?" just as he saw the fluffy canine. Since when? It probably shouldn't have surprised him. Ian hadn't really been fully aware of his surroundings up until this morning. Even so, he was only now starting to dig himself out of the dark and depressing hole he'd drank himself into the previous night. Ian didn't exactly dislike dogs, but the devotion and loyalty and dependence that people admired them for were not qualities he sought out. So yes, he did like dogs when they were someone else's. He'd never owned one, seeing as his mother was allergic and altogether too much of a neat-freak to deal with fur. His sarcastic suggestion of a Mexican Hairless had not been met with any warmth when he was a kid. He had wanted a dog very badly when he was little, and his parents had responded by getting him a goldfish. He'd given the fish to his little sister, who eventually ignored it to death. After that they had't been allowed to own any pets, period.

"What's his name?" he asked conversationally, too wrapped up in arranging ingredients, mixing and chopping to notice Oliver's movement about the kitchen. His hand had stilled briefly when the other man jostled his shoulder, but had resumed an instant later, shrugging it off as over-sensitivity. Honestly, he wouldn't have pegged Oliver as the sort to own a dog, although he didn't know exactly why. He didn't have a clear opinion of the younger man anymore.

"Hangover food, in the Hawkins House, consists of a lot of eggs and salsa and fruit juice. Also pickles and sardines if I'm feeling desperate." He began to scrape the chopped vegetables into the pan, stirring them periodically and adjusting the heat. A while later he poured a mixture on top, watching it closely. Once everything was cooked, he carefully dished out two neatly folded omelettes topped with chunky salsa. There was even a sprig of parsley garnishing each one. Remembering the dog, he scraped out the chunks left in the pan, dumping the contents into a bowl. He smiled good naturedly, handing a plate to Oliver. Cooking definitely helped improve his mood.

[Oliver Ken Toulson]

For some reason, Damien's question really and truly amused the anatomy professor. It made him realize that though he was constantly teasing and flirting with his co-workers, he never shared much information about himself. Damien really didn't know that he had a dog? He could have sworn that the one of the typical getting to know you topics was pets, but then again, Oliver never really got into the getting to know you topics. It was straight to flirting most of the time, depending on who he was talking to. With Damien, it had been flirting and... well, instant rejection, which in a way, just intrigued him more. It had undoubtedly been a streak of luck when he had found the man drinking in a bar and given him a ride home. Well, Oliver himself hadn't been driving; he wasn't stupid enough to drive tipsy, but he had gotten a cab for the both of them. Unfortunately for him, even drunk Ian wasn't about to let him get into his pants. Well, at least he got some free food out of it.

”The mutt? His name's Sawyer,” he said, shrugging as he attempted to push said mutt out of the kitchen again. Stupid thing wasn't trained, he didn't even know the command to sit. Sighing and giving up, Oliver let the hundred-pound thing sit by the doorway, sliding the bowl of leftovers to him. Maybe it was fitting that the fluff ball wasn't trained. Oliver wasn't exactly trained either, after all, though a few people had attempted to make him stop flirting. It wasn't really his fault, though. It was almost... revenge. For something. He sighed, hopping up to sit on the counter, the plate of food in his hands. It looked pretty good, actually. Well, he wasn't surprised; Damien looked like the type of man that knew how to cook. Responsible, dependable... pretty much the opposite of little Oliver. Watching the dog dig into the leftovers, a thought suddenly occurred to him. ”Wait, are eggs bad for dogs?” he asked, swallowing a bite of the food. He had never really paid attention to the diet that the vet had set for Sawyer, other than the fact that dogs weren't supposed to have chocolate. Well, Oliver never had chocolate in the house anyway. It may have been surprising, but he actually didn't like it that much. He watched the dog carefully, looking out for any signs of death or disease. Well, Sawyer didn't look sick yet. So whatever. He might be a little sad over the sentimental loss if the creature died, but hey, it would save him some money on food, right?

”Hmm...” he mused, looking over at Damien. ”Hawkins house as in you or your whole family?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at the taller man. It may have been a bit of a personal question, but Oliver had standers for what he asked, even if it didn't seem like it. He didn't ask anything that he wouldn't want someone to ask him; the only problem was that he didn't mind what people said to him. If Damien had asked about Oliver's family, he would have answered willingly enough. It wasn't like it was a big secret or something, and he was just blindly assuming that it was the same for Damien. He was glad that Damien seemed happier; maybe Oliver would have a chance to take the man's pants off. Probably not, but hey, a man could hope, right?

[Damien Gregory Hawkins]

Ian glanced at the dog, at Sawyer, as he gobbled up the eggs. He was leaning back against the counter, digging in to his faintly spicy omelette. Eggs were meant to break down the alcohol in you system, and the salsa... well, he wasn't sure what the science behind it was, but spicy food seemed to redirect your thoughts away from feeling like shit. Nutrient-rich sardines and pickles were helpful as well, but they were a last resort in Damien's mind. Something about those two flavors mixing together just did not sit well with the man.

