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wander-over-the-words · 6 months

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BioFluff Week 2023 Fic #3

Title: Hey, Good Lookin’

Prompt: Food/Cooking

Summary: The one where Sinclair has a secret dinner date.

Characters: Augustus Sinclair, Johnny Topside; mentions of Sander Cohen, Andrew Ryan, Stanley Poole, Frank Fontaine, Grace Holloway, Tasha Denu, Gilbert Alexander.

Pairing: Augustus Sinclair/Johnny Topside.

Warnings: alcohol consumption; mentioned sex (no actual nsfw or ‘fade to black’ happens, but like. it’s date night, it’s gonna happen and they both know it, and also it’s mentioned they’ve banged before), kidnapping, period-typical homophobia, forced imprisonment.

Notes: Third submission for a new BioFluff Week! Here’s the response to the prompt ‘Cooking’! Take this as a sort of preview of an AU I’ve had in my back pocket for a while now. You could also say this is the first time Delta’s ever spoken in one of my fics ;3

Songs used: Night and Day, Crazy He Calls Me and Easy Living, all by Billie Holiday.

All material belongs to Irrational Games.

Fic also available on AO3.

…

It’s a thirty-seventy split on how often Sinclair cooks for himself and how often he dines at one of the many restaurants out in Rapture. He’s a capable man, ain’t one of those fellas who leaves the kitchen work to the lady of the house (and not just because there ain’t a chance in hell of there ever being a lady in his house), and he does honestly enjoy the art of cooking. Got tons of recipes stored away in his mind, some from his childhood and some adopted from his time building up his riches after he’d moved to Georgia, alongside his accent and perfect English.

But then he’s also a man who enjoys being rich, and he enjoys what he’s capable of doing since he’s rich; one of those things is the ability to afford wining and dining whenever he damn well pleases. One doesn’t get a tummy like his without spoiling themselves, after all.

Tonight, though, wining and dining isn’t an option, unless Sinclair wants the rumour mill to downright implode upon itself.

He’s humming along to the record gently spinning on its player in the living room as he prepares a sauce for the pasta he’s planning on cooking, apron tied around his neck and waist to protect his date night getup: a nice formal ensemble, complete with navy blue waistcoat and matching slacks, red tie, shiny black shoes and, embedded in the cuffs of his perfectly white shirt, a pair of gold cufflinks in the shapes of sharks that he’d bought for himself as a birthday present (and he’s sure his date will appreciate them, even if the kid’s favourite animals are actually whales; will probably see ‘em and immediately ask if Sinclair would like to hear an interesting fact about sharks, bless him).

The finely-chopped beef and onions have browned within the pan, and Sinclair’s added the tomato sauce and tomato paste; he glances at the clock to check the time - five minutes until seven o’clock - before he grabs a bulb of garlic, loosens it, then picks out three of its cloves to mince and add to the sauce. A few more seasonings, a dash of sugar and a bit of a mix later, and Sinclair adjusts the temperature to let the sauce simmer.

He grabs a tall pot from the cupboard next to his left knee and fills it halfway with water from the tap, then sets it upon a ring on his stove, flicks the temperature up and prepares to wait for it to boil.

And good timing, too - because there comes a sound at his front door.

Knock, knock, knock.

Sinclair pauses immediately, looking toward the entryway to the kitchen behind him without turning his head, waits for a second, then he slowly holds up an index finger.

Knock, knock, knock.

Second finger goes up. Wait.

There’s a beat where nothing happens, and Sinclair cocks his head, arching an eyebrow, and then…

…Knock, knock, knock.

Three fingers, and Sinclair bobs his head in a pleased nod as he grins.

He whisks his apron off and steps out of his kitchen, making his way to the front door; the knock selected for their code is finished, which means Sinclair knows exactly who it is.

He stands in front of the door and composes himself, holds out his hands and shuts his eyes, then hovers a hand in front of his face and wipes downwards in the air. As his hand moves, his grin is replaced with an irritated frown, and only once he’s confident that he can keep that frown in place does he open the door.

“For the love of God, kid!” he immediately says to the tall man standing on his doorstep, stern and purposely loud, with his hands on his hips. “I thought I informed you of the rules when yer workin’ for me: namely, that none of the folks on my payroll are allowed anywhere near my place of residence unless it’s a dire emergency!”

“Oh, I’m awful sorry to bother you at this late hour, Mr. Sinclair,” Johnny Topside says, looking so frightfully worried and embarrassed, with his shoulders lifted like he’s trying to hide behind them, clutching a pile of papers tied with string to his chest as he looks anywhere but Sinclair, “but I just…I just can’t wrap my head around this paperwork you wanted me to sort out and I-I didn’t wanna screw anything up, so I…I thought it best to bring it to you, just in case…!”

Sinclair huffs a sigh as he leans a hand against his doorway, using his other hand to pinch his brow.

“This is the third time this has happened, son,” he says, then drops his hand from his face so that he can frown sharply at Topside. “Personally, I’m startin’ to think I’m gonna need to look for a new assistant.”

“Oh - Oh, no, p-please, don’t fire me, Mr. Sinclair!” Topside exclaims, looking at Sinclair in the face now. “I-I really need this job, it’s the best one I’ve been offered! I swear, I’ll get better at it, if you…i-if you just show me how…?”

