Work Text:
“Two Big N’ Tasties,” Mark orders. “Uh, two of those orange drinks—”
“Hi-C,” Lawrence interrupts. “Large.”
“Large for both?” the cashier asks tiredly.
“Yes,” Mark and Lawrence answer in unison, just barely resisting the urge to scowl at each other for speaking in unison. They can never quite agree on how to order together.
“Fruit Parfait,” Lawrence adds to the order. “And a Happy Meal.”
“Fruit fucking parfait,” Mark mutters under his breath, barely audible, a gruff and spiteful edge to his tone Lawrence easily ignores. “Fucking fruit parfait. Of course.”
They aren’t ordering to go, they never are, and like always the woman or whoever ends up behind the counter eyes them suspiciously before typing in the order for a Happy Meal.
He asks for a plain cheeseburger, apple slices, and no caramel for the Happy Meal. He has to watch his sugar intake and he doesn’t trust what the corporations are putting in their supply these days. Mark rolls his eyes while the order is adjusted, rearing up to ask for his own specifications.
“Large fry,” Mark says.
“Small fry,” corrects Lawrence.
“I’m not gonna try to guilt you into eating ‘em this time,” Mark grumbles, but doesn’t change the fry order back to a large one. He speaks to the worker then, “That’s probably it.”
Lawrence breaks out his card and pays for the whole order. Mark never insists on paying, he kind of just hovers expectantly like a child. The doctor doesn’t mind, but he does find it predictable.
They only have to wait a few minutes.
“They didn’t put the toy in again,” Mark mutters under his breath, piercingly observing the man by the grill improperly arrange the assortment of items in their order. “Typical.”
Steeling himself, Lawrence exhales.
“Adam can live without it.”
“It’s the whole damn reason you order those dumb meals,” Mark argues quietly. “Why the fuck else do they think you’re getting it? For the ugly box?”
Lawrence is forced to take a moment to register how Mark has developed from referring to Adam as an (word-for-word) ‘immature twink with daddy issues’ to defending his honor in the face of not being allowed a toy. He doesn’t even want the toy really, Adam just likes the novelty. And Lawrence likes the goofy smile on his face when he does end up bringing one home.
“I’m not asking for a fucking toy,” Lawrence whispers, despite that.
Mark doesn’t say anything but when a tray with their hefty order is delivered to the counter, he saunters up to the edge of it and leans forward on his palms. A droplet of sweat rolls down the brow of the smaller man parallel to him, wearing a hideously perky McDonalds employee hat.
“You forgot something,” Mark says darkly.
The worker’s eyes skitter around until they fall on the abrasively red box on the tray. He murmurs a quick, nervous apology and returns with a Hello Kitty key chain in a plastic bag.
Mark snatches it from his fingers.
At least he also says, “Thanks.”
Lawrence takes the toy from Mark, tucking it in his palm to hide it from the dinner rush crowd, and lets Mark take the tray over to one of the empty circular booths.
They like these tables because other customers have an obscured view of them and they usually come here to discuss work.
Jigsaw work, that is.
Lawrence scarcely remembers when these rendezvous started. It was a few years ago, a year or two after he’d become truly acquainted with Mark. They used to sit on John’s favorite ratty couch and discuss anatomy and engineering, the logistics of the traps Mark came up with, and the medical inaccuracies. It wasn’t long before Adam complained about their ‘shop talk’ back at home base. He never liked to be in those discussions, but the ratty couch is positioned next to the fridge and well, nobody can keep Adam away from his pizza-pocket infested lunch breaks.
“We gotta cut the kid a break,” Mark had said, surprising Lawrence.
All the gore talk was ruining Adam’s appetite.
He remembers agreeing, though doesn’t remember how they chose McDonalds.
A rather popular McDonald's, city-based, no less.
He thinks it had something to do with ‘we’ll be more inconspicuous out in the open’ or maybe it was Mark suggesting ‘the clown joint that has a nice iced caramel macchiato, why not that.’
The window next to their booth overlooks a public park.
It rained earlier; a rainbow currently blankets the scene outside. The grass is wet and vivid green, and the sky is a surreal yellow-blue that only happens once in a great while.
Lawrence thinks he and Adam should go for a walk later.
Couples lie on towels, some kissing, a few pointing at clouds.
Aloof, Mark slams down a medical book next to their tray and flips it open to where he has multi-colored sticky notes pasted unevenly all over the single page focusing on tendons in the leg. On the notes is chicken scratch, a trait of Mark’s wordsmanship that’s never changed.
He starts unraveling one of his Big N’ Tasties.
“So, if I wanted to go for the Achilles tendon downward instead of side to side, you’re telling me that wouldn’t be possible,” Mark posits, eating half the burger in one bite.
Lawrence sighs, turning the book to face him.
“Your issue is that you want to start them on the gastrocnemius muscle when you should really be instructing them to start with the soleus.” Lawrence slides his fruit parfait closer to himself and sets aside the Hello Kitty keychain for later. “There’s little chance of succeeding otherwise.”
“But doing it your way makes it too easy,” Mark argues.
“John left you clear details on how to construct other devices. I don’t see why you want to deviate from his blueprints, nobody’s asking you to come up with your own.”
“I told you, the vic’s a ballet dancer.”
“And?”
“There’s gotta be a theme—” Mark’s eyes snap towards Lawrence’s hand which is snagging a fry from his side of the tray. “Hey fucker, hands off.”
Lawrence didn’t even realize he was doing it.
He draws his hand back.
“This is why I order the large,” Mark adds testily. He sips at his orange Hi-C and calms down. “Fuck, I swear they put crack in this shit.”
