#nigelxadam

They turn as one to watch the man enter. A pretty young thing who looks like he doesn’t belong in this godforsaken city--sweet curls and pink cheeks, and lips Nigel can’t help but imagine wrapped around his dick. The two of them are frozen, waiting for his reaction, but he doesn’t even seem to notice there’s a hold-up going on. He just turns down the first aisle and bee-lines it to the frozen food section in the back.

Nigel looks back at Nestor with a raised brow and Nestor shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know man, the guy is some sort of special-ed,” Nestor says.

Nigel slams the gun down on the counter with enough force to make Nestor jump a few feet in the air. “Now, Nestor, that’s a shitty fucking thing to say.”

“I’m sorry,” Nestor babbles, drawing in on himself. “He’s just weird--I mean, I’m sorry, oh fuck. He won’t look you in the eye and all he ever fucking buys is mac and cheese and orange soda, and he dresses like that.” He waves in the general direction of the freezers.

“See, this is what I’m talking about,” Nigel says, pitching his voice low. “That man is your fucking customer. Treat him with some goddamn respect.”

The kid comes up behind him like he’s queuing in a fucking line or something, and his eyes widen comically when he gets a proper look at them. Fucking gorgeous eyes, at that--bright blue, or--Nigel squints at him--are they green? It’s hard to say, because just as Nestor said, he’s looking anywhere but Nigel’s face.

“Oh,” he says, staring at his shoes. “Um. I didn’t mean to interrupt…”

The kid takes a step forward, then a step back, then just stands there for a minute before finally walking around Nigel to place the stack of Amy’s Organic Macaroni and Cheese on the counter. Fucking organic mac and cheese in a gas station, for fuck’s sake. Only in LA.

“Um, is it alright if I just leave?” he asks, gaze fixed on Nigel’s shoulder even as he starts a not so subtle scoot towards the door.

Nigel takes a step closer and the kid goes still. “You’re forgetting your mac ‘n cheese, kid.”

“Oh,” he says again. God damn if that isn’t a nice mouth, pursed up to form the word. He looks honestly conflicted for a moment before coming to some sort of resolution. “I can buy it somewhere else.” He says it more to himself than to either of them.

Nigel is intrigued. He pinches off the cherry of his cigarette and flicks it aside. “What’s your name, kid?”

The kid’s eyes take in the gun, Nestor cowering behind the counter, and flick back to Nigel. His hands clench into fists and release at his side. “I’m Adam,” he says at last. “And I’m not a kid. I’m thirty-two.”

“I’m sorry, Adam,” Nigel says and leans in a little, trying in vain to meet the kid’s--because he’s still a decade younger than Nigel, for fuck’s sake--eye.  “Do you understand what’s going on here?”

Adam gives him a truly withering look. Nigel is seriously fucking impressed by the heat in it. “You’re holding up a convenience store,” he snaps.

“I appreciate the pair of balls you’ve got, kid, sassing the guy with the gun.”

“Sorry,” Adam says to his toes, but he doesn’t look or sound especially sincere in his apology, only frightened. “I was just stating the obvious.”

Nigel laughs. “I like you, kid.” To his credit, Adam doesn’t flinch when Nigel puts an arm around his shoulders, though his muscles tense under the touch, his lips pursed in distaste, whether from the touch or being called ‘kid,’ it’s hard to say. “Go ahead, take your mac ‘n cheese, and get out of here.”

“But--” Adam glances in Nestor’s direction and he looks scandalised at the idea. “You mean not pay for it?”

“Adam, angel, as you so fucking succinctly put it, this is a hold up,” Nigel says. “During a hold up, you take whatever the fuck you want.” He waves the gun at the stack of macaroni and cheese. “Go ahead.”

There’s a serious fucking war waging inside the kid, Nigel can see it as plain as day on his face. Something far more disturbing to him than the guy with the loaded gun and the crime in progress. Something that almost causes him physical pain when he finally shakes his head, bites his lip, and says, “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll just leave.”

Nigel’s brows lift high on his forehead in surprise. He waves his gun in the direction of the door, and watches Adam duck out, dumbfounded. And fucking smitten. He’s man enough to admit it.

“You know what, never mind the cash drawer.” Nigel taps his gun on the pile of frozen meals. “I’ll just take these. Be a doll and bag ‘em up for me, will ya?”

Nestor hops to, snapping open one of the cloth bags hanging from the counter, and begins to neatly stack the mac and cheese inside. He goes still when Nigel leans over the counter, wraps a hand around his neck, and puts his mouth to Nestor’s ear. “I really hope you’ve taken what I’ve said to heart, Nestor. I’d hate to have to visit you again. At home, this time? 2209 Harris, where you live with your mother?”

