Page 60 of The Menagerie

Mal gives him a shrug as he dumps a few ice cubes from his water into his mouth and crunches them loudly. “Better than you makin’ somethin’ up.” Then he stuffs one of the few fries left on his plate through his lips, and Rowan’s not even sure he’s finished chewing his ice yet. “Don’t gotta figure it out right now long as you’re not actively disliking the shit we do.”

“No, I—” Rowan starts, then pauses to rack his brain. He wants to be able to give Mal an answer, something more concrete thanI dunno. But whatdoeshe want from this, outside of some good—great—sex with a hot—gorgeous—guy?

He thinks about his past, about the clubs and the drugs and the booze and too many nameless men. About flying off the rails and losing control and beingso sickbut not knowing it. About his diagnoses and his family’s desperate, relentless attempts to keep him stable, keep him alive, despite the hell he gave them for it.

With all that in mind, he finds that the answer to Mal’s question, to what does he want, comes to him easier than he thought it would.

“I’ve kinda hurt a lot of people in the past. Family mostly, but exes and strangers too. Not physically, but emotionally. I wanna make someone feel good for a change. Be the one takin’ care of someone and worrying about them instead of myself. I mean, I kinda do that shit every day at work, but there it’s… clinical, I guess. Not really personal, even though I do care about all my patients. And I obviously like bein’ in control, think that shit’s obvious by now, but I like havin’ to work for it, not just begivenit ’cause someone feels bad for me. Makes me feel like I have a purpose, I guess.”

Done with his speech, he finds Mal looking at him curiously. Like he’s a puzzle he’d thought he’d finished but found a dozen more pieces to and doesn’t quite know what to do with them. Rowan can only hope that when he figures it out, he’ll like what he sees.

“I get that,” Mal says eventually.

While Rowan hadn’t exactly been seeking hisapprovalin his answer, it feels good to have some semblance of it nonetheless.

Then Mal adds, casual as ever, “Sounds like we’re a good match.”

And fuck if that doesn’t release the floodgates of…somethingin Rowan. Some tingling warmth he doesn’t know how to name emanating from his core and radiating out to his limbs, pooling neatly in his fingertips and making them twitch where they sit on the table. He tries to hide the unintended gesture by wiping his fingers on the paper napkin he’d balled up next to his empty plate, but Mal’s amused-looking smirk tells him he wasn’t all that successful at hiding his reaction.

Sue him. He’d been thinking the same thing, and to have the sentiment echoed back is overwhelming. Rowan lets himself bask in the feeling.

They fall into another comfortable silence, each picking at the scraps of their food. Right before midnight, a shared look passes between them, a mutualYou good?that has them both stacking their plates at the end of the table and gathering their things.

Barely a minute later, the same busser as last time comes to their table to collect their empty dishes, once again assuring them that it’s on the house. As they slide out of the booth, Mal sighs and reaches into his back pocket, but Rowan stops him with a hand on his elbow.

“I got it. You paid last time.”

Mal doesn’t protest, simply nods his thanks.

“But uh, I have no idea how much any of that cost,” Rowan tells him.

“Twenty-eight fifty,” Mal replies instantly.

Stunned, Rowan asks, “You just… know that?”

“Been comin’ here forever, man. Give her a good tip.”

And with that, Mal heads to the door, raising his hand in a wave to Sheila across the diner as he does. He pulls out a cigarette while he’s halfway out the door and quickly lights it before the door is even fully closed behind him, the flame glowing bright among the streetlights and the neon signs hanging in the windows.

Then he’s disappeared from view, and Rowan approaches Sheila at the counter.

“Hi, Sheila,” he says.

“Hi, honey. How was everything?”

“Great! The pie especially. Probably the best I’ve ever had.”

Sheila’s eyes light up at the compliment. For a split second, she reminds him of his mother in one of her manic baking sprees, making something deep inside Rowan ache until he shoves the feeling down so he doesn’t do something crazy like ask the woman for a hug.

“Glad to hear it. You need somethin’ else?” she asks.

“Oh no, just wanted to pay.”

“Bah,” she exclaims, waving him off with an exaggerated arm gesture. “I told him no.”

“I appreciate it, but Campbells always pay their debts.” He pauses, thinking back to the diner last week when she’d asked his last name, and rolls his eyes. “Hank excluded, obviously.”

She huffs a laugh at the last bit, clearly knowing it to be true somehow, but nonetheless seems to relent and pulls out her order pad to scribble down their orders before sliding him the slip across the counter. Exactly like Mal had said, the total inked at the bottom is $28.50, tax included. Something a lot like admiration sparks in Rowan’s chest. This feeling, he doesn’t try to push away.

---