Sinclair sighs again and looks away as he considers it, then he looks back at Topside as he nods to gesture at his apartment. He steps aside.

“Fine. Get on in here, quick - before I end up changin’ my mind.”

“Thank you, sir…” Topside mumbles as he hurries into the apartment, nearly dropping his stack of papers as he goes.

As casually as he can, Sinclair glances around the hall of the Mercury Suites to check for witnesses, then he steps back into his apartment proper and clicks to shut and lock the door - and the second the door is closed, he turns on his heel, marches over to Topside, snatches the papers from Topside’s hands and nonchalantly throws them aside, then he reaches up to grab the lapels of Topside’s overcoat in his hands and pulls him down for a kiss.

Topside allows himself to be pulled in, fully expecting it, and reciprocates immediately. He settles into the smooch with one hand cupping the back of Sinclair’s neck while the other arm wraps itself around his waist.

They lock lips for several long moments, repeatedly breaking and restarting kisses, until Sinclair leans back and opens his eyes to grin up at him.

“Five star performance as always, kid,” he says, reaching up and resting his wrists on Topside’s shoulders to loosely hug his neck with his hands. “Are you sure you don’t wanna head back down to the theatre an’ tell ol’ Cohen you’ve reconsidered his offer ta go up on stage?”

“Oh, gosh, no,” Topside replies, “I’m nervous enough goin’ up on the small stage. Besides, uh,” his brow furrows as he looks away, “he, uh…he upsets me.”

“Aww. You don’t like the fella responsible for your new name?” Sinclair asks, and when he receives a displeased frown - borderline pout - in return, he chuckles and adds, “I’m just messin’, honey - and don’t worry ‘bout it, that man upsets the lot of us.”

Then he presses another kiss to Topside’s mouth.

More kisses are shared, then Topside’s breaking the pattern to turn his head in the direction of the kitchen, still so close that Sinclair is two inches away from kissing his cheek.

“Somethin’ smells heavenly, though!”

“Mm-hmm. Makin’ spaghetti.”

“Oh, goodie,” Topside says cheerfully, and Sinclair has to chuckle at his unbridled enthusiasm for something as simple as spaghetti, let alone the fact that he chooses to use the word ‘goodie’. “I’m famished.”

“Well, that’s good news for the both of us, cause I went an’ stopped by the bakery on my way home too. Picked up a li’l sweet somethin’ for dessert. An’ then after that, well…” there’s a twinkle in his eye as he smirks thoughtfully, looking at Topside from under his eyelashes, “we’ll just hafta see where the night takes us next, now, won’t we?”

He slides his hands across Topside’s shoulders and down his arms with a deliberate slowness, pressing down upon Topside’s flesh in a massage that can’t even be disguised as casual - especially not with the fact that Sinclair isn’t at all shy nor subtle in the way he rakes his gaze up and down Topside’s body.

“Could just be, chief,” Sinclair goes on, lifting his gaze to Topside’s rounded, beet-red face, “that one of your awful headaches comes around ta ruin our dinner plans, an’ you’ll end up havin’ ta stay the night…”

Smirk widening, he winks, as if Topside needs a hint on what Sinclair means, as if they haven’t done this kind of rendezvous several times already. It’s just fun to mess with the kid, that’s all - he gets all shy.

On cue, Topside gives a hard enough swallow that his Adam’s apple does a jump in his throat.

“...Just might,” he says slowly, “be feelin’ one coming on already…” then he adds, “boss.”

“Hm. Well, from my experience, I know how painful they are for ya,” Sinclair puts a hand to his heart, all humble-like, while his other hand lays itself on Topside’s chest, “and I just cannot - with my dear conscience intact - allow one o’ my finest employees to try an’ make it home on his own, in such a terrible condition.”

Topside gulps again, then nods.

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Sinclair.”

“It is kind o’ me, isn’t it?”

Sinclair chuckles as he drops the joke, then leans up to press a final kiss to Topside’s mouth before he winks again and turns to go.

“I’ll go on an’ fetch you some wine, honey - you go ahead and make yourself comfortable.”

Sinclair pulls himself from Topside’s arms, starting a saunter to the kitchen, but stops when he catches sight of the papers he’d flung to the floor earlier; he’d thought they were just blank pages, but now that he takes a closer look at them, he sees they’re covered with writing and numbers.

He arches a brow, then looks to Topside over his shoulder.

“Where did you say you got these papers?”

“Oh, uh, I didn’t, but I ripped ‘em out of a phonebook,” Topside says, fiddling with his tie with one hand. “Figured it’d be the most, ah, believable - though, I suppose I should put ‘em back, otherwise I won’t be able to, ah, heh…call anyone. Heh.”

Topside moves to stoop down to pick up the papers as Sinclair sincerely laughs at the joke, then cocks his head, setting a hand on his hip.

“An’ you’re always tellin’ me you ain’t brainy, lookit you.”

“Oh, I’m not,” Topside replies with a casualness that Sinclair dislikes, head down as he straightens the pile of pages, the string having loosened when Sinclair tossed them, before he stands back up with the papers held to his chest. “Ask any o’ my old schoolteachers, they’ll tell you. Good with my hands, not my brain.”

Sinclair scoffs at the notion, then realises the record that’s been playing since he’d started prepping the meal is starting to wind down, and so before going to get that wine for the two of them, he strolls over to the player to change the record.

