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You can probably count on one hand how many family functions Ransom has dragged you to — for the fun of it, which in Ransom means for his own amusement — that haven’t ended in an argument in one form or another. It was usually Harlan, Ransom’s grandfather, and Ransom providing the cringe-worthy end-of-the-evening entertainment.
Not today. Today the family patriarch sits at the head of the table giving the rest of the room a critical stare. And Ransom? Your friend seems content, for the moment, to let the drama play out between Walt and Joni. Whatever had set the pair of them at each other’s throats has worked into a fever pitch of drama usually reserved for the blowouts between your friend and his grandfather.
The rest of the conveined family seems just as content to let Joni and Walt snipe at one another, not yet to the point they’re willing to be swept into the disagreement. Time’s all that’s needed for that to change. Linda or Donna or Richard will weigh in and the argument will spread as it always does, engulfing the table before the night is through.
Following along or picking up the progress of the argument is impossible for the other conversations being held. It’s always been this way. If you want to have any sort of hope at conversation you had to borderline shout, at least until the inevitable storm out occurred. It’s quite possible that a sudden quiet follows, or maybe it hardly gives anyone pause. You were usually part of the quick exit — having learned that if you didn’t leave when Ransom jettisoned himself from their company it was a good long wait for a ride share or taxi.
Linda and Richard were never much help, to you or Ransom. They put up with your random appearances just about as well as they did their son’s — all parties agreeing to get along to a certain degree and agreeing to ignore each other all the rest. It’s Harlan that spoke the mostly highly of Ransom, supporting whatever whim’d captured his grandson’s fancy. That, and a love of the elder man’s exccentricies, keeps you saying yes every time Ransom mentions a visit to the Thrombey house.
You risk a glance across the table and frown. Ransom has settled askance in his chair, tipped with his shoulder turned away from his grandfather, turned towards the rest of the room. It’s the look in his eye that has you worried, one that spells trouble as he studies the battle taking place between his aunt and uncle. He’s watching the shouting match with a distinct glee, eyes flicking back and forth almost as though he already knows the pacing of the fury filled dance.
It’s an expression not dissimilar to the one currently worn by Harlan, though you know Harlan’s interest in the matter has different roots. The elder man has produced his little notebook and pen from somewhere on his person and is jotting down occasional notes — ever seeking plot points for future stories. No help from Harlan, then.
You catch Ransom’s eye, careful with the look you give him. If he notes your distinct desire that he not interject himself it will all but ensure that he does it. In response he darts his eyebrows up for a fraction of a second, the edge of his mouth curling into a smirk.
Shit.
Bringing your wine glass to your lips you swallow down a little more of the liquid that has likely been staining your lips and tongue a darker color. Silently you half-will Ransom to just eat his damn custard and stay out of the debate that his father has started weighing in on.
It was like broadcasting a green light. Ransom’s smile grows, and he issues a small nod to nobody in particular before he sweeps himself up out of his chair.
Fuck.
If you watch his progress through the room it’s only going to egg him on. You force your attention down to the last brownie on the platter, wondering if you can shove it in your mouth and make a hasty exit before the whole room is engaged in a passionate, but pointless, argument.
Harlan starts to hum a tune you can almost place just before you hear Walt snap, “Nobody asked your opinion, you little shit.”
In that little war that Ransom keeps waging against his family he’s likely granted himself another point for such an immediate, viciously delivered, response.
You roll your eyes and finish your wine, leaning to tap the table near Harlan’s notebook as you excuse yourself, “Thank you for another lovely evening.”
Harlan offers you a tight smile, his eyes sparkling as he darts his attention from the spectacle that is his family to look at you. “My pleasure, my dear. It was good to see you.”
You don’t bother to check if Ransom has even turned to clock your departure. He’ll seek you out when he runs out of steam. Escaping from the abrasive behavior is your immediate goal, maybe finding the buzz that should have accompanied the wine you’ve consumed over the course of the evening. It’s a nice enough night, if a little chilly. Perfect for sitting on the porch while you wait for your ride — either the same way you arrived, with Ransom in his BMW, or someone you end up calling.
No need to bother with seeking anyone out to reclaim your coat and gloves, you know where they’ve been stashed…. never mind the fact that most of the staff scattered when the shouting picked up in decibel. The real battle is untangling your things from Ransom’s in the coat closet, that godawfully flamboyant scarf of his that makes Joni wince every time she sees it always tangling with everything else in close proximity.
“Half the fun is watching you try not to react.”
You fall still, two seconds away from simply using force to rip the buttons of your coat free of Ransom’s scarf. Glaring at him, you shake the garments once more for good — though ultimately ineffective — measure, “You’re such an asshole.”
“Yea, well—” He plucks your jacket and his scarf from your hands and gives them a little yank to separate them, a sharp ripping sound resulting from the motion. “Takes one to know one.”
At least your jacket is free? You start to reach out for it but something in his expression makes you pause and lick your lips. He’s still riled for an argument. The fact that he’s done almost all he can to annoy the snot out of his family tonight doesn’t matter, it clearly hasn’t fully satisfied that urge of his.
You’re used to being the one he argues with, lucky you, when his family isn’t around. That’s not what momentarily freezes you. You can argue with him all day and it not matter in the slightest… it’s the way he’s looking at you that’s different. Something you haven’t seen from him in awhile. Not down his nose - dismissive. Not with his chin tucked slightly, those blue eyes only showing a sliver through narrowed slats - mistrustful. Not even a wide eyed glare…
Not here. That can’t happen here.
You reroute your hand to brush your fingers over the obnoxious print of his scarf, the material now torn. “Oh, good job.” You reach out to pinch at one of the tears in his cable knit sweater, indicating one of the holes he hasn’t cared enough to have repaired. “But you do match a little better, now.”
His eyes flare wider for a moment before he takes a step towards you, quickly winding his scarf around your outstretched hand to keep you from being able to pull away from him.
Shit.
“That’s funny.” He tips his head ever so slightly to the side, all the while maintaining that heated hungry eye contact. “If memory serves, and trust me I remember everything, didn’t you cause this one?” He tilts his head ever so slightly to the side as he reaches up to finger the triangled hole in the hem of his collar, waiting for you to answer with a predatory smile on his lips.
Technically the answer is yes. Technically. You tip your eyebrows up at him, using your free hand to find a few of the other snags in his sweater. “You gave me that necklace.”
Pointing out those other frayed points was clearly exactly what he wanted you to do. He grins as he wraps the remainder of his scarf around your other wrist. You mutter a light curse, rolling your eyes at his growing smile, “Fuck.”
He settles your hands between the pair of you, letting you get a light grip on the front of his sweater before he takes the first step to push the pair of you backward, aiming to squeeze the both of you into the little bit of space left in the coat closet. The family shouting match is still going strong and echoing through the house when he dips his head, one word leaving his lips before his mouth covers yours: “Exactly.”