Work Text
“Can I have a quarter?” repeats an insistent voice, for the second time, or maybe the third. Ian blinks, rising from the haze of a daydream. He’s joined the FBI team on their trip to a local bar for the sake of being a good sport, but he’d rather be at home in bed. Or staked out on a rooftop. Either is fine. Just not here. He shoots a glance at the small man sitting beside him on one of the barstools. “You need to borrow some change?”“Well,” says Larry, in that specific voice that Ian’s learned is a warning sign for a pedantic explanation, “technically speaking, I wouldn’t be borrowing the change from you, because I’ll be unable to retrieve it at a later time.” He gestures to the vintage jukebox across the room. “Unless you happen to have a screwdriver handy. Or unless I do…” He pats his vest pockets, as if there’s a chance. “Ahh, no such luck. I loaned it out.” Ian looks at him steadily. It’s the kind of look that says why the hell are you like this. “I meant you’d owe me twenty-five cents.” “Oh,” says Larry. He recovers from after a few seconds. Then, he holds out his hand expectantly. “May I?” Ian tiredly pulls out a handful of change and drops it into his palm. “Be my guest.” Larry gleefully pockets the coins like a starving Victorian orphan and trots off towards the jukebox. A minute later, the familiar strains of a 90s hit echo through the bar. Several groans are heard. Ian gives him another what-the-hell look, but with more amusement this time. “Really?” “What is love, anyway?” muses Larry, settling back into his chair. “Thanks for saving my seat.” “No problem,” says Ian. He looks around, studying the rest of the group. There’s Charlie, Don, Liz, Nikki, David, Colby, all drinking and laughing about something. Ian’s stone cold sober. Someone’s gotta be. “Hate to say it, but you’re the only good company right now.” Larry takes yet another handful of bar peanuts for himself, as surreptitiously as he can. “What are we even doing over here?” he asks, more rhetorically than anything.“Whatever we want,” says Ian, sliding a bill across the bar. Larry raises his eyebrows. “What’s that for?” “I’m tipping the bartender to leave us alone.” Ian leans against the bar, as comfortably as he can. “And for the peanuts. Keep eating like that, you’ll start affecting Georgia’s state revenue.”“Ah, Georgia. Forty-two percent of the USA’s peanut production.” “Of course you know that.” “I pride myself on collecting useless knowledge.” “You do that. I’ll keep all the useful stuff.” “All of it? Between us, we could master the secrets of the universe.” Larry thoughtfully pulls the rest of the change out of his pocket and hands it back to Ian. “Here, I’m returning what I’ve borrowed, as promised.” “Surprised it’s still twenty-five cents, considering inflation,” says Ian, watching Liz select something else from the jukebox. It’s the Spice Girls. He cracks a smile, and his thoughts slowly drift off again. His attention flicks across the bar from one end to another, scrutinizing the exits, following his usual patterns and habits of hypervigilance. Larry is undeterred. Perhaps his immunity to social cues is natural, or perhaps he’s developed a resistance over time, like exposure to a toxin. He prods Ian gently. Not literally, or else he’d find himself evicted from the barstool, but the disruption is enough to break Ian’s train of thought. “What are you thinking about?” “The weather,” says Ian, with hostility. Larry winces, but overlooks his clear annoyance. “Really? Well, it does look like your head’s up in the clouds.” He hears a burst of laughter from the group, and hurriedly leans over to eavesdrop. “I’m not that funny. What do you think they’re talking about?” “Hey, Ian!” calls Colby above the chatter, raising his glass. “You’ve been voted least likely to start a bar fight, but most likely to win one!” “I’m honored. You’re right,” replies Ian, with a subtle little Mona Lisa smile. He leans over, closing the gap between the seats. “So what’d they vote you?” “Colby’s the one that starts it,” says David, and they all laugh again. “I bet you are,” calls Ian.“Has that happened to you?” asks Larry, just when the moment’s almost passed. “Being in a bar fight, I mean?”