“Well, I’ll vouch for that first skill you mentioned,” Sinclair says as he sets the new record down on the turntable, then delicately picks up the needle to get the music back, “but I choose to politely ignore that second part.”

Topside smiles at him, then turns around to put the papers on the nearby coffee table. He pats them twice, like he’s telling them to stay, then straightens up and follows Sinclair into the kitchen.

Immediately, Sinclair fetches the bottle of wine he’d set aside for the evening - a dark, rich brand that had cost a pretty penny - and opens the drawer by his hip to grab the corkscrew.

Topside’s gaze drifts over the counter space that Sinclair has used to prepare their meal, then winces, sucks a breath through his teeth and rubs the back of his neck with one hand.

“Y’know, I’m, uh…I’m startin’ to feel a little guilty here,” Topside says.

Sinclair arches an eyebrow, stabbing the screw into the wine’s cork.

“And what would you be feelin’ guilty about, honey?”

“Well,” Topside doesn’t look at Sinclair as he speaks, still holding his neck, letting his hand hang off of it by its fingers, “you’ve cooked for me a good handful o’ times now, and I feel like I’m not…playin’ equal, as it were.”

Sinclair scoffs, a sound that’s nearly completely overshadowed by the pop of the cork coming free from the wine bottle’s lips.

“Now, that’s not true. You’ve cooked for me before, remember?” he says as he reaches up above himself to retrieve two crystal wine glasses from the cabinet, then starts pouring the wine. “I do: made me a mighty delicious breakfast each mornin’ you’ve woken up in my apartment - unless, of course, I’m thinkin’ of some other cuddlebug who I allow to lay between my sheets.”

(And what a treat that first time had been, waking up to the smell of bacon and eggs and toast and walking into his kitchen to find the man who’d made him worry about the thickness of his apartment’s walls cooking for him - and to add the bow to that present, Topside had elected to only dress in his drawers and Sinclair’s apron, like he was trying to make Sinclair’s version of Heaven a reality. He’d said it was because he was distracted by his own idea of cooking breakfast on the way back from the bathroom, and Sinclair believes him because God knows, the man’s mind moves a mile a minute, but…well. Yeah, Sinclair had been late to work that morning - and was wearing his shirt collar suspiciously high.)

Red in the face, Topside briefly gets distracted by the nickname, uttering a small “Oh, gosh…!” as he grins and looks down at his twiddling thumbs, flustered, before he clears his throat and forces himself to focus on what they were just discussing.

“But that’s breakfast, that’s…that feels a lot easier than a big dinner like this.” He gestures at all that Sinclair’s done. “Dinner feels more…more special, y’know?”

“Well, pumpkin,” Sinclair carries the glasses over to him, offering one out that’s taken immediately with a hushed word of thanks, “if we were to have these rendezvous at your place, folks would be wonderin’ why I’m suddenly so partial to spendin’ nights at my own hotel. Not to mention, the walls are a lot thinner there and, well, that’s no good for anybody involved, now, is it? Whole point of meetin’ here is so we don’t get into any trouble that we can’t afford ta be in. I dunno ‘bout you, but I’m not too keen on speakin’ in whispers the whole evenin’ we spend together.”

“Oh, I know, I just…I wanna cook for you.”

Sinclair watches as Topside clears his throat and looks Sinclair in the eye, then frowns with determination and straightens up, puffing out his chest.

“You should, uh. Lemme cook for you. Properly.”

Sinclair smiles into his wine glass at the sight of him: his fella, who’s always shy and reserved, not wanting to take up much space or bother anybody, who’s always mild-mannered and careful not to offend, with that big ol’ serious look on his face.

Only time Sinclair’s ever seen him drop the gentlemanly approach was when they first met, at the Sinclair Spirits down in Fort Frolic, and that had only been because Topside was full of booze from drowning his sorrows.

“Well - I’d never turn down the offer of a good-lookin’ man wantin’ to cook me a dinner,” Sinclair says, his words cracking the confidence Topside’s applied; he sees the kid’s face bloom bright red and his frown and straightened posture falter. “You’ll hafta share with me the recipe, though. Whole plan’ll fall apart quicker ‘an a house o’ playin’ cards if anybody spots you turnin’ up at my door with armfuls of groceries.”

“I’ll pay for ‘em,” Topside says the instant Sinclair’s stopped speaking, still frowning. “Pay you back for ‘em.”

Sinclair hums through another smile and sips his wine.

“In the meantime,” Topside says, and the confident mask falls as he rubs his neck again, “is there any way I can help right now?”

Sinclair huffs a laugh, then gestures towards the small, round, mahogany table off to the side of the kitchen, initially used for whenever Sinclair needed extra space when preparing meals or wanted a different view than the one in the actual dining room, now used whenever Topside stops by for a date.

“If it means that much to you, sugar, the table needs settin’.”

Topside looks over at it, then nods once.

“I can do that,” he says happily, then sets his glass of wine on the counter and goes off to do just that.

Sinclair titters as he turns back to where dinner’s cooking, setting his glass of wine aside for now. He retrieves his apron and ties it back around himself, then collects the spaghetti from a separate cabinet; water’s more than boiled by now. He turns down the temperature, lest the water boil over, but before he can put the spaghetti in the pot, he finds himself distracted, looking over his shoulder at his fella.