He actually wasn't sure what dogs weren't supposed to eat. He'd heard about chocolate being bad, but who hadn't? Perhaps it was a little ironic that the shifter had so little clue about anything to d with animals. His friend was a dog shifter, and he ate eggs, but that wasn't quite the same. Surely large amounts of alcohol would poison a gyrfalcon, but his shift form remained unharmed. "Probably not... they're like baby chickens, so..." That was probably the single most stupid-sounding thing he'd ever said. Feeling like he had to make up for the comment with some logic, he added, "No, they aren't. I remember hearing about eggs as an ingredient in dog food." The animal looked pretty old, but he seemed happy enough to be chowing down on people-food.

For a moment, after Oliver asked a fairly standard question, Ian just gazed at the glass of juice sitting on the counter across from him. Damien did not mind sharing personal information at all, with the exception of a secret or two. He was letting his sluggish mind process it for a bit, though, before he sad something stupid again. "Oh yeah, my wife and kids swear by this hangover cure." He laughed shortly, knowing perfectly well that "family" did not necessarily refer to a wife and kids. He was not used to people asking, though, so he didn't place himself with his parents and siblings right away. He'd been flying solo for long enough that "Hawkins" always came with "party of one." In his case, though, he had to give credit where credit was due. "I picked it up from my parents. Drinking in excess is a great Hawkins tradition that has been passed down through the generations."

[Oliver Ken Toulson]

Oliver wasn't a health teacher for nothing. He knew some facts about life and shit, and it was his job to scar the kids' minds with them. Wasn't that sweet? But, yeah. Oliver Toulson wasn't an idiot, and the eggs that had been used for the omelet were not like baby chickens. ”No, they're not fertilized,” he said. Just a little fact, it wasn't like he was going into the whole detailed explanation that there wasn't any rooster sperm in the eggs that stores sold. Mainly because he guessed that Damien would get annoyed if he did go into it... but also because he didn't want to talk about animal sperm while he was eating... ”And anyway, the egg itself is separate from the baby chicken. If they weren't the thing would be eating itself while growing... self cannibalism, or something. I'm pretty sure that they don't do that.” Okay, that was weird, but it was true. He just had to clarify that chickens didn't eat themselves, because that was gross. He nodded at the next explanation, though. ”Makes sense,” he said, watching Damien with interest. There were still all the other things like salsa and parsley that could be bad for his dog, but who really cared? As mentioned before, he wouldn't mind if his dog died, so he wasn't too concerned about what he fed him, even if he was about ten. The immune system had to be dying by now.

He snorted when Damien mentioned his wife and kids. Wait, he had a wife? SHIT. Well, he felt terrible now, didn't he? Trying to get into Ian's pants when he was married... ”Oh, dude, sorry,” he blurted, gazing up at the taller man with wide eyes. He hadn't been very clear what the apology was for, and he wasn't sure that the man would guess, but he hoped so. He didn't feel like explaining what he was apologizing for. He wasn't so proud that he wouldn't apologize to someone when he felt bad, but he never said it twice for the same incident, and he never explained. If the person was listening, they would know what it was for, though probably not in this case. A sad little blush spread across his cheeks as he returned to his food, refusing to look at Damien again. When drunk married people had sex with him, he didn't mind, because it was their choice. Maybe not the best choice, but nobody could hold Oliver accountable for it when he hadn't made the first move. When he tried to get into Damien's pants? Well... that sucked, it really did. If only Damien had explained that he was married last night... it would have made Oliver back off like Ian was a ticking time bomb. This was... embarrassing. Seriously.

Oliver nodded slowly as Damien continued talking, but he really wasn't listening to the words. Shit... he felt horrible now.

[Damien Gregory Hawkins]

Damien could only look on in wonder as Oliver explained how wrong his careless comment had been. He knew his expression was pretty much shouting, "What the fuck is wrong with you?" but didn't bother to alter it. He continued eating, the change in subject not disrupting his appetite in the least. It was too bizarre for Ian to even feel offended that the man thought he didn't understand eggs. He was a fucking falcon, for God's sake. Even if Oliver didn't know his exact shift, he must have known that Ian was the Arial Control professor. You can't teach kids to fly if you don't have feathers. And if he didn't even know that much... well, then Oliver was a piss-poor stalker. He was glad that he felt more amused than offended, because he'd hate to lose the momentary peace they had reached. So he just shook his head at the absurdity.

It took Damien a while to figure out what Oli had apologized for. There were a lot of possible interpretation and layers to sort through. Apologizing for His alcoholic family? The fact that he was married (even though he wasn't)? So he didn't understand the sarcasm. And then, it dawned on him. Apologizing for hitting on a married man. Damien burst into laughter, turning to rinse off his empty plate and placing it in the dishwasher. No doubt the other man would be dying to know what it was, exactly, that Ian had found so funny. For a moment he wasn't sure whether he wanted to clarify. If Oliver continued believing he actually had a family, he would leave him alone. Ian sighed. No, he couldn't lie about something like that. "Shit, Oliver. I wasn't serious." He gestured toward the living room, where he'd left his cell phone on the coffee table. "Don't you think I would have been getting a lot more calls from a frantic wife if I stayed out all night and late into the next morning?"

He had almost been there, had almost had that life. He thought back to that tragically dysfunctional relationship and how close he had been to the cookie-cutter lifestyle that was expected of him. But forget all of that, it paled in comparison with the realization that Oliver had morals. Also, "Wait, did you really think my hypothetical children would know how to treat a hangover?"