Sherry Cask

pre-playhouse thomas/a1 fic :)

Thomas spots him in the reflection of the mirror bar back, a flash of pale blond hair and cheap polyester. 

The boy’s made an effort, somewhat, hair combed back neat, trousers pressed. But his shoes are too big, and when he turns around Thomas can catch a glimpse of a little gap between the heel of his foot and the top line. It’s cute, like a kid playing dress up. 

Thomas takes a sip of his whisky, watches as hotel security approaches A1, saying something polite but firm. They’re good at that sort of thing— spotting the things that don’t belong.

He lets him talk to security, half curious to see if the boy was industrious enough to charm his way out of this, half savoring watching him sweat. 

Thomas can recognize that it’s a little mean-spirited, but he’s been sitting at that damn bar for nearly half an hour. A1’s lucky Thomas is still there waiting for him at all.

The poor thing locks eyes with him then, and Thomas watches his confidence grow as he gestures in his direction. A1 waves at him, a casual little thing, all fake boredom and exasperation. Let it be subtly known to the security staff that he was carefully hiding his annoyance. That was good. He’s learning how to teach people their place. 

Mr. Hotel Security turns to follow the boy’s line of sight. Thomas curls his lips, raises his tumbler in lieu of waving. The security guard says something appropriately contrite, and the boy makes his way to the bar unimpeded.

“Sorry,” A1 says, the moment he settles into the barstool next to him.

“Got off at the wrong stop. Won’t happen again.”

“Mm.” 

The bartender interrupts him before he can say what he really wants to say.

“Another scotch, Mr. Schwarzbach?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“And for you, sir?”

A beat before the boy realizes that he’s been spoken to. “Oh, uh, I’ll have,” he recovers, nodding at Thomas, “I’ll have whatever he’s having.” 

Thomas is having a 50-year-old Scotch. Four grand per 2oz pour. 

The bartender looks to Thomas, waits. 

Thomas nods, a minute tip of his chin.

“Right away, sir.” 

A1 raises a pale brow at the curious exchange. 

“What are you having?” A1 says, leaning over to peer into Thomas’s nearly empty tumbler. 

“Single malt scotch,” Thomas says. “Way older than you. Costs more too.” He winks at him to soften the blow.

“Well,” A1 says, grinning, “as long as you’re paying.”

That’s what he likes about this one, can take a joke, can take a little blow to his ego. Too many of the sensitive types these days. 

Thomas finishes his drink, takes a moment to savor the warmth. Not much of a burn. They go down smooth when they’re expensive. 

The bartender arrives with two fresh tumblers, sets them on crisp little napkins and makes himself scarce.

He feels A1’s eyes on him as he takes a sip of the whisky, studying him almost, before he takes a sip himself.

“Good?” Thomas asks.

“It’s… sweet,” he says before pausing and furrowing his brows in concentration, “Sherry cask, maybe? Speyside?”

Thomas smiles at that, genuine this time. It’s cute, it really is, how hard he tries to play along.

“Good?” Thomas repeats.

A1 takes another small sip, lets the liquor sit on his tongue as he makes a show of mulling over the notes before laughing softly, “Of course it’s fucking good.”

Thomas nods, pleased, takes another sip and savors the moment of honeyed scotch warming both of their mouths. 

“So,” A1 says, voice lowered, “what’s the job?”

And the moment passes. 

“Not here,” Thomas sighs. 

The boy opens his mouth as if to say something, but quickly presses his lips together, deciding against it. 

“What,” Thomas says, feeling his annoyance grow. 

If A1 picks up on it, he doesn’t show it, just hides a grin behind another slow sip of his drink. 

“Is there a job?” he asks coyly. 

Or did you just want to see me again hangs in the air between them, loud though unspoken.

Thomas is still trying to decide if he likes it— this bold little creature he’s hatched. He half-misses the boy he first met, that strange, feral creature with the guarded eyes and the perpetually clenched jaw, soft spoken and so carefully polite. 

This thing he’s coaxed out of its shell is slippery, unpredictable. Plucky. Speaks to him like they’re equals. 

But he’s always wanted an equal, hasn’t he? Someone who liked the things he liked. Someone who could parry. 

Eventually. 

Right now…

“He’s in Adelaide, I think,” Thomas says, in lieu of answering, “Or he was— earlier this week. I just thought you’d want to know that.”

And there he was. Just for a split second the veil slips, and Thomas catches a glimpse of that caged animal he misses so dearly. He’s lovely like this, breath caught in his throat, eyes wide and shining. Thomas can almost see it, hope being wrestled back into that box. 

