Chapter Text
The week hadn’t been going, uh, well, great. In fact, one could almost say that the week had been slowly but surely sucking out his will to live like a bog leech going to town on a pasty swimmer’s varicose vein-riddled nutsack…assuming, of course, that the bog in question was filled with month-old human piss instead of water.
He was already in a bad fucking mood, was the point. A really, really bad fucking mood. This dinner? It was supposed to be a break from that, okay? It was supposed to be some kind of respite against the Week From Hell.
All he wanted to do—the only fucking thing!—was eat an irresponsibly expensive steak, down a couple irresponsibly expensive craft beers, make fun of JJ for not ordering an irresponsibly expensive dessert, and then spend the rest of the night in a well deserved food coma. That was it. That was…all he wanted. Was that really so much to ask?!
Apparently it was.
“It’s not that bad…” Julia sighed, resting a hand against her cheek as she swirled her wineglass with the other. She’d been taking a wine-tasting course that semester, one that she was always so quick to remind him was ‘actually a sommelier class, you skeeze,’ and as such, had started adding cute little quirks like that to her typical behavior: wine swirling, wine sniffing, insisting on ordering wine with a frankly insulting excuse of a French accent, all that good shit. “I mean, for a house full of frat boys, at least…”
“I don’t know how you’re doing it, sweetie—I would be beside myself. I know that development like the back of my hand by now, and just the thought of living in one of those rickety, drafty old things…”
The ‘rickety, drafty old thing’ in question was nothing short of a McMansion, but Conrad knew better than to dare open his mouth while Mom and Mini-Mom were having one of their moments. Instead he raised his eyebrows and took a long drink, meeting his dad’s gaze just long enough to communicate ‘This again, huh?’
“It’s been months and I still can’t sell that property down the street! Do you have any idea how many showings I’ve done? Everything goes fine, and they always love it, and then, without fail, each and every single time we make it down into that horrible unfinished basement, suddenly it’s all ‘Ooh, well, we’ll have to think on it! We’ll be in touch!’” After a wine-swirl of her own, Mom took a drink as well. “Sure they will. Suuure they will. If I had a nickel…”
“Oh the basement is absolutely the worst. It’s disgusting! They keep putting off working on that part, and like…I’m not complaining. Everything’s so soggy and moldy…”
“Exactly! The ground was just so wrong for a development of that size, and—”
If he had to hear one more second of this banal, inane, pointless bullshit, he was going to slam his own head against the table until he lost consciousness. Then they were all gonna be sorry, because he was fairly positive most people pissed themselves when they fainted. He would. He would make a point to piss himself just out of principle. That would be his last-ditch effort, though…he had a few other things in his arsenal that would probably irritate and embarrass the ladies just as badly…without involving ruining his khakis.
For example: “Well, I’m sure the spooky ghosts don’t help.”
Oh, and like this was some carefully crafted play (The Conrad Conundrum, coming this fall to a community theater stage near you), his sister and mom turned to him in unison, their expressions matching scowls of exasperation. Dad was snickering, though, so at least he wasn’t totally alone on this sinking ship.
Those faces, he knew, meant they were expecting some sort of clarification. However, that wasn’t the game he played. Oh no. Oh nonono, Conrad Bishop was a man who caved for nothing and no one—he offered no branches of peace, nor did he help those who could just as easily help themselves. He tipped his beer towards Julia with a nod, and then, without breaking eye contact, took another long, gulping drink.
He did not stop drinking.
He was quickly running out of beer with which to make his point.
He began to give serious thought to how long after he finished said beer that he could ostensibly continue to pointedly stare at his sister while pretending to drink it before the behavior became socially unacceptable.
Thankfully, it didn’t have to come to that.
“Connie…” his mother began, sounding pre-tired, if such a thing were possible. She set her wineglass down in favor of pressing her fingers primly to her temples. “What. Are. You talking about?”
“Oh good God—Mom, don’t—”
Nope, he was not about to let JJ take over the conversation. Again. Like she always did. Consistently. “The ghosts,” he repeated, swallowing down a belch (the steakhouse was a little too pinky-out for that sort of thing). “Y’know, from all the dead people.”