“I have, sir,” Nestor sputters, “absolutely.”

Nigel gives him a bright smile. “Terrific. Then as long as you shut the fuck up and do your job right from now on, you and I can be friends. Would you like that, Nestor?”

“Y-yes, sir,” Nestor says.

“Oh good,” Nigel purrs, patting him a couple of times before straightening up and taking the bag from him.

He’s out the door and almost to the corner before a thought occurs to him. He curses out loud and turns around, heading back to the shop. Nestor stands in the same position Nigel left him, and when he sees Nigel, his shoulders rise up and he lifts his hands again. “I didn’t call anyone,” he says in a rush. “I won’t tell anyone, I swear.”

Nigel waves off his concerns and fishes in his back pocket for his wallet. “Look, I should probably get a receipt for these, so can you just ring it up, so I can prove to the kid I didn’t steal these?”

Nestor lets out a little snort, then another, and then it devolves into hysterical laughter. Nigel sighs, taps his fingers on the counter, and says, “Don’t make me take out the gun, again, Nestor.”

Very quickly Nestor straightens up and goes to the register. He taps for a moment and brings up the total. “It’s, uh, 43.75, uh, sir.”

Nigel’s jaw drops, cigarette nearly falling from his mouth. “Forty-fucking-three dollars? For five boxes of macaroni and fucking cheese? Is it made with actual fucking gold?”

Nestor raises both hands in the air, a clear don’t ask me gesture. “Organic food, man.”

“Christ on a fucking cracker you’ve got to be fucking…” He rifles through his wallet and pulls out a fifty. “Just keep the fucking change,” he snaps, and all but rips the receipt from Nestor’s hand. He’s not sure which of them finds the whole scenario more surreal, at this point, now that he’s just given money to the guy he was holding up.

Outside, he wraps the gun in his scarf, tucks them both in the baseball cap, and throws the bundle in the nearest trashcan. It doesn’t take too long for him to catch up with the kid. When he was casing the place, he saw him pass once or twice, at a distance, knows which way to look for him.

He jogs around the corner and into the park across the street, where he spots the red and beige striped cardigan Adam was wearing. Nigel follows him through the park and down a couple of blocks, until he heads up the walkway of a quaint little craftsman bungalow. Figures the kid would be loaded.

It’s a nice looking place, a squat two-story house surrounded by towering oaks. Cute little covered porch, complete with swing. The gabled second floor bay window centred over top offers a glimpse inside, where a telescope is pointed up at the sky.

Nigel strolls up the path, taking in the neatly maintained lawn and perfectly weeded garden. It’s dotted through with hand-made stepping stones, each bearing a different intricately designed representations of the planets of the solar system in glass mosaic, the names written in a painstakingly neat hand. If he weren’t already ridiculously captivated by the kid, this might have done the trick.

Leaning on the doorjamb, he raps his knuckles against the panel of the door. The windows are covered with curtains, obstructing his view of the entranceway. Where a moment before he could hear someone moving around, there is now nothing but silence. Nigel waits patiently, and after a moment, footsteps hesitantly approach on wooden floors.

As Adam opens the front door, Nigel pastes on his most charming, ingratiating smile. There is a furrow between Adam’s brows as he stares at Nigel. “What are you doing here?” he asks, immediately swinging the door most of the way closed. There’s a nervous energy about him that Nigel finds oddly alluring.

Nigel hefts the bag of macaroni and cheese between them, letting it dangle from one finger, and arches a brow. “Can I treat you to dinner?”

Adam crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t need someone to steal for me,” he says. “I can afford to buy my own food. I have a very good job, I can take care of myself, I--” Suddenly, he stops himself, biting his lip, and Nigel can’t help arching a brow.

“I have no doubt of that, darling,” Nigel says. “But it’s my fault you couldn’t buy them, in the first place.”

“I can buy them somewhere else,” Adam says. There’s a rebellious tone to his voice that neither one of them is buying.

Nigel isn’t entirely sure what’s going on with the kid, but he knows Adam didn’t stop anywhere else on the way home. There’s no car in the driveway, and he’s already taken off his shoes and sweater, clearly settling in for the evening. Nigel holds up his free hand in a gesture of peace and speaks in tone meant to soothe. “I’m sure you can. But just for tonight, indulge me?”

“Stealing is wrong,” Adam tells him. It sounds more like a statement of fact than a moral judgement, which sparks Nigel’s interest even more. And the kid’s posture is relaxing, shoulders dropping slowly, arms loosening from their tight clenched position.