“But like I said,” Thomas says, voice carefully lowered, “not here.”

The boy nods, and Thomas watches, fascinated, as he tries to slip back into his newly tailored bravado. It’s ill fitting. Thomas knows that now that he’s seen it slip. Just a bad costume. 

He feels an unexpected wave of relief. The darling creature he’s come to care for is still there, hidden under that cheap armor. 

“Then let’s get out of here,” A1 grins, wetting his lips and looking up at Thomas through his lashes in what Thomas is assuming is A1’s best attempt at lasciviousness. It lacks finesse, feels clumsy. Childish almost. But it moves him regardless. 

He reminds himself to be patient. 

He’s done so much waiting already— no point in rushing it now. 

“Finish your drink,” Thomas says lightly. 

A1 brings the tumbler to his mouth and sips, slow and deliberate, like they have all the time in the world. Knows that the only thing Thomas hates more than waiting is being rushed. 

—

They have two more drinks before they make their way up to Thomas’s suite. A1’s tripping over his too-big dress shoes coming out of the elevator onto the penthouse floor, laughing and grabbing onto Thomas’s arm to steady himself. 

Thomas suspects he’s playing it up a little, but is endeared by it nonetheless.  

“Like you like this,” Thomas says into A1’s hair, leaning on him as he fishes the keycard from his pocket.

“I like me better like this, too,” A1 sighs happily.

“Didn’t say better,” Thomas says, hand faltering on the door handle before he pushes it open. 

“Didn’t have to,” he says, still smiling. 

It’s a genuine little thing, dimpled and sweet, and Thomas can’t really remember why he’s waiting or what he’s waiting for. He wants to maul him, tear that darling smile right off his darling face. 

Instead he closes the door behind them, leans down and kisses him sweetly. A chaste one, just to whet his appetite. 

“Thought we were here to talk,” A1 says cheekily, lips brushing lightly against his as he spoke. His skin is hot to the touch, feverish almost.

This close, Thomas can see that his pupils are blown, the pale blue almost completely swallowed by a sea of black. 

“You good?”

A1’s smile falters, just for a split second, before he laughs, a rich, musical sort of sound. “I’m fucking fantastic,” he says, breathy, “first lead we’ve had in almost a month.” 

Thomas smiles fondly, brushes a stray lock of hair out of A1’s face. 

He’s had eyes on A1’s target since it got back to Wisconsin, has followed every step of that crude, sloppy trail of carnage at a distance, waiting for the right moment to intervene. Soon, he keeps telling himself. He wants his little birdie like this for just a little longer, knows that once he gets what he wants, he won’t come when Thomas calls, won’t sing pretty for him anymore. Thomas has never been fond of the stick, so he’s had to learn how to wield the carrot. 

A1 smiles up at him, shakes his head, that stray lock of hair falling right back onto his face. Thomas catches a mischievous glint in his eye before he slips past him to go poking around the suite.

He suspects his little protégé is employing similar tactics— keeping the prize just out of reach. 

Thomas makes his way to the balcony patio, takes a moment to appreciate the skyline, the cold night air. It’s a busy night but they’re so high up he can hardly hear the cars or the people below. The whisky is still keeping him warm. 

He doesn’t know how long he stays out there before a pale blond head peeks through the glass door.

“Where’s the bed?”

“Hm?”

“There’s a fully functioning kitchen here,” A1 elaborates, “no bed.”

They obviously had very different definitions of fully functioning kitchen.

“It’s on the second floor,” Thomas says, making his way back inside and closing the door behind him.

“Your hotel room has two floors,” A1 guffaws. 

“Suite,” Thomas corrects him.

“Yeah, man,” A1 says dreamily, “pretty sweet.” 

Thomas starts to clarify before he catches that glint in A1’s eye again, that little smirk like he was in on some joke Thomas didn’t know about.

“Why’re you looking for it, anyway?” Thomas asks, reaching over to muss his hair the rest of the way, “Already past your bedtime?” 

“I’m allowed to stay up ‘til midnight on the weekends,” A1 quips. 

Thomas feels something within him stir at that, but he gives A1 the chuckle he was fishing for. It sounds unconvincing, even to his own ears, and the silence that hangs between them feels heavy, like the air before a thunderstorm. 

It’s A1 who takes the lead, placing a warm palm on either side of Thomas’s hips, before leaning up to kiss him softly on the mouth. 