His mother blinked.
Julia rolled her eyes.
His dad continued to eat what was left of his baked potato. Probably the wisest choice, all considering.
“The dead people,” he continued, only picking up steam as Julia’s face fell further and further, “From the gallows. The gallows the whole shebang was built on. The gallows from the 1800’s. That gallows. …those gallows? Them. The place where people got hung for stealing bread and shi…” he paused, again very aware of how both hoity and toity this place was, “…and stuff.”
“It’s ‘hanged,’ not ‘hung.’ Jesus Christ, Conrad, there’s a difference.”
“Pretty sure there’s not.”
“Okay, so me saying ‘he was hanged’ and me saying ‘he was hung’ mean exactly the same thing to you, then? That’s what you’re telling me?”
“…well if you’re going to put it that way—”
Before either of them could dig their heels any deeper into that particular pit of bullshit, Mom (predictably) interrupted. “Gallows?! What are you talking about?! That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever—”
“Nah, it’s totally legit! Brad was telling us allllll about it the other night.”
“Oh my God…do you get this is why me and Alex never invite you over? You do get that, right? Because these are the conversations you insist on having in front of everyone.”
“JJ, please, it’s not my fault that Bradlebury’s more interesting to talk to than Alex. That one’s on you, okay? Rookie mistake, you set all your chips on the boring sibling.”
“Alex isn’t boring!” Mom cut in, clucking her tongue humoringly, “Honestly, Connie, you’re going to need to be nicer to him, if he and Julia—” She stopped when Dad cleared his throat.
When he had time to think back on it later (not that he wanted to), Conrad would realize that was the precise moment where things really started to unravel. See, he was a man of many, many talents, but…reading a room? Not one of them! Not even close. So maybe a more, uh, aware or conscientious or…emotionally capable adult might’ve noticed the way his parents’ postures changed, but he was none of those things.
Luckily for his parents, neither was Julia.
“Brad doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“Um…hello? Are we talking about the same person here? Bradical always knows what’s what, JJ. Knowing random history crap is like…his reason for being. It’s in his genetic code, wedged right between blind as a bat and gangly as hell. I can’t believe you’re gonna just sit there and besmirch his good name. If he says there’s a pile of dead people under the house, then I for one believe the man wholeheartedly!”
“He didn’t—!” Julia grimaced before leaning towards him so she could lower her voice. “He didn’t say there were dead people under the house, you boob!”
Conrad raised his eyebrows. “…boob?”
Her look was nothing short of withering. “There aren’t bodies under the house.” After a beat, she turned over her shoulder to reassure their mother, “There aren’t bodies under the house.” She pretty much just mouthed it, clearly not wanting to attract the attention of the surrounding tables, and oh!
Oh!
Ohoho!!!
Had she paid attention during Sibling 101 even once?! That was a mistake! And he’d been having…such a bad week.
“Okay, maybe not…but there’s def bodies in the walls.”
Julia whipped back around to him at the same moment Mom widened her eyes. Dad, God bless him, just kept eating that fucking potato.
“Connie.”
“Brad said that sometimes, during the construction of those old places, builders would get walled in—”
“Walled i—the place isn’t two hundred years old! It was built in like, the 60’s or something!”
“Lots of peyote in the 60’s. You get a little too peace-and-lovey, maybe you fall into a wall and—”
“People don’t—” she caught herself again, lowering her voice to a hiss. “People don’t just get sealed into walls!”
“Brad said they do.”
“You’re thinking of that stupid story from Lit…The Cask of Amarillo.”
“I think it was Armadillo.”
“I think you’re a—”
Potato seemingly finished, their dad sat back in his chair, tapping his thumbs pensively against the table. “Well hold on now…weren’t you saying something weird like that happened in the one you’re trying to sell, hon?”
Conrad froze.
Julia froze.
In the blink of an eye, in that special way only siblings seemed to be capable of, all the frustration and snark drained out of them; as they stared into each other’s faces, the only emotion either could see was confusion. Then, blossoming just as quickly, intrigue.
