Found Wanting: Goodnight, Gracie

[lb_lee]

Summary: Bob and Grey share a stiff Thanksgiving, a miserable office Christmas party, and a secret.
Word Count: 3100
Notes: Drinking and Christmas and post-9/11 jingoism, but nothing much intense.

Goodnight, Gracie

 

It was the stiffest Thanksgiving dinner I ever had.

Grey showered, replaced both uniform and steel rod, and silently waved me into 1990’s most boring, practical sedan, but I was determined not to fall for the hardass act this time. Anyone who’d trolled me that successfully had earned my full attention, and I’d felt something in that break room.

 

My apartment was still half full of boxes, but at least I’d cleaned up the Eugene Smedley conspiracy bunker and stopped piling dishes everywhere. Grey looked like the kind of person who ironed for fun, but I tried not to be embarrassed, just swept a half-built computer out of the way and said, “Pardon the mess; I wasn’t expecting company. Shoes off.”

After a tense glance around, Grey knelt to silently unlace. I went to turn on the oven, pull out pie-making supplies, and grab a bottle of wine. I’d need it.

“You drink?”

“A little.”

Oh, thank god. I got wineglasses, and when I turned, I found Grey in tie and shirt sleeves, washing up and making a beeline for the pie stuff.

“You’re my guest; you don’t have to—” Grey gave me a look like a dog desperate to go out, and the words withered on my tongue. “Okay.”

Grey’s sleeves had little button straps to hold them up. The scars were still a jolt, but I was getting used to them, enough to notice something else: Grey’s arms were shaved.

Hm. Maybe I wasn’t the only one flagging rainbows amidst the navy blue…

I handed over the Brie and Braeburns. “Chop these. I’m doing the chicken.”

I racked my brains while Grey chopped apples and cheese, but by the time I had the chicken spiced and sauteing, I’d come to the conclusion that I couldn’t ask… or tell. If I was wrong, I was sunk. Worse, I was washed. And girder or not, Grey was the only one I felt safe working for since September 11th.

Biting my tongue, I glanced over at Grey, grimly rolling out pie crust, tie thrown over one shoulder. The sight was incongruous enough to lighten my mood… until I noticed the muscles working in Grey’s scarred, shaved forearms.

Ah. So that was what I’d felt in the break room. Well, if my libido had to choose badly, at least it’d chosen someone guaranteed not to notice.

Grey looked up, cheek streaked with flour. I resisted the urge to wipe it away and say a line. Instead, I passed my towel over. “You’ve got flour there.”

Grey brushed it off. “This one’s done.”

“Good. Give it here.” Grey did, looking expectant. After a moment, I realized why. “Oh, we’re only making the one. Apple cheese chicken.”

I got out the pie tin, crammed everything in, shoved it into the oven to bake, and popped the naan, bhatia kadhi, and shaak into the microwave. The rice cooker was all set. Now for the hard part: getting Grey talking. But what did you talk about with someone this reticent? What did we have in common?

Work. “You know StanG?” I asked, pouring the wine.

Grey accepted the glass with a shrug. “Better with SGSL.”

SGSL was StanG Sign Language. Same writing system. “Would you be willing to teach me some? That whole case, I felt at sea with that auto-translated garbage, and I hated feeling snowed.”

“Shouldn’t have happened,” Grey said, and for a moment, I thought I caught a hint of professional irritation. “Williamson’s job.” Then, as though realizing my question was still unanswered, “Yes.”

“Thanks.” The next Apur would have a tougher job. More important, it’d give me a respectable, heterosexual excuse to meet Grey outside of work.

The microwave dinged, and I passed out plates and silverware. Grey seemed uncertain—probably none of the dishes were familiar—but dug in, only to go still and sit there without chewing.

My staring must’ve been too obvious. “Delicious,” Grey said, and set in.

“Damn right,” I said, trying not to be too pleased with myself.

“Nut fudge was too. Thank you.”

“The kaju katli? No problem. I liked the macaroons.” I had to know. “How did you know about Diwali?”

Grey hesitated. “Looked it up at the library. They have encyclopedias.”

Not even the Internet. Then I realized something even weirder: Grey couldn’t have done it right away. It would’ve had to wait for at least an hour or two, because… “The day I mentioned it, you clearly had an appointment with Management after me. What was that about, anyway?”

