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It took two drinks and a question from Wagner for Elliot to drop the professionalism he’d been displaying throughout the case and start acting like the man Benoit knew him to be. Leaned back in his chair, settling in with the quiet atmosphere of the bar, he talked about how, if he was Marta, he’d tell each and every member of the Thrombey family to get fucked. How clearly Harlan had been right to cut them off because the whole lot of them were nothing more than rich pricks. And how after having some giant masshole try to take her out, she deserved every cent given to her.
A line of commentary that Benoit had happily raised his glass to since the man wasn’t wrong. So consumed by their own wealth, he had added, and status that they never noticed the rot it had left inside them. How precarious the giant shoulders they stood upon were until said giant was felled, leaving them scrambling for the highest position atop his corpse like desperate animals. Their behavior on its own sickened him, but then to drag Marta into the mess as though it was her fault?
Wagner, a touch softer than he or detective were, agreed, but didn’t. He took a more understanding approach and pointed out how grief made people weird, which Benoit reluctantly agreed with. Elliot was still too annoyed by the family to give them that grace. But that didn’t matter to Wager, who spoke on his own forays with loss. Noting how after his pet skunk died—(Elliot shook his head in response to Benoit’s deep desire to interrogate that statement further)—he’d been rude and short with everyone around him. Even his wife Jessica, and she was mourning Pepe—(Elliot kicked Benoit under the table when he opened his mouth)—as much as he had been. It was just the grief that made him short sighted.
Although theirs had a happy ending, on account of their child following soon after the loss. A far happier tale than the bruise Benoit was certain he’d be sporting as he was kicked into silence again.
Placing his beer down on the table with a thud, Elliot leaned forward in his seat. Arm on the table for balance as he leveled a firm look at Wagner, who paused mid-sip of his strawberry margarita. Pointing an accusing finger, he stated, “Grief doesn’t make you forget where someone is from or even the most basic facts about a person. The most that family knew about her was that Meg knew about her.”
Wagner frowned at his drink, thinking it over. “Yeah. That was pretty dickish.”
Benoit savored the smokey taste of his bourbon and how it smoothed out his anger, leaving behind a cold, bitter truth. “It is. But the difference between Marta and that family, is that she is a kind soul. She’s a carer. Literally, in this case. And she’s very good at it.”
Elliot’s snort shocked Wagner enough to make him jump in his seat. “So what? You think she’s gonna help them out because she’s nice?”
“I want to believe she won’t, but…,” Benoit admitted. Running his ring finger along the edge of his glass, he looked around the bar, lips pressed into a thin line as he thought through the family. What they meant to Marta. How she had spoken of them. Shaking his head, he said, “But I can’t see her cutting off the girl. They seemed genuinely close, or what passes for it in all of this. When the dust settles and the anger has subsided, I think she might help her. Maybe. And of course, Walt to some extent. Not out care, but because he runs a company that handles Harlan’s works.”
“Exactly,” Wagner said in agreement and then took a loud sip of his drink. “Even if they are the worst people ever, would you want to deal with the hiring and firing of some publishing house after all that? Or feel comfortable ruining a girl’s education just because? That’s… not great.”
And though his groan verged on disgusted, eye roll and all, Elliot didn’t argue. More than anything, he seemed annoyed by the truth of the statement. Which Benoit understood entirely since he, too, wanted Marta to do the selfish thing and protect her peace of mind and everything else in that house that was now rightfully hers from that family. But Harlan’s well laid plans were cut short, leaving all the half finished steps in Marta’s lap, along with everything else he had owned.
It was an awful pill to swallow. One that led to a lull where the only real noise to be heard was from nearby tables discussing sports and life. Might’ve carried on through the night if not for Wagner breaking it to question whether they thought Marta might allow movies to be made about Harlan’s Menagerie Tragedy series. After all, it was something Walt had been pushing his father for and, selfishly, Wagner was excited by the premise of seeing those books brought to life.
Also, he thought the guy that played Captain America would be great in it. What guy, Benoit wasn’t exactly sure, but Elliot knew. He perked up immediately to explain why Wagner’s choice was wrong and how some other actor from some Jedi movie would’ve been a better fit for the detective.
It made for quite the entertaining show, Benoit noted as he watched their petty argument of who was qualified to play whom. Had he more than a passing knowledge of Harlan’s works, he would’ve joined in when offered the chance. But sipping at his drink, attention bouncing between the two men and the tv airing the news of Ransom’s arrest, was more than enough for him. After a case like that, it felt nice to let his mind rest.