It’s strangely chaste, just warm lips kneading together, closed-mouthed and timid but even so, Thomas has the absurd notion that this is what he’s been waiting for his entire life. He doesn’t even realize that his eyes had been opened until A1’s open to meet his gaze. 

Instead of the pale blue skies, Thomas is met with something not unlike a total solar eclipse. Just the thinnest little ring of ice blue around pupils the size of saucers. It dawns on him then.

“What’d you take?”

“Hm?”

Thomas doesn’t repeat himself, just takes a step back and waits for the silence to coax A1 into speaking again.

“Nothing,” A1 says eventually, “just some molly. I thought you— I just thought you wanted to fool around or something.”

“What?” 

A1 seems confused at Thomas’s confusion. “It’s just that usually when you ask to meet at a hotel—“ A1 falters, “Did I— did I overstep?”

A long moment passes before Thomas speaks again.

“Go sleep it off,” he sighs. 

A1 looks like he might want to argue, but he just presses his lips together in a tight line and nods before making his way to the door.

“You can—“ Thomas says too loudly, before catching himself, “you can sleep here. I don’t want you taking the subway this late. Especially not when you’re fucked up—” He doesn’t know what he’s saying, he’s just desperate to keep him there just a little longer. “Take the bed,” he adds when A1 doesn’t reply, then regrets it immediately. He is not going to be able to fall asleep on that couch. 

“Oh no, I can’t do that,” A1 says. “The couch is fine, I’ve slept on worse.”

Thank you baby Jesus. 

A1 doesn’t move towards the couch though, just stands there and peers into Thomas’s face, searching for something. It makes him feel naked, exposed, makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand.  

Thomas is about to tell him off when A1 leans up and presses his lips sweetly against his, not quite a kiss, but he’s not sure what else he’d call it. 

—

Thomas is still thinking about that not-kiss as he’s laying in bed that next morning, replaying the sweet way A1 had looked up at him after, eyes half-lidded and glazed over, lips parted like he wanted to say something. 

He imagines what he could’ve said, imagines the baby blues of his eyes as Thomas coaxed those sweet things out of him. It makes his heart pound, how much he wanted it to be real. How much he wanted A1 in the light of day, no whisky or whatever the fuck else to shroud him, to drive a wedge between them. 

As if answering that unspoken prayer he hears soft footsteps padding up the stairs towards his bedroom. Hears them stop and wait in front of his door for what seems like forever. 

He considers feigning sleep, imagines A1 crawling into his bed in the depths of his slumber, kissing him awake.

“What is it,” he says instead. It comes out harsher than he means, hostile almost, but he swallows the apology bubbling inside him. 

“Sorry,” the boy says in his stead, voice muffled slightly by the door. “Can I come in?” 

Thomas hums an affirmative, can’t help but be a little annoyed at being interrupted from his fantasies. It’s an odd thing which he doesn’t quite understand himself. He wants him there, he does. Doesn’t ever want him to leave. But this A1’s voice is so different from how he hears it in his mind. 

A1 cracks the door open politely, peeking in to check if Thomas is decent before slipping in the rest of the way. He’s dressed in last night’s clothes, carefully ironed in the time Thomas had been asleep, hair brushed back neat, face carefully neutral. 

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he says, “but I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.” 

Thomas hears what he means. I didn’t want to leave without what I came for. I didn’t want to leave without talking about Adelaide. 

He shifts to the middle of the bed and pats the empty space next to him. A1 sits gingerly on the edge of the bed.

In the light of day, without the whisky and whatever the fuck shrouding him, A1 just looks tired. His eyes are as white as ice in the harsh morning light, Thomas realizes. Not the baby blue of his mind’s eye. They scare him. 

“Three dead this time,” Thomas says. 

“You think it’s him.”

“Same as Bessemer, ” Thomas sighs. “Same as River Falls. The families. The fires.” 

A1’s face stays unreadable, eyes still ice cold, still piercing. 

A grainy memory unwittingly comes to mind; narrow shoulders shaking, chin quivering as he sobbed and stuttered about a dog or something. He couldn’t see his eyes back then, his hair fallen over his face like a beautiful golden halo. How Thomas’s heart had ached then. 

This A1’s jaw was hard set, and he sat like a stone as Thomas reiterates what his source had told him. 

“You can take my plane,” Thomas says, even though he knows A1’s man is long gone by now. “Get to him before the next one.” 

A1 looks at him then, almost the same as he did last night, his eyes almost baby blue. 

Thomas felt the echo of that heartache right then. What he couldn’t do back then he would allow himself to do now. Hand on shaking shoulder, mouth on quivering mouth.