Topside’s collected a tablecloth from the cupboard he knows they’re kept in and now he’s unfolding it, then wafting it through the air to straighten it out before gently laying it over the table. He pats and smooths out creases, then grabs a couple of coasters from the pile of them that Sinclair leaves on the far end of the kitchen counter, next to the fridge, and takes them back to the table, placing them carefully down like he’s balancing them precariously. He then collects his glass and places it down on one of them, in front of the seat that faces Sinclair.

Topside shrugs off his black overcoat and the blazer he wears underneath that, then lays both of them over one of the two chairs at the table. He then pops the buttons on his cuffs and rolls them over before drawing his sleeves up to his elbows, and as Topside goes back to the cupboard he’d gotten the tablecloth from to get placemats, Sinclair lets out a soft sigh at the sight of those broad forearms.

Hell, everything about Topside is broad. His shoulders, his chest, his arms and legs; the first time Sinclair had seen him without his shirt, muscles on full display, he hadn’t hid his admiration for the shape the kid is in, and Topside had just shrugged and given a shy “I work out.”

They ain’t just for show, either: he’d lifted Sinclair into his arms no problem to carry him to his bedroom (something no man has ever done before; it’d honestly left him more than speechless), and besides, he was a diver before accidentally coming to Rapture, with the needed strength to carry one of those big suits on his back.

But the nicest thing about Topside’s physical form is that he isn’t like some of those boxers who take part in competitions down at The Fighting McDonagh’s Tavern, with their muscles so large that they look like they’ll break out of their skin at any moment, veins all popping and limbs abnormally bulky - an obvious case of ADAM usage (and maybe over-usage, in some).

Sinclair likes muscles on a man, but their kind just makes him wrinkle his nose a little in disgust; he can’t look at them without wondering how they’re so comfortable like that.

Topside, though - he did everything right when it came to bulking himself up because he’s muscular, but he’s lean as well, to the point that his muscles aren’t immediately noticeable when he’s got his overcoat and blazer on, but good God, they become noticeable after he takes off those outer layers and you can see the definition of his biceps and thighs in their respective sleeves, how wide his chest and shoulders are. All so natural that he could tell Sinclair that he’d popped out of his mother like that and Sinclair would believe him.

Besides, if there’s anything one notices when they first see him, it’s Topside’s height. Sinclair’s never met a man so tall before; Sinclair himself is a couple of inches off the average height of a man his age and he just barely reaches Topside’s shoulder, if they’re standing straight and not counting any lifts like shoes or hairstyles. A full foot over him, and he’s only seven years Sinclair’s junior.

His stature is part of why he’s ended up with the ‘Johnny Topside’ moniker: Johnny Topside was the name of the protagonist of one of Cohen’s films, a piece of propaganda for Ryan that he hadn’t dared allow Ryan to see beforehand, calling it his magnum opus. Ryan had put his trust in Cohen, and that had all been a mistake. It’d been a film about a diver discovering Rapture, falling in love with it the second his feet had touched Rapture’s floors, and abandoning his ideals and his life on (a wildly exaggerated version of) the surface entirely.

The film had been short-lived because Ryan took issue with someone coming to Rapture without an invitation, even when Cohen genuinely hadn’t meant offence, and all records of the film and its merchandise and posters had all been hurriedly hidden away somewhere in Fort Frolic. But it was too late: enough people had seen it that there were reviews in the papers and kids wanting to be ‘just like Johnny Topside’. From that point onward, Ryan saw it fit to instate an official rule that he see every piece of media produced in the city before it’s released to the public, the whole thing had been a great embarrassment to both Ryan and Cohen - and of course, Sinclair had gotten a laugh out of seeing the whole thing crash and burn.

The fella who played Johnny Topside in the movie was big too (not as big, but still big), as is Cohen’s preference in his leading men, and so when this diver had shown up in Rapture - in a suit nearly identical to the one of the character’s, with a similar build and seemingly living out the events of the long-lost film - everybody was convinced on what to ‘jokingly’ call him: this man is the real Johnny Topside. And thanks to some work from Stanley Poole and the Rapture Tribune, nearly everybody calls him that.

The only people who don’t are the ones Topside’s managed to personally befriend - because they’d been the ones to listen when he mentioned he actually hates being referred to by that nickname. Even Sinclair uses his real name, when he isn’t using the host of pet names he has for him.

And Sinclair doesn’t blame him for getting upset about it: a man’s allowed to hear his own name, after all. He personally hates it when people use any shortened form of Augustus, as the likes of Fontaine are wont to do (which is why Sinclair hates speaking with him; his name is not ‘Gus’). Besides, Sinclair saw that film when it premiered; gave it two stars at best, he’d fallen asleep during the second act and only woke up in time to see the very last scene.

Of course, Topside’s vastly aware of how big he is too; he’s always making sure he’s not in people’s personal space and trying to come off as friendly as possible from the quickdraw, so nobody gets intimidated by him. Not his fault he’s built so big, and the muscles are just used for heavy-lifting and the odd bit of DIY.

Topside’s already informed him of how he’d overheard some workers complaining about carrying a recent shipment and offered his help, thus spending a whole day down in Fontaine Fisheries lifting crates for no pay, and he remembers Topside telling him about how he’d help folks build anything from furniture to their garden sheds back on the surface - “And I’d only ask for a glass of lemonade in return.”