His leg twitched as the phone in his pocket began to vibrate. He half thought to ignore it—in case it was something trivial like an ad or his mother—but the idea that it might be his assistant or something equally important had him fishing it out with a passing apology to the two men before him. Not that they cared. When he looked at the name, he allowed himself a small smile as he unlocked his phone to see what Phillip wanted.
Biting at his lip, he debated just letting it go unanswered. The whole purpose of going to the bar with the two men seated with him was to relax together. To get the last bits of case out with the people who had been working it the whole time. Maybe get to know each other a little better as Wagner seemed to know a great deal about him, but Benoit didn’t have the privilege of claiming the same. It was the sort of real, connective moments that phones and tablets were robbing folks off on a daily basis.
On the other hand, Phillip had been working abroad for the better part of a month and he’d be lying to say parts of his anatomy hadn’t shown some signs of life at the message. After all, he was still a man. And as a man, he was allowed to make stupid decisions such as offering the bare minimum in a conversation as he focused more of his attention on replying to Phillip’s salacious text.
“You know you don’t have to sit here with us if you’d rather be sexting your man?” Elliot asked, too loudly and too close.
Far too close, Benoit realized as he startled. First at his voice, then again at the realization that the man was practically at his side in order to better see his screen. Shifting his phone away from Elliot, he kept a watchful eye on him.
Completely missed the way Wagner leaned in from the other side to see for himself, saying, “Is that a sext? Feels more like sexting foreplay?”
“Hey!” He slammed his phone face down on the table. Eyes wide and mind blank, he tried again in a quieter tone, “No. I—I—”
“Pro tip,” Elliot said, gesturing at Benoit broadly with the drink in his hand, “If you’re gonna lie, don’t stutter and stop blushing.”
Solid advice that they both knew he wasn’t good at. Especially not when called out on it. The more he opened and shut his mouth in a skilled imitation of a dying fish, the hotter his face felt until he was certain that every drop of blood must've rushed to paint him a deeply unflattering shade of red. Truly, if there was a God, like his mother claimed, it would've seen to it that the ground opened up and swallowed him whole, if only to spare him being the person of interest in the moment. Instead, he was left there clenching his phone in his hand as the two gentlemen waited for his next move.
Benoit closed his eyes and tried to regroup. He could handle the situation. He could.
With a breath, he looked at them with a stern gaze, ignoring the fact that his face was likely redder than the Trooper’s drink. Neither man looked cowed though. If anything, Elliot was a little too pleased at with his discovery. And though Benoit didn't know the trooper nearly as well, there was a clear shift from his excited awe to a more relaxed amusement that likely wouldn't bode well in the long run.
“Look, it’s fine. I mean, me and the wife send the sexy text from time to time,” Wagner said, attempting to be reassuring. And being completely oblivious to his failure. “I just wouldn’t have thought meeting the Benoit Blanc would also include learning you sext. That’s amazing.”
“I’m fifty. Not… dead. And I wasn’t sexting”
Realizing how he words came out, Wagner waved his hands—nearly knocking over his drink in the process. “No. No. I just meant…you’re normal. You’re sitting here sexting some guy. Maybe the Moriarty to your Sherlock or something—”
“God no. Phillip—”
“Phillip?!” Wagner asked with such unabashed excitement that Elliot practically choked on his drink laughing. "You know I nearly named my son that! Pippen for short, but went for Sam instead.”
Despite the embarrassment still flooding his body, Benoit had to smile. “My Phillip goes by Pip. Hates it, but Phillip can be such a mouthful,” he said, kicking Elliot in the shin for safe measure.
“Fucker. Why am I being kicked? I didn’t even say anything about you and your boyfriend,” Elliot said, dragging out the final word like some schoolyard taunt.
Turning in his seat, Benoit stared down the lieutenant with a look of utter annoyance. “Oh shut up, Elliot.” He shook his head. “And… boyfriend? What am I? Some high schooler?"
Elliot shrugged in concession to the question. “It felt right. Kind of like the idea of him being the Moriarty to your Sherlock. I mean, he is English."
The gasp Wagner let out was unnecessarily loud. "English? Like Jason Statham English or Michael Caine English?”
“Has the sort of breeding that would make a race horse jealous, English,” Elliot shot back.