“That’s because it’s ninety percent sugar,” Lawrence informs him. “Far more dangerous than crack.”
“Hmm.”
“What.”
“You just gave me an idea.”
Mark’s arm lurches across the circular table before Lawrence can react, filching the pen out of the surgeon’s coat pocket. He scribbles something down on one of the brown, greasy napkins.
“What now?”’
“Salt. We haven’t done salt.” Mark pushes the napkin towards Lawrence. “What do you think?” It’s a shoddy drawing of a stick figure man next to a square. A flag is behind the square.
Exhausted, Lawrence asks, “Mark, what am I looking at?”
“Pool of salt. The guy’s covered in open wounds. He’s gotta crawl across the surface to get to whatever it is we want him to find.”
“Where are we going to get that much salt without raising eyebrows?”
“You taste this shit?” Mark takes another bite of his Big N’ Tasty. “They gotta have bags of it the size of dumpsters in the back. It would take me one night to break the door to this shithole in.”
Lawrence finishes his yogurt and fruit parfait, disappointed when he realizes he forgot to pour his walnut packet into it. He peels it open anyway and directs some into his mouth.
“I’m not going to let you plan a McDonald’s heist,” Lawrence finally says.
“You don’t control me.”
It sounds less threatening with Mark’s mouth full of a disgustingly unhealthy burger. Lawrence reaches into the Happy Meal and grabs himself the apple packet.
“John would say no.”
“Let’s see what Adam thinks. He’s gonna wanna do it.”
Mark only ever cares what Adam thinks when he knows it’ll suit his agenda. Lawrence tries not to scoff and fails astronomically, breaking an apple slice in half.
“Of course he will. He thinks McDonalds is better than the Ritz.”
The chunk of apple is sweet on his tongue.
“He’s got good taste.” Mark scans Lawrence, up and down, without restraining his distaste. “Sometimes.”
“Don’t let him hear that, it’ll go to his head.” Lawrence pauses then says, “Are you not getting ketchup this time?”
“There’s an old bat hovering around the condiments.”
“So put her in a game,” Lawrence drawls sarcastically.
“Funny.”
The elderly woman eventually hobbles away from the condiments and Mark is suddenly in an invisible race with a snot-nosed seven year old boy who is skipping up to the honey mustard tub. He’s wearing a dinosaur t-shirt. Mark glares at him while he begins gathering ketchup cups.
While Mark is distracted, Lawrence takes a few of his fries.
They’re atrociously salty.
He reconsiders the pool of salt trap.
Mark comes back with small paper cups of ketchup clutched in between the crevices of each finger set. He’s got at least eight of them.
“Less is more,” Lawrence chastises.
“That’s what dudes with small cocks say,” Mark retorts.
He plops down next to Lawrence, arranging the cups. Fascinated, Lawrence watches him. Mark is really fussy about food, or maybe just how he eats in public.
“Adam can vouch against that for me.”
Mark’s expression twists.
“Gross.”
“I’m never rude about your sexual exploits.”
Except for the time Lawrence mocked Mark, asking if Peter likes it ‘big n’ tasty’ too after the first or second time they ordered at McDonalds together. The joke landed like a lead balloon and nearly earned him a black eye. Adam had needed to press an ice pack against Larry’s face that day.
“Don’t say sexual exploits. Who the fuck says that.”
“Do you want to get back to your questionnaire or not?” Lawrence presses. He wants to get this over with so he can get back to homebase before Adam decides he’s too bored.
Adam makes…choices…when he’s bored.
Mark is half-way through his second burger.
Their respective Hi-C’s are draining fast.
The med book is slapped open again.
“What if I make them use a meat hook?” Mark muses.
Lawrence sighs, scrutinizing the pages.
On the drive home, they normally don't speak.
"Did you know they call that joint Maccas in Australia?" Mark asks. "Gay as shit."
"Mark, why do you imagine I care?"
Mark doesn't respond, turning the wheel right.
“Hey, jerk,” Adam greets Mark.
He’s still wearing pajamas.
“Watch it, twinkie,” Mark greets back, gentler than he’d speak to anyone else in this business. Lawrence doesn’t know why he’s got a soft spot for Adam, but he can’t blame him. “Your boyfriend ordered a fucking fruit parfait again.” Mark’s never been one for small talk, so following that targeted jab, he shucks his coat off and heads upstairs in a stomping march.
Lawrence inches closer to Adam, letting Adam take the cane off him and hang it up on the nail rack by the front door. He smiles into a welcoming kiss, Adam’s arms looping around his neck.
Adam is unusually calm today.
That usually means it’ll be a quiet night.
Lawrence likes those nights.
“How was Bro Night?”
Lawrence scoffs, tenderly stroking his thumbs under Adam’s ears. “You know that’s not what it is.”
He wouldn’t say he’s friends with Mark. He also wouldn’t say they’re enemies. The closest word Lawrence might grasp at would be family, but even the concept of that terrifies him to no end.
“We all need our time with our bros.”
“Shut up.”
Adam chuckles, wholly aware he’s busting his chops and melts into another kiss, nearly distracting Lawrence from the most important thing.
“Hey,” Lawrence murmurs, breaking the kiss off. “Got something for you.”
Adam grins, keeping upright on his tiptoes.
“Fuck yeah.”
Lawrence deposits the Hello Kitty keychain into Adam’s palm. It’s girly, something Diana would like if Alison allowed him more time in her life. Fortunately, it seems like Adam’s thrilled with it.
“Your dick. My mouth. Upstairs. Now.”
And hey, maybe that’s the primary reason why Lawrence unfailingly orders a Happy Meal during every lunch-work break he shares with Mark Hoffman. But he’ll never tell.