Sinclair had been the one to pay for Topside’s wardrobe, since the kid had come to him in a suit that was obviously too small for him (because all clothes are too small for him), and he still remembers the looks on the tailors’s faces when they’d measured Topside up.

Still, they’d worked their magic alright, and Topside’s now got a wardrobe that actually fits him comfortably. He’s come to Sinclair this evening in a black suit, patterned with white pinstripes; since he’s removed the blazer, his crisp, white shirt is exposed, alongside the dark grey sweater vest he’s got pulled over the top of it and the navy blue tie at his throat.

(Topside is also the only man Sinclair’s ever met that could make a sweater vest look attractive, the way it’s stretched over his pectorals until it’s taut, fitting but only just, in the same way that Topside’s rolled-up sleeves hug his biceps and his trousers hug his thighs.)

As he walks about Sinclair’s kitchen, collecting the salt and pepper shakers and the basket of napkins and placing them down in the centre of the table, his shiny, black shoes clack against the floor tiles. His dark hair also catches the light due to freshly-applied hair gel that he’s used to mould his hair into an impressive pompadour, like a large tube of spiralled hair atop his head, long enough that it stands out from Topside’s forehead, if just slightly, and loose enough that a few strands stick out at odd angles in a way that gives the style a little more charm. The hairstyle’s apparently all the rage up on the surface nowadays, but either way, Sinclair’s always appreciated a man who knows how to style his ‘do.

Got the body of a thug, the style and personality of a gentleman, and the gentleness of a lamb.

Could he be anymore Sinclair’s type?

The song on the album fades out. After a few seconds of silence, the next song - Billie Holiday’s Night and Day - blares and as he goes about collecting two plates from the higher cupboards and bringing them over to the table to put down upon the placemats, Topside starts quietly singing along, with a look on his face that clearly says he’s not aware he’s doing so.

“Night and day,

You are the one,

Only you beneath the moon

And under the sun

Whether near to me or far,

It’s no matter, darling, where you are

I think of you…”

There’s another thing: the pipes on this man.

Topside came to him one day, during the photoshoot for the newest line of Sinclair Spirits advertisements (the initial reason that the two of them have spoken beyond the one conversation), telling him how he’s gonna be getting up on stage down in Pauper’s Drop and would Sinclair like to come and watch.

Sinclair had elected to - and admittedly, the biggest reason for doing so was to keep the morale up amongst his workers. Topside was and still is the new ‘it’ celebrity in Rapture, and practically every business worth its salt wanted him to be a part of them for the profits he’d bring in, attaching his name and face to their products. Sinclair wanted to ensure Topside remained part of the Sinclair business family, and if taking an hour or two out of his day to listen to some singing was what it took to boost the kid’s opinion of him, then so be it.

(Not that that opinion hadn’t been high already; it couldn’t have been more obvious that Topside was carrying a torch for him.)

What he hadn’t counted on, however, was melting the second Topside had opened his mouth up on that stage. His plastered-on smile had fallen into open-mouthed shock and wide eyes.

Mother of mercy, he’d thought in awe, if he ain’t got the voice of an angel…!

He’s almost annoyed that Grace Holloway had discovered the man before he could (not that he has a music-based business, but - Sinclair Records?...There’s an idea, keep that one in his back pocket). Topside used to be the bartender in the Limbo Room and apparently, Grace had overheard him singing along to one of her rehearsals and had immediately gone out, grabbed him and pushed him up onto the stage.

Smart woman - the Limbo Room’s seen more traffic than ever. Topside doesn’t go on every night like Grace, but when he does, the place is swarming with folks who wanna come see him, either for his voice or his reputation. Almost makes Pauper’s Drop look less like a slum town - almost.

(He does wish Topside had taken his offer of getting him out of that town, but Topside had said he’d made friends there, and he’d feel like he was betraying them if he just went away like that on another man’s dime. The closest Sinclair got to convincing him to go elsewhere was changing the location of his bartending job, from the Limbo Room to the El Dorado Lounge over in Ryan Amusements; the least he can do, in the meantime, is make sure Topside’s got all he needs over in the Sinclair Deluxe. If anybody accuses him of having favourites, he’ll admit to it and point out that Topside is a dear employee of his, even if that hasn’t actually been the case for a while.)

Maybe he should be thanking Grace also, since hearing Topside sing for the first time had been the moment the ‘keep it professional’ lenses had been slapped away from his eyes, but then he could also laugh in her face about it, considering her well-known opinion of Augustus Sinclair.

Thank you, Miss Holloway, for making his life better. How thoughtful of you.

“Honey,” Sinclair says, interrupting Topside’s quiet singing as he gets back to dinner, putting the spaghetti into the pot, “when is it that you’re next showin’ your face at the Limbo Room?”

“Uhhh,” Topside says, staring into space as he ponders, clutching a fistful of cutlery and a lone fork in the other hand, “Friday, I believe. I’ll hafta ask Grace.”

He looks to Sinclair.

“Are - Are you gonna come watch?”

“Don’t I always?” Sinclair replies smoothly, eyeing the strands of spaghetti.

“Sure, but - but y’know, you don’t have to. If you’re busy, and all.”

Topside goes back to quietly setting down cutlery, adding, “I don’t wanna get in the way of your work.”

