Work Text:
When I woke up this morning, I heard loud muffled sounds coming from the basement of the decrepit Paper Street house. I couldn't for the life of me identify what the sound was supposed to be, so I tossed on my bathrobe and went to see what was the matter.
When I finally got downstairs, Tyler was standing over a disgusting bathtub I did not realize we even owned with his back to me. He has a large spoon or stick of some sort that he is using to stir the contents of the bathtub. It looks white and mostly opaque. It is also very full, and threatens to slosh over the sides with his movements.
"Oh great!" Tyler exclaims, glancing over his shoulder at me. "You're awake, you can help!"
"I refuse to participate in whatever the fuck this is," I deadpan.
“No! No, come here, I’ll show ya–” Tyler says, excitedly beckoning me closer with a wave of his free arm. The one not currently being used to stir… what even is that?
“Absolutely not, I’m not getting anywhere near that until you tell me what kinda fucking concoction you’re making down here.”
Tyler just laughs, amused, as I inch away from the grimy bathtub. When I look away, he manages to dip his hand in it and flick the liquid onto me from where I’m standing. As soon as I try and voice my disgust, he interrupts me, as if he can read my mind.
“It’s soap, psycho-boy, jeez, if anything it’s cleaner than half of the stuff down here.” I’m not sure if I’m more or less disgusted by the admission, knowing what goes into that.
"Why are you making soap in a rusty bathtub?" I sound like an exhausted mother talking to her toddler. I almost feel like one, too.
He's still laser focused on his current project when he answers me. "Marla's coming over later—but not for anything sinister!" He turns to me, already trying to placate me just after the mere mention of her name. "No need to get all territorial on me, I swear. She just wants to go thrifting for a job interview she has coming up."
"And you need a bathtub of soap for that because...?"
"Because I needed to cook all of the fat left in the fridge so she wouldn't figure out we've been selling her mother to Macy's," Tyler finishes, looking extremely proud of himself.
I roll my eyes. "So what are you gonna tell her when there's no fat left in the fridge? Won't she wanna check?"
"That's what I was gonna ask you, Ikea-boy."
I just sigh. “I thought you wanted me to help you mix this?”
Tyler sits down cross-legged next to his tub of soap, mixing it distractedly. “I mean, if you want, but I’d rather you help by coming up with an alibi for the bags of Marla’s mom.”
I laugh quietly in disbelief. What series of events had lead me to this? Certainly not the events of my home life or my career. Those had brought me promotions and floor-to-ceiling cabinets. This has brought me Tyler, and as screwed up as it may be, I couldn’t be happier.
I wander over next to him, sitting next to him on the floor, resting my arms crossed on the edge of the bathtub still swirling with soapy liquid. “Tell her we moved it?” I offer up. “You work at that nice restaurant downtown, you could always tell her you’ve got them in one of their big, industrial refrigerator rooms.”
Tyler looks over at me, eyes filled with adoration. “This is why I keep you around,” he says, reaching over to reassuringly clap me on the back.
Later, Marla would come over. We would go back upstairs and back to the world. For now, though, it’s just Tyler Durden and I, sitting on our cold basement floor in front of a rusty bathtub.