Grey drank. “Want me out of the field.”

I nearly spilled my wine. “What? Why?”

Grey cranked one shoulder til it popped. “Getting old.” Then, with a spark that was exactly the personality I’d sensed in the break room (and would’ve pleased me under normal circumstances), “thought you wanted a transfer.”

“Yeah, until all the trigger-happy young fellows started flooding Ops. At least you don’t think I’m a terrorist.” I steadied myself with more wine. “So?”

“Told them no. I hate desk work.”

I relaxed. “The boys upstairs let you say no to them?”

Grey looked away. “Not always. Still made you work on Diwali.”

“What do you mean?”

Grey hesitated, then admitted, “Asked them to let you off.”

I remembered how I’d behaved. “After I snapped at you?”

“Wasn’t about me.”

Well, no, but… “But you realize I was wrong to do it, right?”

Grey just stared at me blankly. I felt like a heel.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“It’s fine.”

It wasn’t, but Grey was stiffening up again, so I said, “Then thank you for trying,” and topped off the offered wineglass. “Why didn’t you say so before?”

Grey had apparently drunk enough to joke. “Didn’t want you to like me.”

“Ha! Too late,” I teased, “you’re never getting rid of me now.”

Grey didn’t laugh or smile, but it looked touch and go for a moment. Maybe I was getting somewhere. Maybe I could—

No. No, I couldn’t.

Maybe I didn’t have to. “After all,” I said, “you’re a Barbarian Barbara fan.”

Grey perked up. “You watch?”

“I modded a forum for it in the nineties. I might still have a couple fanzines for it somewhere.” Barbarian Barbara had an infamously queer fanbase. Maybe…

No. “I watch the reruns after work.”

Straight? Or terminally square? I tried again. “What got you into it?”

“The actress is good. You?”

“I like the mythology.” Ah hell, why not, subterfuge wasn’t getting me anywhere. “And I like women who can break me in half.”

And Specialist Ironass, battleaxe of the PIN, went wide-eyed and turned pink. Now there was a surprise. I liked that—

“You too?” I asked innocently.

The oven timer went off, and Grey about jumped to get the pie out. Out of view, I kicked myself. Down, boy. Stop it. Maybe Grey wasn’t queer at all, just a sub in denial… and wasn’t that a mental image…

Distraction came when Grey plopped the pie down. It’d come out a beauty, bursting out of its crust from all the food groups crammed into it. I pulled out the pie-slicer and affected magisterial dignity.

“You are now part of a grand, noble tradition,” I announced, heaving slices onto our plates, “one I’ve had since undergrad. After a godawful day like today, you make this pie,” get high out of your mind, “and eat it. Take it from a fat boy: food is a mood stabilizer.”

I had gotten through innumerable finals, break-ups, and travails with this pie. I never thought I’d be sharing one with Grey, of all people, but there was a lot about the past year I hadn’t expected. And Grey did eat two big slices.

“Wonderful,” Grey said, settling back. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” By all means, eye candy, keep thanking me. “I’ll send you back with some, keep you out of the office fridge.”

So on the whole, a not-terrible dinner. What’s more, the following Monday evening, Grey arrived at my cube with a copy of the StanG alphabet tables, a tattered old pocket dictionary, and a cheat-sheet of peripherals. Success!

After that, we built a routine. Three days a week, we’d clear a table in the break room, Grey would drive off anyone who might interrupt, and we’d spend a respectable hour learning the lingua franca.

It was a royal pain in the ass. I’d learned all my languages as a child, not an adult in my late forties. StanG was hard, SGSL hellish. Adding insult to injury, Grey (who usually had the world’s stiffest wrists) signed like poetry in motion. It wasn’t fair.

“Do you prefer sign to talking?” I asked once. “You look like you do.”

Grey’s hands went stiff and still again. “Yes.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That wasn’t an insult.”

“Talk is a lot. Too much. Can’t keep up.” Grey signed an open-mouthed pull, as though trying to drag out words—nothing in SGSL, I’d learn later, but “over word-budget” in Grey.

“Well then,” I said, “all the more reason for me to learn SGSL.”