Sinclair smiles. “Please - you’re not gettin’ in the way of anything. Whole point o’ me showin’ up is that I’ve got nothin’ goin’ on worth missin’ your performance. Wild horses couldn’t keep me away - or whatever the Rapture version of that phrase may be.”

He swears he can feel the heat coming from Topside’s face because he knows Topside’s getting flustered again, and it makes him smirk.

“O-Oh, well…that’s good…that you like my singin’,” Topside says after a moment, “cause it makes me feel a whole lot better about bein’ on stage when you’re in the audience, so I can look at you. You make me feel…more confident.”

Sinclair cocks his head with a flattered smile, then stirs the spaghetti sauce as he replies, “Could help ya feel more confident on the El Dorado’s stage too. Ain’t too far from my neck of the woods (much as I could do without a stroll through Andy’s mirror maze). I figure it’s handier singin’ there when you’re up workin’ the bar too.”

“Oh - Oh, gosh, no,” Topside adamantly shakes his head, baulking at the mere thought, “no, there’re…too many people in there for me to sing in front of. I struggled enough getting up on the Limbo Room’s stage, I can’t get up there.”

“Hm. Well, I reckon it’s down to you in the long run, but trust me when I say you could bring the house down, wherever you’re singin’.”

“Oh,” Topside says, grinning bashfully at the compliment. “Well, it’s not really about my singin’, more about my nerves. But it’s okay, though! I like singin’ in the Limbo Room. It’s small and mostly quiet, me an’ Grace get to sing together sometimes, and I get to help out Pauper’s Drop. It’s a, heh, win for everybody, I guess.”

It’s quiet between them as the spaghetti sinks into the water and the table is finished being prepared for dinner, then the clacking of Topside’s shoes come closer, and then there’re big, strong arms wrapped around Sinclair’s middle and a freshly-shaven chin is rested atop his head.

Sinclair smiles at the warmth he’s suddenly encompassed in - Topside’s like a walking heater, so he’s naturally splendid to cuddle with - and says, “Careful. Don’t muss up my hair, now.”

Topside chuckles. “Always careful not to.”

It’s almost unconsciously that Topside starts to rock him back and forth, swaying gently at the hips along to the song, and Sinclair grins, shuts his eyes and leans his head back against Topside’s chest, hands coming to rest over Topside’s arms as Topside resumes quietly singing along to the last trek of Billie Holiday’s tune.

“Night and day,

Under the hide of me,

There’s an, oh, such a hungry yearning

Burning inside of me

And its torment won’t be through

‘Til you let me spend my life

Making love to you

Day and night, night and day…”

“Easy there, chief,” Sinclair says as the song ends, tilting his head to look toward Topside over his shoulder, “keep this goin’, and you’ll have me passin’ out in this dinner I’m makin’ you.”

“It’s alright,” Topside says, “I’ll catch you.”

Sinclair titters, then reaches over to retrieve his wooden spoon so that he can stir the sauce again.

After a few seconds where the only sound is of the food cooking, the record in the living room starts to play Crazy He Calls Me, another by Billie Holiday, along to which Topside starts to sing, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by Sinclair that Topside gives his waist a little squeeze when he sings about moving mountains if ‘he’ wants them moved.

“Size that you are, honey, I reckon you could move ‘em easier than a God,” he says, and Topside chuckles.

After a few more lines, he interrupts his own singing to say lazily into Sinclair’s hair, “I should be thinking of what I’m gonna cook for you.”

Sinclair puffs out a tiny laugh at Topside’s sheer insistence on this meal he wants to make.

“Hard to go wrong in the food department, chief - there ain’t much I won’t eat.”

“Well, I wanna make it special for you,” Topside replies. “Maybe try and recreate one of my old family recipes or somethin’.”

“In that case, it already sounds like a treat and a half.”

Sinclair grabs for a new wooden spoon from the drawer by his hip to scoop up a small amount of his spaghetti sauce, bringing it up in the air and turning just so he can hold the spoon up to Topside’s face.

“Here, honey. Give this a taste for me.”

Topside leans forward and puts his lips to the spoon, pulling off the little blob of sauce and leaning back as he smacks and licks his lips quietly, then he hums and smiles wide. He rests his head back atop Sinclair’s, this time tilting it so his cheek is pressed into Sinclair’s hair instead of his chin.

“Now, that,” he says, “that is just heavenly. Is there anythin’ you can’t do, Augustus?”

Augustus scoffs out a laugh.

“Plenty I can’t do, pumpkin, I think you’ll find.”

“I don’t believe that.”

The music continues to croon, as Topside keeps on with his gentle swaying of them both. Sinclair feels awkward that he’s going to have to ask Topside to stop soon, so he can finish up their dinner, and to be honest, he feels reluctant.

If the public were nicer about people like them, they wouldn’t have to pretend Topside suffers with headaches just so he can stay the night with nobody commenting on it (well, Christ knows, the paparazzi would, if they caught him, but that’s what Sinclair’s paying Stanley Poole for). They could be like this for longer too, not just sharing a night together before having to separate.

Topside can be snuck into his office with the excuse of him being his ‘assistant’, they just have to think of a lie for why the door gets locked behind them, and sometimes, they can get away with going on dates in public, so long as they aren’t too touchy-feely about it. Sinclair’s taken Topside to several of his favourite restaurants, and even taken him on a special trip down to Arcadia, where Topside had fallen to his knees in near tears at seeing grass again. Sinclair had even bribed Tasha Denu to allow them to see the bees when no one else was around, and they’d each been allowed to take home a jar of honey (and that was easier to get away with, if only because Tasha’s in the same boat they are).

