Chapter Text
Glancing over, Howard can tell that Chuck is putting on a show for Jimmy. He’s used to being the one who performs for clients, connections, adversaries; but now it’s Chuck giving the performance of a lifetime, in a role far more exciting than the one Howard just had to play. This fictional Chuck is shocked, furious. Howard only gets to be cold, mum.
“...be fine. I'll have Howard drive me home. We need to talk, anyway.”
Jimmy’s lower voice is harder to make out—only the word “prick” cuts through, as it’s said with such gusto—but after a moment of sympathy between the brothers, Jimmy makes his way to the exit, looking even stormier than he often did.
“Howard. A word in my office, please,” Chuck calls out to him (loud enough, you could be sure, for Jimmy to hear), and while his smaller self wants to tell Chuck to just give it a rest, he has to admire the commitment.
Once the door to Chuck’s office is closed and locked, Chuck finally breaks character with an exhale.
“Well, that went well.”
Howard doesn’t smile, just wordlessly makes his way over to the couch and sits on it heavily. Chuck’s going for sarcasm, trying to disguise the fact that he really does think it went well: he got what he wanted, anyway. Howard hadn’t thought ahead to hide a bottle in Chuck’s office, and he can’t go get one now, because they aren’t celebrating—he’s being reamed out by Chuck for his unfair prejudice against Jimmy, his irrational commitment to not hiring him, his inexplicable hatred for the man.
“...sure it’ll take him a few days, but he’ll come around. He can’t really afford to say no.”
Nearing the end of a paragraph, Chuck seems to realize that Howard hasn’t exactly been nodding in agreement. He sighs.
“Howard.” He stops his half-manic pacing and sits on the other end of the couch. He doesn’t relax—he’s too energized by his own performance, so he sits on the edge, turned toward Howard, clasping and unclasping his hands as he carries on. “You know this is for the best. It’s for the good of the client, it’s for the good of HHM. Frankly, it’s for Jimmy's own good—whether or not he understands that.”
The things you make me do, Howard thinks. The hand that was always searching for a glass of whiskey runs through his hair, and comes away with nothing.