“Nah. I’m the guy that gets the fuck out of there,” says Ian, studying the pool table across the room. “But if it happened tonight, I’d win.” “Why tonight?” inquires Larry. “Nothing special,” says Ian. “I just like to be prepared.”Larry can’t leave well enough alone. He sits up, seeing an opportunity. “Prepared? How, precisely?” He’d enjoy untangling the inner workings of Ian’s brain. It’s even more unusual than Charlie’s, or for that matter, his own. Larry maintains a certain level of outward strangeness with his constant philosophical observations about the cosmos, which tends to ward off anyone who might mistake him for being normal. But Ian can masquerade as an average person, until he doesn’t care to bother. “Yeah,” says Ian. Inviting further questioning, he raises an eyebrow. “I have a plan. I always do.”Larry takes the opportunity. “What is it?” Ian cocks his head to the side. “You actually wanna know?”“Er.” Larry has a second thought, but only one. “Yes?”“With or without guns?” “Uh,” says Larry. “No-- no guns. No weapons of any sort.” “It depends what corner of the room the violence starts in, but the basic strategy’s the same.” Ian points to the pool table. “I could get the cue stick if I move fast. That gives me an advantage. Good improv melee weapon. It’s got range.” He looks back over his shoulder behind the bar, indicating a row of glasses of varying shapes and sizes. “Different glasses break differently. Most of them make good weapons, but it depends whether you’re aiming for slicing damage or blunt force. You hit a guy with a margarita glass, it’s gonna piss him off. You hit him with one of those beer mugs, he’s down on the floor.”“Oh, my,” says Larry. He pauses to process this, looking as non-judgmental as he can possibly manage. “You are a professional, I must say.”“Past that, it depends how fast Sinclair is on the draw. Don, Charlie, and Nikki are too far in the corner. There’s no exit over there.” Ian points around the room, with Larry following his every move. “Colby’s had too many beers to be driving home, let alone shooting a gun. Liz is closest to us. She could make it out the back exit if she uses that chair to block.” Something else catches his eye. “Hey, if Nikki, Don, and Charlie pull down a couple of those old license plates off the wall, that’d be a pretty good tool to work with. They’re not sharp, but they’d do damage.” “Good lord,” says Larry, utterly transfixed.“As for you,” says Ian, swiveling his chair back around and gesturing to the supplies behind the bar, “grab a corkscrew and go for the eyes.” He aims a friendly smile at the worried-looking bartender. “It’s okay. We’re planning a tabletop game.” “Well, that’s certainly something.” Larry faces the bar mirror, sitting with his chin in his hands. “I have to admit, despite my pacifist nature, I find myself compelled by the efficiently violent workings of your mind.”“There’s a little of that impulse in everybody,” says Ian, chuckling. “Comes down to how you manage it.”Larry suddenly feels more than a bit outclassed. “I don’t think I could do any of that.”“And I couldn’t teach physics,” points out Ian. “Closest I ever get to a telescope is surveillance.” “I could show you sometime,” volunteers Larry, suddenly energized by the possibility of what’s to come. “It’s not often that I get the chance to introduce a novice to the grand untapped potential of our universe.” “I’ve been downgraded from professional to novice, huh?” “In our respective fields!” corrects Larry. “Thank you for that,” says Ian, pleasantly amused. “So you miss Megan, huh?” “What? I haven’t said a word.” “I know,” says Ian. “But when someone leaves, there’s that void you’re always looking to fill. You want company. You miss closeness. The instinct comes out, even if you think you’re hiding it.” He smiles crookedly, and a little sadly. “We’re nothing more than our instincts. Every last one of us.” Larry blinks at him, struck by the intensity of Ian’s remarks. This is just how Ian is. Megan told him once. And yet, it always comes as a surprise. “Maybe you could give a guest lecture on philosophy.” “Too deep for me,” says Ian. “I don’t give a shit about the start or end of the universe. I only want to know what’s in between.” “Sometimes I wish I could be so carefree.” “Not carefree. Focused.” “Whatever you’d like to call it.” Larry sighs, feeling the lid slipping off the unsecured jar that contains his problems. Insecure, that really would be the word, wouldn’t it? And so, for lack of better choices, he confides. “I’m so preoccupied with all those troublesome existential questions. They consume my every waking thought. It’s a bit like the burden of Sisyphus. I think I’ve solved the things that keep me up at night, and then there they are again.”