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He knows this is going to be a mistake as soon as he says ‘yes’. He shouldn’t even be saying yes, but Hayley’s pout is as clear over the phone as it is in person. The first tidbit of hesitation earns a pause from her, and then the tremble of her lips stammers first across the ‘You’ll have a great time’ and then the ‘It just won’t be the same without you guys’.
Now, Barry Berkman is not a man expressly vulnerable to the effect of a pout. God knows he ignores Hank’s pouting on an hourly basis. The problem here is not the pout. It’s the fact that he does not have a legitimate reason to insist on his absence. Sex on the Beach is temporarily closed for renovations (a fancy way of saying the damn ceiling finally caved in after one-too-many maintenance checks were ignored), so while he and Hank might still be getting half a paycheck to sit around and do nothing, they are in fact doing nothing.
Except Hank. Mr. ‘Let’s Take Up A New Hobby Every Five Seconds’. Even now, as Barry is suffering Hayley’s pouty plea in his left ear, Hank is at the fabric store looking for inspiration. It’s the fifth time in two weeks. Barry is about to burn the credit card.
“…Alright.” He surrenders to his doom with dignity, “We’ll be there.”
Hayley’s delighted squeal manages to not be obnoxious, only because she stifles it at the last second. “Great! Five o’clock on Saturday. Don’t worry about bringing anything but yourselves!! Ciao!”
Hank’s delighted squeal comes that night over dinner – which, in hindsight, Barry really should have eliminated as an appropriate time to convey the news; there are silverware and dishes in danger of being broken here – and it does NOT fail to be obnoxious. Barry’s look across the table, the one which clearly promises to harvest organs with a spoon, quickly shuts him up…
…for about ten seconds.
“Okay: game plan.” Hank immediately fishes out his phone, pops onto the Internet, and the next thing Barry knows his lap is full of (former) Russian gangster with a tattooed arm around his neck and the Pinterest app in his face. “We can go separate or we can match – ooh! Let’s do this one!”
“No.”
“It’s fun! And vintage!”
Hank’s idea of vintage is anything that happened between 1990 and two weeks ago. “I said NO, Hank.” Barry abandons the hope of finishing his dinner with Hank sprawled across his lap, so he puts the fork down, leans into a semi-comfortable position, and plans to reheat the remnants later.
“But you like music!”
“Dressing up like Sonny and Cher does not honor my musical preferences.”
Never one to be deterred by rejection, Hank scrolls through a few more options, naming off every single one as he goes. Eventually, Barry loses his appetite altogether. The couple’s ensemble of dominatrix and slave is probably what does the trick.
“I,” Barry hefts Hank off his lap and starts clearing the table, “am not wearing black leather in public and parading you around on a leash. I’ll never hear the end of it from Hayley if that’s our first impression to perfect strangers.”
He feels Hank’s smirk when the younger man sidles up behind him and nuzzles the back of his neck, “You are happy to put me on leash in bedroom.”
“One time, and it wasn’t a leash. It was my belt.”
“Same thing.” Hank purrs, “Either way, we find out I look very good in leather.”
A sane person would hide (or burn) all his belts, but Barry left his sanity on the side of the road a few years back. And, more to the point, Hank does in fact look very good in leather.
Just not in public.
***
Being denied the opportunity to wear matching costumes to Hayley’s Halloween party doesn’t stop Hank. For the next three days he scours the shopping malls in search of the perfect costume to ‘make a statement’. Given that Hank makes a statement in everyday life and isn’t even trying, Barry fears the end result when the man actually puts effort into it.
Two hours before they’re due to arrive at Hayley’s front door, Hank presents himself in usual fashion: striking a pose in the doorway and awaiting the shower of compliments which he never actually gets but continually hopes for against every display to the contrary.
Barry looks him over twice, then heaves a sigh, “It makes a statement, Hank.”
The statement very well may be, ‘I recently escaped from the nuthouse and need to find my way back home,’ but it does make a statement.
Hank’s preening is cut short when he sees Barry in black denim, a long-sleeved black shirt, and his black leather jacket, “What is THAT?”
“My costume.” Barry replies in the same deadpan tone he often uses when Hank is questioning his life choices, “I call it the dark depths of despair.”
“That’s not a costume, Barry.” Hank huffs, “That’s a philosophical debate.”