Such is the way down here, no matter what Ryan believes.

“I missed you today, Augustus,” Topside says quietly.

Sinclair glances over his shoulder at him.

“You saw me just yesterday, sugar,” Sinclair replies.

“I know, but…” Topside gives a small sigh, struggling briefly with his words, before he goes on, “It’s just…I see tons of faces every day - at the bar or up on stage - but…I still always feel real lonely when you aren’t around, y’know? You’re one of the few people down here that I feel comfortable around, and...the only person I feel like I can just be myself around. Maybe I’m just bein’ foolish, but…it’s how I feel…”

Sinclair is briefly left at a loss for words; Topside’s the first man to ever see it fit to wax poetic to him. The few men he’s taken to dinner had been upfront when they’d asked him out, and he likes that, but none of them had made him feel all…fuzzy and warm and…loved like Topside does. Like he’s brought the colour into Sinclair’s life.

It’s a little overwhelming at times, but he’s getting used to it, and more importantly, he enjoys it.

“Well…if it’s foolish, then they’ll call us both fools,” Sinclair replies, turning in Topside’s arms to face him, planting his hands on Topside’s chest, “cause I’ve been missin’ you as well, pumpkin. Lord knows, you’re the only fella in this city that I can stand ta spend any personal time with, outside o’ bein’ cooped up in a meetin’. Well - ‘cept maybe Gil.”

“Gil…? Oh. That fella you’re working on that…project with. The machines an’ all.”

“Mm-hm.” Sinclair shrugs a shoulder. “But you don’t see him with an invitation to my apartment, so I guess you’re just a special case, aren’t you, puddin’?”

He winks, and Topside smiles extra wide, looking at Sinclair in such a way that Sinclair can picture cartoon love hearts floating about his face. The thought’s amusing enough that it makes it extra disheartening when Topside’s smile falls into a thoughtful little frown.

“...You’re makin’ living in this city worth it,” he says quietly.

Sinclair’s face falls.

Predictably, Topside never got used to living in Rapture; it was the entire reason Sinclair found him nearly passed out on the bartop of Fort Frolic’s Sinclair Spirits. Of course, Sinclair doesn’t blame him for still having his misgivings about the city. After all, they all came here of their own volition, while Topside…well, if they’re all completely honest, they essentially kidnapped him.

It hasn’t all been bad, even setting their relationship aside - that trip to Arcadia they’d taken and how close Topside now is to sealife are the big standouts.

The first time he’d seen a whale up close had been in the middle of the night, and he’d excitedly woken Sinclair up, telling him to come look, quickly. Sinclair’s been here for far longer than him, so whales are no longer anything he fusses over, but Topside was glued to the wall-sized window beside his bed, nearly reduced to tears when hearing the whale sing, and then waving goodbye and wishing the whale safe journeys as it swam out of view. As a diver, he’d said, he’d never been allowed to get that close to the bigger sea animals; that whale had been near enough for him to touch, if he’d had his suit.

But Sinclair knows that no matter how many happy moments Topside has down here, if someone offered him the chance to go back to the surface, he’d take it in a heartbeat, and he’d hesitate only because he’d want Sinclair (and perhaps his other friends) to come with him.

“I’m still worried of what Mr. Ryan thinks of me.” Topside confesses.

“Now, don’t get yourself all worked up about that,” Sinclair says, leaning up on tiptoe to press a kiss to his mouth.

Ryan’s been questioning Sinclair since Topside’s image went up with Sinclair’s name slapped beside it, like he wants Sinclair to act as some fucking double agent, to find out what Topside ‘intends to do with Rapture’. Sinclair could only spew lies that Topside is just like his namesake: he loves Rapture and wants no harm to come to it, he’d hated his life up top, he’s a working man and a responsible employee who just wants to make his way down here. Anything to dissuade the paranoid bastard’s ideas.

He doesn’t hide his distaste for how often Ryan is choosing to talk to him, either - he misses when Ryan would swear they wouldn’t speak again, then call him up two months later because he had a problem he wanted Augustus to solve. His evident irritation at having broken his own word just…tickled Sinclair something silly.

Topside looks away, then adds, “He scares me.”

“Andy?” Sinclair gives a dismissive scoff. “Honey, he’s nothin’ but a kitty cat playin’ at bein’ a lion: can’t even muster up a roar when he wants ta.”

Topside looks him in the face.

“Yeah, but…he’s got the most influence in the city and all, so…”

Not accordin’ to some, Sinclair thinks, then shrugs a shoulder and reaches up to cup Topside’s cheek.

“Sure, but you know someone else who’s got some influence in this town, kid - and that’s me. More’n you think I do, even. I can getcha new jobs and another place ta lay your head, but most importantly, I offer protection from the other big names lookin’ to snatch you up - includin’ Ryan. So don’t waste time thinkin’ on him, sugar, cause you’re on my side now, and I’ve got everythin’ covered. Just stick with me, kid,” he gives a wink, ��an’ we’ll be goin’ places, just like I told you.”

Cause I would sooner see Ryan rot down in Persephone than I’d see you doin’ so, Sinclair wants to add, but then he’d have to explain what Persephone is, and then…this date and this relationship would be over.