Every once in a while, I got a similar flicker of personality, but most of the time, I just got lessons. Every time we finished, Grey gave me a ride home, I offered dinner or Barbarian Barbara watches and got a, “no, thank you.” There was no way to push without looking like I was making a pass, so I didn’t.

Things went along like this for a month or so, until one day we set up only for a new guy to harry us out. Apparently being forced to work here wasn’t bad enough; we had to perform our devotion in our off-hours too by ducking in to the office Christmas—ahem, “winter holiday” party.

I groaned, “I don’t even celebrate this damn holiday!” Or get it off.

“Me either,” Grey said bitterly.

I blinked. “You don’t?”

Grey said nothing, just kept packing up with obvious reluctance.

“I… just assumed you were Christian.”

Still nothing.

“If I might ask, what…?”

Grey’s shoulders tensed. “Jewish. Atheist.”

“Hindu atheist; nice to meet you.” Grey relaxed a little. “You’re the old horse; how long until we can bolt?”

“Fifteen minutes. I’ll drive you home. No one will argue with me.”

“You’re the best, boss.” Even I could handle fifteen minutes, especially if Grey was suffering with me.

There was nothing like government-mandated holiday cheer at a place you hated. They hosted it in the conference room with the chairs pushed to the walls and glittery plastic snowflakes taped over the management fad slogans on the blackboard. The conference table had been draped in a plastic red-and-green tablecloth and covered in cheap chips, a limp salad platter, and brightly colored punch. Cloying carols played through the speakers.

Grey went to go lurk in a corner. I took a low-fat sugar-free cookie shaped like a snowman.

At the best of times, the PIN probably threw depressing parties, but add in the September 11th churn and it was tense. Everyone was laughing too loud and smiling too big, pretending they weren’t watching each other like vultures circling a carcass. People were dividing down the line of the old horses and the new restructure guys, putting my August-hired ass in an awkward position. I couldn’t blame Jenny for going off to neck with Specialist MacIntire in the supply closet.

Grey didn’t even make it the full fifteen minutes, disappeared while I was in the restroom, and when I came back, Randall and Hernandez (who’d clearly done some drinking) were making noble declarations about terrorists, the sanctity of America, and the war on Christmas.

I tried to edge out, but that got Randall’s attention.

“What’s your problem, Doshi? Are we bothering you?”

I tried to keep smiling. “Come on, Randall…”

Now he was starting to come over. Weedy or not, he was still taller than I was, and everyone else was looking away with uncomfortable smiles, so I was relieved when Specialist Larkin came to my rescue and whisked me off.

“Hey! Hey!” Randall whined. “Come on, Larkin!”

“Cool off, Randall,” she said over her shoulder. “Drink some water.”

“Thank you,” I said, once we were safely out of the room. “I’m going to go find Grey; I want my ride home.”

“Good idea. I’ll keep things from blowing up here, at least til you get back, but then I’m leaving too; someone’s spiked the punch and I think it’s going to get ugly. Let me know if you need me for a substitute ride.”

A couple of the second shifters were in the break room, looking resentful, but no Grey. No luck in the bathrooms either.

In hindsight, it was obvious. Where else would a workaholic like Grey hide but the office? Not at the desk, though—on the floor, sitting against the wall. If I hadn’t heard humming, I never would’ve realized.

I tried the door, found it unlocked, and came in. “I don’t know that song.”

“Romberg,” Grey replied from the corner in an over-enunciated voice. “Supposed to be a tenor part. Mario Lanza.”

“I see you got into the punch,” I said, noting the plastic cup on the chair.

Grey made a face.

I sipped from the cup, almost lost my nose hair, and hastily put it back. “Wow, this is vile. How much have you had?”

Solemnly: “Too much.”

“No kidding.” I shut the door and sat against it, making myself as comfortable as I could on the cheap carpet. Forms were stacked on the floor between us; when I picked one up, I discovered it was a case report from the day prior. “Are you doing paperwork? What a boy scout!”

Grey plucked the paper out of my hand and replaced it on the stack, carefully aligning the corners. “Not a boy scout. What’re you doing here?”

“Looking for you and avoiding Randall and Hernandez.”

Grey frowned. “Hassling you?”

“They’re feeling patriotic, let’s put it that way. Larkin bailed me out, but I think I’ve had enough. You want to get out of here?”

Clearly yes, but Grey grimaced. “Can’t drive like this.”

