Chapter Text
Charles knew he hadn't really warned Armando properly, taking him home for the first time. But how did one explain a woman like his mother? It involved so much more than the usual, pedestrian difficulties of taking a boyfriend home for the first time. (Simultaneous with making the 'Mother dear, I'm homosexual! Drinkies?' speech. He was looking forward to that.)
It was easier just to... let it happen. To roll, in his nice little Mini Cooper, through the rougher, more industrialized parts of the state. And not to stop. To just keep going, until they were in actually quite nice suburbs. And then nicer still, and then frankly upscale. He could feel Armando getting restive beside him, puzzled and restless. But Armando didn't ask, so Charles didn't explain.
He just played the radio loud, and commented on the view, aggressively not noticing anything odd or wrong. And then there they were, at the gates of dear Mommy's Westchester mansion. Charles bashed on the intercom, and announced himself with brutal minimalism. The gardener buzzed him in, and there they were. Yes indeed.
“Charles,” his mother said, once they were parked up on the gravel driveway, and the housekeeper had let him in the big front entrance. (With an attempt at a warm welcome, but she'd only been there for six years. And anyway he associated all the servants with his mother. He was brusque, and she quickly gave up the attempt.)