carnophilia

Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandoms: Watchmen - All Media TypesWatchmen (comic)Watchmen (2009)
Relationships: Dan Dreiberg/RorschachDan Dreiberg & Laurie Juspeczyk(as a onesided type deal)Laurie Juspeczyk/Jon Osterman(mentioned) - Relationship
Characters: Dan DreibergRorschachWalter KovacsLaurie JuspeczykJon Osterman
Additional Tags: Alternate Universebutcher!Waltercustomer!Danmeat - Freeformbutcherybutcher shopBloodatmosphericCookingFoodFood KinkMinor Original Character(s)secular!DanClass Differencesjudgemental!Walternon mask!AUOne-Sided Attractionwriter!DanAwkwardnessAwkward ConversationsAwkward FlirtingAwkward CrushUnrequited Crushmolecular gastronomyThird WheelsIllustratedIllustrationsWalter says something anti-Semitic at one pointYou Have Been Warnedpolitically incorrect!WalterBugs & InsectsThreats of ViolenceCreepyscary!Walterfrightened!DanAwkward BonersImpotenceInappropriate ErectionsMasturbationalley masturbationgarbageScents & SmellsKink DiscoveryClass IssuesDan romanticizes the working classArguinglonely!Danhorny!Dandry spell!DanPast Child AbuseChildhood TraumaSexual RepressionWalter has issuesUnhealthy BehaviorOperasHate to LoveOpposites AttractRoutineShameGuilt
Language: English Stats:Published:2015-02-20Updated:2015-02-26Words:5264Chapters:5/8Comments:9Kudos:30Bookmarks:3Hits:290

The Petersons’ butcher shop was not in a nice neighborhood, was not convenient for Daniel Dreiberg, who nevertheless made his way there almost weekly to get fresh meat. For men like him, it was always a matter of principle. The butcher who ran it was the last of the old-time, mom-and-pop generation. His wife did the accounts and his teenaged daughter rang all the totals up at the till and was always sure to double-bag Daniel’s purchases so they didn’t leak on the way home. They were pleasant, hardworking people, and Daniel undoubtedly liked to think that, in his small way, he was supporting them, keeping their spirits up and their dreams alive.

Of this much, Walter Kovacs was sure, and it was enough for him to dislike Mr. Dreiberg with an intensity he reserved for the world's most intolerable people.

Walter worked in the back. He tried to pay little attention to customers like Mr. Dreiberg. The rich, self-important types, who acted like their patronage was an act of charity. He focused his attention on the regulars, the locals, like old Missus Flaherty who always bought the smallest, cheapest cuts she could with her meagre pension, stowing the wrapped parcels away in a hideous floral handbag that smelled of must. Walter would not say he felt anything particular towards her, personally, yet he was always sure to slip a bit of bone into the package – something for her tiny, cross-eyed, shivering Yorkshire terrier, Buttons? Bobbins? She had always walked it in view of his apartment window. He’d been watching the wretched creature produce watery stools on the cracked, dirty sidewalk across the street for years. He supposed it was some sense of grudging loyalty that made him want to check each day at the same time that the rickety little duo had made it safely up and down the block, yet he would never see himself as a man who cared for others, generally speaking.

He cared about meat itself, about making sure that each portion was perfect, that each cut was obtained with care. He took his job seriously.

Men like Dreiberg didn’t take anything seriously.

For one thing, they were lazy, rich and spoiled, with personal chefs and illegal immigrants to prepare their meals, while all Walter had was a hotplate that hadn’t worked properly in months. Not that Walter was envious of such men, with such hedonistic lifestyles. He was perfectly satisfied with his hotplate, even if it did make his food heat up unevenly. Hardship built character. Better to have cold food and be worth something as a human being than to have a warm, 8-course meal and be a moral degenerate.

Another thing about the Dreibergs of the world, which made Walter’s job much more annoying than it had to be, was that they were unpredictable.

Good customers were not unpredictable.

For example, Mr. Tanner, the widower, always used to buy short ribs for himself and his late wife. Every Christmas, he would order a turkey, and Mrs. Tanner would give Walter a fruit cake that he would pick away at until late January, long after it dried out and got stale. After the woman of the house had passed, Mr. Tanner kept on buying short ribs, but fewer. Walter admired that. Consistency, without waste. Men like Dreiberg asked for new things each time they visited, inspired by some cooking program on television, no doubt. New and inventive ways to ruin good meat. Walter cooked his with minimal seasoning, and ate it with boiled potatoes. He was wary of things like ‘micro gastronomy’ and ‘liquid nitrogen’ and other such cheap parlor tricks. Good, perhaps, to disguise produce of poor quality. An insult to anything else.

He didn’t take well to working front-of-shop. He found the white tile, like the shine on the front counter, to be too bright, too artificial. He preferred the organic marbled slabs of red, hanging from their slowly swaying hooks, and dull yellow-grey walls of the back room. The rust-rimmed drain in the middle of the floor, the air conditioning that buzzed like a swarm of hungry flies. Walter was at home there.

Mr. Peterson, the owner, knew better than to force Walter out of this particular environment, and better still, to leave well enough alone. He once went so far as to change from the dim light of incandescent light bulb to the blueish-white of a tightly-curled florescent. Walter had called in sick for a week. When he’d returned, his message had been heard loud and clear, and the old, round bulbs were back.

No, there was no room in Walter’s world for men like Daniel Dreiberg. He would do his best to serve him nonetheless, for he was proud of his work, and did not put out anything less than perfection. But he would not do anything more for a man like that. He would not slip a bone into his parcel, or attend the funeral of his wife.

He would cut the meat, and he would package it, and he would send it out the hanging plastic slats that marked the boundary where his territory imposed upon the wider world, but that was all that he would ever do, and it was more than Daniel Dreiberg and his lot deserved.

He muttered as much under his breath as he stared down at the beautiful tenderloin the irritable man had requested. No doubt he’d ruin it with some absurd sauce or foreign spice. Walter shook his head. Such waste.

Mr. Peterson appeared in the doorway.

“We’re about ready to open up shop.”

Walter grunted in response, wrapped up the portion, and placed it with the other orders for the day. He gathered them up and, wordlessly, shoved them into Peterson’s arms.

Peterson opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and departed with a quiet “Right.”

Walter wiped his hands on the rag he kept folded over his apron’s tie, and returned to his post.