Topside stares at him for a moment, then nods.

“Nobody else I ever wanna be with,” Topside replies with a bashful smile, which makes that fuzzy feeling spread all over Sinclair’s body, and the two lean in to kiss.

Sinclair wraps his arms around Topside’s neck, hand carefully cupping the back of his head so as to not disturb his hairstyle, and one of Topside’s arms encircles Sinclair’s waist, while his other crosses over Sinclair’s shoulder blades, holding him nice and close; one little pull upwards, and he’d be taking Sinclair off his feet.

They hold the kiss for several seconds, then break it to begin another, and then another and another, until Topside’s starting to run his hands down the slopes of Sinclair’s waist and Sinclair’s feeling heat bubble in his lower tummy, then Sinclair forces himself to pull back.

“Oughta go sit yourself down, chief,” he says with a small grin, “otherwise I’ll never finish cookin’ this here food, and we’ll be mussin’ up both our hairstyles ‘fore we planned to.”

Topside chuckles happily, and Sinclair’s hesitant to use the word ‘cute’ with anything another person does, but…his laugh is real cute.

Topside starts to pull back from him, but not before briefly cupping Sinclair’s cheek in one of his big hands, and Sinclair puts his hand over Topside’s and nuzzles into it with a warm smile, kissing the palm. He lets Topside go so that Topside can go and sit at the table, elbows atop it and resting his chin on the backs of his folded hands.

In all the conversation, Sinclair didn’t even notice the song had ended, and Billie Holiday’s Easy Living starts to play (what can Sinclair say? He’s a fan). They were distracted long enough that most of the instrumental beginning is done with, and when Miss Holiday soon starts to sing, Topside sings with her.

“Living for you is easy living

It’s easy to live when you’re in love

And I’m so in love

There’s nothing in life but you,”

Sinclair looks over at Topside as he graces Sinclair with his dulcet tone and he could just melt from the soft, adoring look Topside’s giving him as he sings. He’ll choose to blame it on the heat of the kitchen, though.

Focusing now back on dinner, Sinclair turns off the heat under the spaghetti, then uses a pair of tongs to transfer the spaghetti to the sauce, letting it cook the rest of the way in the pan instead. With a tablespoon, he takes some of the pasta water and mixes it into the pan alongside the sauce and pasta, to help get the sauce to just the right consistency. He ends up using about eight scoops of the water, then reaches for the butter to add a small pad of it to the pan as well to ensure the sauce becomes good and creamy.

He’s distinctly aware of Topside watching him and occasionally looks over at him as he mixes the pasta into the sauce, giving him little amused smirks as he sees Topside looking at him like he’s some master chef from whom Topside wants to learn.

Silly, really, cause Topside’s already proved himself a good cook. Those breakfasts he’d made Sinclair had been heavenly.

When the spaghetti’s fully cooked and good and covered in sauce, Sinclair flicks off the heat entirely, then tells Topside to bring the plates over.

Topside does so, muttering about how silly he’d been to put the plates on the table when Sinclair would obviously need them, and Sinclair gives them each a good helping of spaghetti before dumping his tools into the sink to be washed later and throwing off his apron.

Topside’s a gentleman and takes both of their plates to the table, setting them back down on their respective placemats, and Sinclair gives him a thanks as he collects his glass of wine. They then sit opposite each other at the table.

Sinclair stuffs a napkin into the collar of his shirt to protect his clothing and goes to pick up the pepper shaker, only to stop himself when he sees Topside clasp his hands together in a prayer, shut his eyes and press his forehead to his hands, whispering grace.

Laying one arm atop the other, Sinclair doesn’t join him, simply waits until he’s done.

The first time they ever went to dinner together - a business dinner, mind - Topside had tried saying grace too, and Sinclair had turned wide-eyed in a second, nervously looked around, then scrambled to stop him. Of course, Topside hadn’t understood, just politely told Sinclair it’s fine if he doesn’t want to do it too, this is just his faith, but Sinclair had quickly explained that they don’t…do religion in Rapture, and that Topside could get them both in serious trouble if he continues.

Predictably, Topside had gotten upset, muttered how he’s not even allowed his religion down here, but relented with a slight huff and told Sinclair he’d make amends later, in the privacy of his hotel room.

Here, in the safety of Sinclair’s apartment, Topside can do whatever he pleases, so Sinclair stays quiet and lets him get on with it.

Once he’s finished, Topside lifts his head and gives Sinclair a grateful smile, then Sinclair reaches for that pepper shaker.

“Oh!”

Sinclair looks up, lips a perfect ‘o’ in surprise.

“Your cufflinks!” Topside says, staring down at Sinclair’s arm. “I didn’t even notice before - they’re sharks!”

“Oh,” Sinclair says, tone just dripping with fake wonder. “Why, they are, aren’t they? I just,” he waves a hand dismissively, “ended up throwin’ on these old things.”

Topside grins at him, then.

“Do you wanna hear an interestin’ fact about sharks?” he asks.

With a smile, Sinclair goes through with sprinkling pepper on his spaghetti, then twirls his fork into his noodles, wrapping up the prongs, then lifts it to his lips.

“Lay it on me, honey.”

#My writing #BioShock #BioShock 2 #biofluff 2023 #biofluff #Augustus Sinclair #Subject Delta #Johnny Topside #Deltaclair #Topclair

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