Work Text:
The sticky laminate of the high-top table feels cool beneath John Becker’s knuckles. Outside, Sandusky is locked in a mid-February slush, but inside the Lord of the Wings bar, the air smells heavily of stale beer and canola oil. Becker tugs violently at the bow tie choking his throat. He wears a tuxedo that fits like a structural punishment, the crisp black wool mocking every slumped line of his spine.
Behind the counter, Norm wipes down the polished mahogany with a gray rag that has seen better decades. Norm moves with the unhurried grace of a man who has anchored thousands of men like Becker to barstools. Becker’s knuckles go white around a lowball glass of cheap rye, his second—or maybe third—and his voice rasps against the quiet hum of the overhead TV. He spews a bitter, rhythmic inventory of every single February 14th that has ever undone him. There was the high school debacle with the melted box of chocolates, the disastrous dinner in Chicago where the kitchen caught fire, and the silent, frostbitten drive back from the courthouse after his first divorce.
He lays them out like rusted surgical tools. Becker isn't just complaining; he's dissecting his own history, viewing himself as a walking curse, a man trapped on the wrong side of a mirror where every reflection shows a failure looking back. He hates the bow tie, he hates the holiday, and more than anything, he hates that ten miles away, his ex-wife Sondra Rush is putting on a veil.
Norm pauses his wiping, nodding with the patient, professional empathy of an old-school bartender. He doesn't offer hollow platitudes. He just pours another finger of rye and lets Becker marinate in his self-inflicted whump. A heavy wooden stool creaks two seats over.
"You know, for a guy wearing a three-thousand-dollar suit, you sure talk like you're wearing an eviction notice."
Becker snaps his head around, a sharp, cynical retort sitting right on the tip of his tongue. But the words freeze in his throat. Standing beside the adjacent high-top is Benson DuBois. Benson looks immaculately sharp. His dark charcoal suit fits his broad frame with tailored precision, complemented by a silk tie that subtly screams authority. Even at sixty-four, Benson possesses an effortless, unyielding posture—the unmistakable aura of a man who has spent the last sixteen years navigating the sharp corners of the Ohio State Senate. Elected in 1986, re-elected in '92 and '98, Benson carries himself not with arrogance, but with the weary, solid competence of someone who knows exactly how the room works and who owns the furniture.
Becker glares, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses with a twitchy finger. "If I wanted a psychological evaluation from a guy who looks like a state governor's chief of staff, I’d make an appointment, pal."
"Former Lieutenant Governor," Benson corrects smoothly, his voice a low, resonant baritone that easily cuts through the ambient bar noise. "And currently Senator. DuBois."
Benson steps closer, setting his own sparkling water down on the wood. His dark eyes fix on Becker, assessing the doctor’s frayed nerves, the polished wingtips, and the absolute aura of a man bracing for impact.
"I couldn't help hearing you mention Sondra," Benson continues, leaning one elbow against the bar rail. "Sondra Rush, right? She’s getting married tonight at the pavilion over on the bay."
Becker squints, his guard instantly rising. "Yeah. How do you know Sondra?"
"I don't know Sondra," Benson says calmly. "I know her groom. Senator Leonard Tyler." Benson lets out a short, dry chuckle, shaking his head. "Tyler’s my favorite ally-rival in Columbus. A man who can spend four hours debating a transportation bill and still manage to use three wrong metaphors. A complete blowhard, but he controls the committee budget."
Becker stares, his mouth opening slightly. He looks down at his glass, then back up at Benson’s smooth, unbothered expression. The realization hits him like cold water: this man isn't a random passerby. He knows the whole stage, the whole cast, and the ridiculous absurdity of the event Becker is currently trying to drink himself out of attending. "Great," Becker mutters, leaning back and resting his head against the wood-paneled wall. "So my ex-wife is marrying a blowhard state politician. That really brightens up the whole narrative. Thanks, Senator. I feel much better about my life."
"You shouldn't," Benson replies without a beat. "You look like a ghost attending his own wake. You're sitting here nursing cheap booze, letting Tyler win without him even knowing you're in the game. You're hiding in Sandusky, doctor."
The directness of the cut catches Becker completely off guard. Most people tiptoe around Becker's volatile prickliness; Benson simply steps over it. Becker feels a sharp flare of defensive pride, but beneath it, the uncomfortable sting of truth. Benson is holding up that mirror again—showing Becker the exact cowardice he's trying to drown in rye. Benson checks a sleek gold wristwatch, then turns his gaze squarely onto Becker. His expression softens just a fraction, a subtle shift from politician to a man who recognizes another tired soul.
"I have an invitation to that reception," Benson says, his tone entirely matter-of-fact. "I was planning on dropping in, making the appropriate nod to Tyler, shaking a few hands, and heading back to Columbus. But seeing as you're already dressed for a gala, and clearly in need of a distraction..."
Benson pauses, crossing his arms. "Why don't we go together? As each other's dates."
The silence that follows is absolute. The jukebox in the corner fades into the tail end of an old ballad. Becker freezes. His mind stumbles over the sentence, frantically reassembling the words to make sure he heard them right. Dates? Two men in their late fifties and mid-sixties, walking into a high-society political wedding in the middle of northern Ohio in 2002? Instinctively, Becker’s head snaps toward the bar. His shoulders tense into a rigid defensive line, his posture tightening as he braces for the reaction. He looks at Norm, expecting the scowl, the tense jaw, the sudden freeze in room temperature—the casual, casual homophobia that Becker has spent a lifetime expecting from blue-collar establishments.
Norm stops wiping the bar. He looks at Benson. He looks at Becker’s panicked, wide-eyed expression. Norm casually tosses the rag over his shoulder. "Honestly, Doc? Sounds like a blast to me."
Becker blinks, bewildered. "What?"
"I say go for it," Norm says with a small, easy grin, resting his forearms on the counter. "Show up, eat their shrimp cocktail, throw a little spanner in the works. My husband, subtle guy, works for the postal service—he always tells me the best way to handle an ex is to look like you're having way more fun than they are."
Becker stares at the bartender, entirely stripped of his usual cynical armor. "Your... husband?"
"Yeah. Cliff," Norm says smoothly, picking up a clean glass and polishing it. "Mailman. Takes forever to finish a route, but he's got good advice about parties."
Becker’s gaze slowly shifts back to Benson. The political veteran hasn't moved an inch. Benson stands there, calm, composed, holding out an unhurried, silent invitation to step right through the mirror and stop running from his own life. Becker looks down at his bow tie. He slowly reaches up, adjusting the black silk so it sits straight against his collar. A faint, reluctant smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"You know," Becker says, his voice losing its raspy edge, "Tyler’s probably going to hate this."
Benson smiles—a slow, brilliant, victorious grin. "Doctor, that is entirely the point."