Nigel fumbles in his pocket for the crumpled receipt, and smooths out the wrinkles before handing it over. “Bought and paid for.”

Adam takes the receipt and stares at it, uncomprehending. Nigel can trace the thoughts racing across his features, but has no idea what’s going on inside that head. Over Adam’s shoulder he can see into a beautifully decorated home, everything neatly in it’s place. There’s only one jacket hanging from the peg on the hall tree, one pair of shoes tucked into the cubby beneath.

“Traditionally, when someone brings you dinner, you let them inside,” Nigel says.

“Traditionally,” Adam says, head tilted to the side in thoughtfulness as he stares at Nigel’s shoulder, “you build a relationship by spending time together and sharing common interests.” He stops, looking down at his fidgeting hands, grasping his own fingertips. When he speaks again, it’s clear a repetition of words someone else has told him. “It’s rude to just show up at someone’s house uninvited.”

Nigel heaves a sigh and straightens up from his slouch, smile falling from his face. He supposes it’s better than he could have honestly hoped for--at least the kid didn’t slam the door in his face and run, and he isn’t threatening to call the cops and turn him in. He takes a step back, puts the bag on the welcome mat, and gives a little bow. “It was interesting meeting you.”

“But we haven’t met,” Adam says. “Not properly, anyway. You’re supposed to say your name and extend your hand for a handshake. Eye contact is important to convey honesty and respect.”

Nigel, hesitating the top stair, steps closer. “Very well,” he says. He extends his hand and only has to wait a moment before Adam reaches out to take it. His hand feels delicate in Nigel’s, his grip overly tight. “My name is Nigel.”

Adam’s eyes light on his jaw and ear, over the line of his cheekbone and brow, before finally meeting Nigel’s own. It’s brief, but he flashes a smile that makes Nigel’s breath catch in his chest, his fingers tighten around Nigel’s and says, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Nigel.”

“Believe me,” Nigel murmurs, turning Adam’s hand palm down, and lifting it to his lips to brush a kiss along the knuckles. “The pleasure is all mine.”

Adam turns a lovely shade of red, chin ducking to his chest, and pulls his hand back, clasping it behind his back, the very enticing picture of untouched innocence. It’s clear winning this kid over is going to take up a lot of Nigel’s time and energy, and he finds he doesn’t mind in the least. His fingers twitch at his side, restraining himself from reaching out to trace the line of the blush down Adam’s neck, where it disappears into the collar of his button down. He’ll be worth the effort.

“Enjoy your dinner, Adam,” Nigel says. Adam bites his lip, still half-hiding behind the door, and Nigel turns away. He’s halfway down the front walk when Adam calls after him.

“Wait!” Nigel glances over his shoulder, half-turning to face him, schooling his triumphant expression into one of mild curiosity. Adam hovers in the doorway for a moment before coming out onto the porch. His fingers are tapping absently against his thighs as he stands there, uncertain. “Do--do you like outer space?”

As far as non sequitors go, Nigel’s heard stranger. He turns fully around and takes a few steps back. “I guess,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “I never thought about it very much.”

“I work in an observatory--the Mount Wilson Observatory, in the San Gabriel Mountains? There have been a great many astronomical discoveries made there. For instance, Edwin Hubble was able to use the one-hundred inch Hooker telescope to prove that the Andromeda nebulae were outside our galaxy--that is, the Milky Way.”

Adam’s face lights up as he speaks, full of a youthful exuberance that makes it difficult to believe the kid is out of his teens, let alone in his thirties. He rambles on for another several minutes about the other scientific contributions of the observatory while Nigel waits attentively, if a bit bewildered.

Finally, Adam stops short, as if catching himself, and says more quietly, “Now the smog and light pollution in Los Angeles limit the observation of deep space.”

“That seems like a shame,” Nigel says. He’s more saying what he thinks the kid wants to hear but Adam accepts it as sincerity.

“It is,” Adam agrees. “Now the telescopes are mostly used to public viewing.”

And suddenly, Nigel sees where he’s going with this, and his grin is back in full force, sly and pleased. “Adam,” he purrs, “are you inviting me on a date to the observatory?”

“It’s not a date,” Adam says, and it’s hard to take offence when he says it in a matter-of-fact way like that. “I don’t date men. I’m heterosexual.”

“Ah.” Nigel wonders how long that will last, but he’s up for the challenge. That will only make it all the more satisfying when Adam gives in. “Just two friends, then. Spending time together and sharing common interests?”