Benoit tried to hide his snort by sipping at his drink, but really the man wasn’t wrong. Glancing at the phone still hidden under his hand, he had half a mind to call Phillip. Let him hear what his precious Elliot thought of him. He glanced at his watch, only to frown as he noted the time—both for him and in England.
"—Not even joking, he has a cigar guy. A booze guy. An art guy. And like half of those connections seem shady as shit. I’m talking back rooms of bodega type shady, but they’re somehow legit. Got my dad this nice classic Rolex on the cheap through him,” Elliot laughed.
Benoit scoffed at the unflattering description of his man. “To be fair, the man has lived in the City since the 80s. Anyone would gather an interesting collection of friends over that kind of time.”
Elliot scoffed. “And the criminal record?”
That had Wagner perking up. “Wait. He’s got a criminal record? Like a real criminal record?” Slamming a hand down on the table, Wagner proudly declared, “You were sexting Moriarty! That's awesome! It’s just like that Sherlock show, only if Moriarty and Sherlock sexted instead of texted. I have to tell my wife about this. She could use it for her fanfics.”
If Benoit thought his blush couldn’t get any worse, the fact that others in the bar were now looking their way certainly proved his wrong. Loosening his tie, he shook his head helplessly. “I— First of all, Moriarty is an Irish name. And Phillip’s is a gay man pushing sixty. Of course he has a criminal record. I have a criminal record."
"Wait—What?!" Wagner asked.
Looking toward Elliot, he wasn’t exactly surprised to see the expectant look on the man’s face. After all, it was his own fool mouth that had walked himself into that situation. Wasn’t any reason for Elliot to help walk him out it. Sucking in a breath through his teeth, he finished off the last of his bourbon and shrugged.
“I grew up as a gay man in the South. The lines between assault and self-defense really came down to the arresting officers at time,” he said, trying to sound neutral about it. Gripping his phone a little tighter as it buzzed beneath his hand, he smirked. “And that’s before counting all the times Phillip got us arrested for public indecency.”
Wagner stared at him with eyes so wide, Benoit was half concerned they might actual fall out. That or the man would explode from sheer enthusiasm as he began bouncing in his seat. Looking from him to Elliot and then back, he said, “Hold on! You’ve been arrested for public indecency? You?!”
“Unfairly. Phillip was drunk and decided to take a piss behind a car in Manhattan. And, really, back then, all a cop needed to see was two men and cock out to jump to the worst conclusions.”
“But you implied it was more than once,” Elliot reminded him.
Before anything else could be said on the subject, his phone began to vibrate in earnest as the chorus of Charles Atlas played from his phone. And Lord, was he ever happy to hear the sounds of Dr. Frank-N-Furter. Picking it up with a sigh, he smiled. “Hello?”
“You were ignoring me, Blanc.”
The rumble in Phillip’s voice sent a small shiver down his spine and left him smiling fondly for the brief moments it took him to remember his surroundings. His eyes darted between the highly interested looks on Elliot and Wagner’s faces. “One moment, Phillip.” Muting the call, Benoit rose to his feet and rifled through the pockets of his coat. “I’m gonna step outside for a quick smoke.”
“And to say dirty things to your husband,” Elliot helpfully supplied.
“Wait,” Wagner piped in. “Husband?!”
Pausing, Benoit opened his mouth then thought better of it and nodded. “Honestly, it was a sartorial discussion. Isn’t there a stereotype about gays and fashion? Ah! There it is,” he said as he retrieved his cigar. That taken care of, he nodded to the two men before unmuting his call as he headed toward the door.
Elliot raised his drink with a smile as he called out, “Yeah yeah. Just try to keep it in your pants less I arrest you. And tell Phil I said hi.”
“I don’t know him, but tell him I say hi too,” Wagner added.
Snorting, he made a point of doing just that. Something Phillip seemed to take in stride, only briefly questioning who Wagner. And perhaps, in the morning or simply another time, Benoit would let himself go into detail about the Trooper and how his latest case with Elliot went and Marta if only because Phillip did enjoy hearing about his work. Took a keen interest in it.
But for the evening, since his companions already thought the worst of him, Benoit didn’t see the harm in circling back to the conversation they’d started earlier. The streets weren’t especially busy and even though there was a slight chill to the air, he had his cigar Phillip’s little promises to keep him warm as he relaxed back against the bar’s facade. Besides, the all too male part of his brain that only functioned in terms of food or sex, really wanted to know just how that punishment was meant to end. For the sake of the narrative. After all, he couldn't just leave a story half finished.