“That’s anxiety,” says Ian, matter-of-factly. “Oh.” Larry pauses. “I suppose it could be, couldn’t it?” Ian silently pulls a therapist’s business card out of his pocket and hands it to Larry. Larry inspects the card. It’s nobody he knows, which surprises him. Psychology was Megan’s field, not his own, but he absorbed enough of it over the few years. “Thank you,” he says, after a minute of reading and rereading the small understated text. “A specialist in crime victims? Really?” “You’ve had way too much background exposure to crimes, even as a consultant. You’re not trained in it. It’s getting to you.” Ian stares at the subject of his attention, steadily and evenly. Larry has a perpetually disheveled look that stands out in contrast to his cool, suave self. Ian’s black hair is silky smooth and glossy like a raven, neatly styled and lately trimmed short. Larry… well, he prioritizes his sense of style somewhat less. “Everyone we’re close to has PTSD, including me. That’s a given. But some people get it dealt with. And the ones who don’t, break. It’s a matter of time.” “Thank you for those reassuring words of wisdom.” Larry nervously stuffs the card into his pocket. “I don’t suppose the therapist has any immediate appointments?” “I’ll see what I can do,” says Ian. He suddenly hears his name and tunes into the group’s conversation. “Someone asking for me?” It’s Colby again. “You’ve been voted most handsome guest star in our office!”Ian looks around. “I actually have competition?” Colby and Larry exchange an immediate awkward glance. Colby raises his eyebrows, shrugs, and retreats to his beer glass.“I have to wonder about the context for that vote,” muses Larry. “You and me both,” says Ian. He’s abruptly hit with a rare pang of self-consciousness. “Didn’t mean to imply you’re inferior competition.”Larry raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t take offense, but should I have?” “You’re good looking enough.” Ian rapidly recovers to correct his misstep. “I’m just a hard standard to live up to.” “Enough?” prompts Larry.Ian gives him a look. “Moving on.”“I don’t disagree with the vote in your favor,” adds Larry, “though I fear I’m going to withhold my opinion on the relative attractiveness of the team members. It just seems unwise. Anyway,” he continues, clearing his throat, “I think they meant among your fellow agents. Academic faculty not included.” “I know. I was joking,” says Ian, with a little smile. He’s smooth as the surface of an untouched pond, despite the slightly troubled waters beneath. He looks at the door, and back again, then slips the bartender another five just to keep ignoring them. “That makes me want to ask what your controversial opinions are.”“Oh, I am not about to be sucked into the insidious spiral of interpersonal gossip,” says Larry, over a handful of peanuts. “I prefer to simply listen from afar, and stay above the fray.” “Fleinhardt, why do you talk like you ate a thesaurus?” “Too many books as a precocious child. It’s a habit I can’t break.” Larry shrugs, and finally thinks to offer the bowl of peanuts to Ian. “Would you care for some legumes?” “I swear.” Ian rolls his eyes and accepts the legume offering. “I’ll get the answers out of you one way or another.” Larry makes a point of looking back over his shoulder. “Hopefully without any weaponized shot glasses.” “Nah. No shot glasses in the bar fight contingency plan,” says Ian. “Unless you’re throwing them, in which case--” He catches Larry looking at him askance. “Never mind.” Both Ian and Larry glance away, and both think, he makes me look so normal in comparison.