When they turned, it was a very different sort of look they saw on their mom’s face. She’d pulled one of her cheeks inward to chew on, calmly blinking as she stared their dad down from across the table. “I thought,” she said in the singsong that always meant she was well on her way to pissed, “We weren’t going to talk about that.”
“Talk about what?!” he and Julia asked at the same time.
“Don’t—” Mom started…but it was too late. Far, far too late.
“Human soup guy.”
Julia’s entire body seemed to crumple inwards, as though her repulsion was a newly formed black hole pulling her towards its center, but where she shrunk back, Conrad only leaned forward. “Human. Soup. Guy.”
“Yeah.” And oh, that wasn’t the sort of thing you said before shrugging, yet lo and behold, that’s exactly what his dad did. “Some guy related to…right? Related to the old owner? Slipped and fell in the shower. Broke his neck!”
“Okay, I think that’s enough—”
“By the time they found him, the water’d been running for days! Over the long weekend, I think? Anyway, they couldn’t tell where the bathtub ended and he started!”
“I…” It all seemed to click a second later, Julia’s disgust momentarily swapped out for confusion. “Wait. Wh—Daddy, that doesn’t even make sense.”
Mom cleared her throat loudly and set her napkin on the table, desperately trying to flag down their server for the check. “This is not the time…or the place—”
“Human soup,” Conrad repeated. “Dude stew.”
“Connie!”
“Bathroom bisque.”
“I—okay, know what? I’m…I’m gonna go powder my nose or something. This is…this is just not what I want to talk about on a full stomach, ugh!” Julia pushed herself away from the table with one last juvenile groan. She didn’t drop her napkin onto her plate so much as she flung it, shaking her head as she made her way towards the restaurant’s (no doubt swanky) restrooms.
And that was the second moment the universe tossed his way, the second moment he could’ve—and should’ve—realized something was up.
But no.
Oh no.
He was much, much too enthralled by human soup guy to notice the way his parents carefully watched Julia’s retreat.
“So are you saying his bones melted, or…?”
Before he could get any kind of closure vis à vis bathtub broth, Mom let out a tense sigh. “Was that entirely necessary?” she asked as she whirled on Dad, her lips pressing tightly together.
As with any other such familial confrontation, he puffed himself out like an insulted show pigeon, widening his eyes in a melodramatic show of indignation. “What? You’re the one who almost let it slip—I was just changing the subject!”
Was there any demographic on Earth better at ruining a moment than parents? He thought not. All at once, every single event of the week came crashing down on him again to replace the joy human soup guy had inspired within his very soul. Where it once had been, now there was only a gurgling sort of fear that upset all the irresponsibly expensive steak in his stomach.
“Let, uh…let what slip?” Conrad asked, raising his beer to his mouth before remembering it was empty.
His parents exchanged a look but said nothing. Not the best sign.
“Let what slip?” he tried again, apprehension quickly getting the best of him.
Was this…oh God, was this a bad news dinner?! They never did bad news dinners at the steakhouse! Usually that was a gastropub kinda deal, where the booze was stronger and the appetizers were weirder, but fuck this was starting to feel like a bad news dinner all the same! His mind filled with an impossible number of family emergencies: his parents were getting a divorce, Dad’s firm was going bankrupt, someone was dying, someone was pregnant…each possibility so much worse than the last!
“I don’t—”
“Oh come on, he can know! You can keep a secret, can’t you, son?”
Mom did nothing to mask her doubt. “I really don’t—”
Throwing a glance over his shoulder towards the restrooms, Dad chuckled. “Now, you don’t know anything about this if it ever comes up—which it shouldn’t…” he began, and Conrad was downright alarmed to find the grin on his face made him more nervous instead of helping, “…but Alex came by earlier this week.”
His brow furrowed. He wished he had thought to ask for another beer the last time the server had been by. “…oookay? Uh, cool…?”
“He’s planning on proposing.”
His head swiveled to his mother as though it were on a ball bearing.
For a second the only things he could do were stare and try to make sense of the words that had just come out of her mouth. How…how could she say something of that magnitude so coolly? Where was the somberness, the gravitas?!