“If I have to be seen in public with you dressed like that all night,” the Marine retorts, standing and fishing the car keys off the table, “there’s no debate. It’s a stated fact.”
“I,” Hank strikes what Barry assumes is his idea of a sassy pose (it falls short of the mark, but A for effort all the same), “look fabulous.”
“You look like a New Orleans pimp.”
“You rather I look like hooker?”
“Get in the car.”
***
Hayley definitely has the night off. That outfit looks like it violates a few public decency laws.
“So glad you could both make it!” she kisses Barry first, and then Hank, both times on the cheek. Then she neatly deposits a glass of punch in their hands and spreads arms wide to direct attention around them. Her smile is wide and proud, and with good reason: this is a great turnout, and either she or Joe (or both) outdid themselves on the decorations. The display starts out front with little tombstones lining the walkway and explodes all over the walls and hallway of their two-story home.
“You look great, Hayley.” Barry gives a small smile, just to enjoy the playful grin and bashful wave she offers in return. The woman would look good in a garbage bag, frankly.
“At least SHE picked a costume.” Hank mutters, for the hundredth time since they got in the car and made the thirty-minute drive to the party. In the car, Barry has a need to ignore and tune out the barrage of comments. Here, when there is no threat of him running the car into a tree, he doesn’t.
“ONE more word about my costume – or lack thereof,” he says, with the look that has many-a-time before proven to shut Hank up in record time, “and we don’t bake cupcakes for a month!”
Hayley’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. Hank’s, on the other hand, bob high to contrast the falling of his mouth, “You wouldn’t.” he meekly stammers.
‘Try me’ is written plain as day across Barry’s face, and even Hank (undisputed master of poking the bear) has a point where he drops the stick and toddles off before real danger of bodily harm arrives. In this instance, he heads for the dessert table to give himself a sugar high and Barry a headache until the buzz wears off.
“No cupcakes for a month?” Hayley says, not without some audible amusement, “Does Hank really have that much of a sweet tooth?”
With his partner (or whatever they’re calling themselves these days) off at the desserts, now would be an excellent time to confirm her misinterpretation and save himself the embarrassment. But Barry Berkman seems to have a thing for shoving his foot down the throat just for the hell of it.
“Uh, Hayley,” he clears his throat, “you know how some couples…name it?”
“Yeah.” She says without pause, because only someone who has been in a long-term commitment which involves ‘it’ on a regular basis would get it. Or at least part of it.
Five seconds later, her eyebrows go up and her mouth makes a comically-large circle, “OH.”
Got it.
***
“Are you seriously gonna pout all night?”
The lump that is Hank beside him in the bed, burrowed under the covers until only a small bit of his bald head is showing, all-but radiates a determination to pout for the rest of the week. Barry huffs and puts his book (a new copy of ‘The Art of War’ given by Joe at his birthday: a tongue-in-cheek joke about what a military man Barry is without any idea of how close he is to the mark) on the nightstand. “Hank,” he rolls over on his side and poke at the other man’s shoulder, “come on, man. Knock it off.”
“You threatened no cupcakes for a month.”
“You were being a brat.”
“You threatened no cupcakes for a MONTH.”
“Hank, stop it.” Barry reaches out and tries to forcefully pull Hank over, at least to look at his face; it’s somewhat surprising (and a little impressive) when Hank stubbornly clings to the headboard and won’t budge, “Hank, Jesus, come on.”
“Say you not mean it.”
“I did mean it. You were being a pain in the ass.”
“Say you not mean it, or I’m sleeping on the floor.”
Never one to back down from a challenge, Barry calmly scoots over, engulfs Hank in his arms, and pulls him in nice and tight. “Go ahead and try it.”
“Cheater!”
Barry smirks and lands a soft bite at the man’s nape, where he has a track record of being rather sensitive. The pitched sound, just shy of a squeak, keeps the record going strong. “You still gonna be a brat?” The Marine purrs, low in his partner’s ear, “Because I might have to spank you.”
“You’re a big bully.” Hank mutters, but the pout has abandoned ship and he’s squirming back in a desperate search for friction.
“Yeah, I know.” Barry pulls and rolls Hank onto his chest with a cocky grin stretched across his face, “Now, are you gonna pout all night, or come to the kitchen?”
The grumbling pout on Hank’s face melts into a coy little smirk, “Are we baking?”
“Baby,” his hands wander up to the elastic waistband to hook a teasing finger inside, “we’re baking ALL night.”