I held out my hand. “I’m sober. Or we can call a cab.”

After a brief search, Grey dropped the car keys into my hand.

“Wow,” I said. “You do hate these parties.”

Grey made the “over word-budget” sign. “Too loud. Too much.” With a sigh, slumping against the wall: “Not good with people. Treat me wrong.”

“Do I treat you wrong?”

Silence. Then, “You’re not afraid of me.”

“People aren’t scared of you, Grey.”

That got me a skeptical look.

“Okay, some of them are,” I amended, “but most of them, I think they just don’t know what to say to you. You’re not exactly Mr. Approachable.”

Grey winced. “No Mr. Not a Mr.”

“Specialist Approachable,” I revised, and that passed muster.

I should’ve caught on then, but as it was, we got up to go. Grey was a little clumsy and over-coordinated but could still walk well enough unassisted. My disappointment gave me an idea.

“Do me a favor?”

Grey looked up—well, down.

“Pretend you’re drunker. You’re my ticket past Randall and Hernandez.”

I held out my arm, and after a moment, Grey took it, trying to touch me as little as possible. Ah well, I could still enjoy it.

We had to go past the conference room to leave—and anyway, I wanted Larkin to know we were leaving. I waved… and caught Randall’s eye. With the doggedness of the drunk, he picked up right where he’d left off.

“We’re not done!”

“Yes, we are. Do you mind? I have to go pour Grey into bed.”

That just made him and Hernandez think they needed to ask permission.

“Grey,” Hernandez made as though to grab my other arm, “we need to talk to Doshi. Let us borrow him for a second.”

“No,” Grey said.

“But—”

“No.”

“Come on—”

Grey went into laser-beam stare mode. “No.”

There was a tense moment, but apparently Randall and Hernandez weren’t so drunk as to pick a fight with Specialist Ironass. They exchanged glances, shrugged, and disavowed me like cats.

With a grateful look, I said in my best George Burns, “say goodnight, Grey.”

The reference must’ve come through. “Goodnight, Gracie.”

That’s when I caught on.

It was just as well that Grey was too sloshed to notice or talk beyond giving me directions. By the time I got to Grey’s apartment complex (big, ugly, beige), I had thought of a dozen things to say and a million reasons not to say them. Unaware, Grey saved me with a, “Thank you,” and even a hint of a smile.

That knocked me out of it. “Careful. They won’t be scared of you anymore.”

A stranger could see that smile now. “Goodnight, Bob.”

I handed over the keys and took the plunge. “You know, I’m bi.”

Grey froze. Looked up.

“My niecephew, they’re a they, been giving me transgender liberation speeches all year.” If I was wrong about this, Randall and Hernandez would be the least of my worries. “I just wanted to tell you, since I’m trying to be friends with you and I’m lousy at hiding it.”

Grey stared at me hard. Silence. Shit. I’d fucked myself.

But then… “Grace. My name’s Grace.”

“Grace,” I said, trying it out. “It suits you. She?”

“Yes. But not at work.” Hesitantly: “you?”

“Just he. I’ve never been good at it, though… anyway, I’m going to call myself a cab, get myself home.” Die of relief. “Goodnight, Grace. Happy Nondescript Winter Holiday.”

I pulled my phone out of my pocket but Grey waved to get my attention.

“Company?” she asked. “While you wait.”

I blinked. “Sure, if you’re offering.”

Together, we perched on the trunk of Grey’s car to wait for the cab.

“Niecephew?” she asked.

I had photos in my wallet, along with their siblings. Grey let me blather and gush, didn’t seem to notice that I was babbling, looking at me like she was wondering where the hell I’d come from. Her eyes were hazel; I’d never noticed before. When the cab pulled up and I got up to go, she waved again. “Barbarian Barbara has a movie.”

“I heard.” It’d been the talk of my old forum friends. “I’ve heard it’s big dumb cheese, just my style.”

“Still showing at Autumnville Theater.”

“The one with the murals and the velvet Elvis museum?” She hadn’t struck me as the kind of person who’d go there.

But she nodded. “Want to go?”

“What, now? We don’t know the show times, Ms. Sociable!”

She shrugged. “Velvet Elvises are nice.”

I cracked up. “Sure, Grace. I’m all yours.”

We both got in the cab.