“Propose,” he said, the word feeling alien in his mouth, like a light bulb he’d managed to jam in there on a dare but couldn’t get out again. “Wait. Propose like…like marriage, propose?!”
Mom rolled her eyes. “This is why I didn’t—”
“Wait, I…when?!” The world snapped out of slow-mo as he leaned over the table, lip curled not in joy or amusement but pure, unbridled shock and horror. “Soon?!” Something in his brain hadn’t shut down exactly, but it had begun the process to be sure, a million metaphorical progress bars and error messages popping up to add to the chaos.
“No,” he thought he heard one of his parents say, “He said he was going to wait until their anniversary—”
But Conrad didn’t know their fucking anniversary! How was he supposed to know when their fucking anniversary was?! Was it in the spring? He thought he could remember it being vaguely spring…ish? Fuck, if that was true, then…Thanksgiving was coming up already, spring would be just around the corner, and…wait, what if it wasn’t spring?! What if it was winter?! God, the only way he managed to remember Julia’s birthday was by checking Faceboo—
Facebook! He could check Facebook! That would at least give him a timeframe to know when to expect the first phase of this madness, and if he could start preparing now…
Marriage.
Marriage?!
He couldn’t so much as get the girl who sat next to him in sociology to look at him, and his little sister—his baby sister—was about to be engaged? ENGAGED! To be MARRIED!
Oh. Oh this was not good. It was not good at all.
Something about the idea of Julia in a wedding dress, Julia being a Smith instead of a Bishop, Julia and Alex getting a house and registering for fancy kitchenware and having kids…
No. Nope. Absolutely not. He was not about to go down that road, because that road only let off in ‘Uncle Conrad Town,’ and yeah, okay, he was regretting eating all that fucking steak.
This was not right. This was not correct—this wasn’t how stuff was supposed to work! He was the eldest sibling! He was the one supposed to do everything first! So what if he didn’t want to do them—that just meant Julia was supposed to not want to do them too! …at least not until he had a chance to change his mind, and…and sure, Alex was a good guy, and he liked him fine…he was a bit of a tight-ass, but he was dating Julia, so obviously that was a given…so it wasn’t like it was anything personal…except, yeah, okay, it absolutely was, because why the fuck would he be thinking about proposing to Julia knowing full well that she had an older sibling who would look like an absolute dipshit when he showed up to said hypothetical wedding alone, and…
Okay.
Okay.
Know what? He could…he could do this. He could handle it. This was knowledge he could deal with and live with and be okay with. He just…well, he just had to find a way to make himself feel better about the whole thing, didn’t he? Yeah…yeah! That’s what it was. He had to do…something to reassert himself as the one in charge of things, the apex predator of the sibling hierarchy. And if in doing so Alex had second thoughts about marrying his (baby!!!) sister, then so be it.
All he had to do was figure out what that something was going to be. Or…
Ooh, or…
Or he could get someone else to do it, someone who would understand the eldest sibling dilemma, someone who never said no to scheming, someone, he knew, who would take the joke juuust far enough, if not maybe a step too far.
Collecting himself, Conrad ran a hand through his hair, assuming a more casual posture. “Ah, well, cool,” he said, feeling the beginning of a devious plan taking root in the fertile soil of his brain. “Mum’s the word, cross my heart! But hey, uh, for real, what’s the scoop on human soup guy?”
His mother shot him a reproachful glare as the server set their check down, but he barely noticed it. As it stood, he was too busy coming up with a sales pitch.
See, he knew the man for the job just about as well as two people could know each other…which meant he knew precisely what it would take to convince him to do what he needed him to do. He already had the mummy man in his pocket—now he needed human soup guy. He’d get that story! Oh, he’d get it. Conrad Bishop, again, was a man who did not back down and didn’t fold even when his hand was shit. He’d get the deets he needed to cobble together a decent enough proposal of his own, and then he’d see where the winds of fate chose to blow. He would. That wasn’t even a question.
But man oh man, that didn’t mean he was looking forward to dealing with Washington and his creepy buddies.
Fuck this week.