Archive of Our Own

He buys her flowers.

Well, he buys her flowers whenever he visits her, but this time he decides to be a little fancier about it, considering the day.

“Orange blossoms and sweet peas,” he explains as he gives them to her. “Which I hope you appreciate, because I had to jump through an awful lot of hoops to get ‘em.” He shakes his head, smiling. “I know they look a little odd, but I thought you’d appreciate the sentiment.” Jack pulls out his chair and settles down, leaning back and sighing. “Sorry I kept cancelin’ on you. It’s been some month, I’ll tell ya that. Whole thing’s just been a whirlwind. But I couldn’t skip Valentine’s Day, could I?”

He smiles faintly, looking down at her. “Of course I couldn’t. Oh, everyone’s been in a bit of a frenzy, really, ‘specially Goody and Billy. You know how Goody is, always with his big ideas. Calmed down a bit since that dinner party, thank the Lord, but I don’t think he’s ever gonna give up on Valentine’s Day.” Jack pauses thoughtfully. “Neither is Billy, I don’t think.”

Jack chuckles. “Honestly, I’m curious how it’ll turn out this time, even if I do think I know. Their date nights always seem to go fine, but then they try to do somethin’ special and it combusts.”

+

February 14th, 2012

“How did this happen?” Goodnight wonders (very loudly), hopping around the table and trying desperately to put out the fire licking at the tablecloth.

Billy shrugs, tense, as he stands back and watches. “Careful,” he says. “And it’s because you lit the tablecloth on fire with the candle.”

“Damn it!” Goodnight cries, finally throwing a wet towel over the tablecloth and all the perfectly good food on top of it. “Why did you let me go to the candle store?!”

“How was I supposed to know you were going to buy seventeen candles?” Billy asks testily, crossing his arms over his chest. “I wasn’t even with you. Also I didn’t even know candle stores existed.”

“They smelled so amazing at the time, I couldn’t help myself!” Goodnight deflates as he goes to stand next to Billy, shaking his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, wilting. “I was hoping our first Valentine’s Day together would be special. Been some time since I got the chance to celebrate it.”

Billy shrugs and bumps Goodnight’s shoulder with his own. “Well, in the grand scheme of things, this is pretty special.”

Goodnight chuckles. “Well, it smells great.”

Billy smiles. “What is that, cinnamon?”

“Cinnamon Flower Delight.”

“Not bad.” He pauses for a beat. “Wanna get pizza?”

“I’ll find the takeout menu.”

+

Josh stares at his TV, which is currently blaring commercials, regretting the fact that he never replaced his headphones after they broke for the tenth and final time, because he could really use them right now to block out the sounds of Billy and Goodnight proving everyone who’s ever said that long-term couples have less sex very, very wrong. Same goes for everyone who’s ever said that long-term couples have boring sex, because they clearly haven’t lost interest in each other, and apparently they have the stamina of horny college students, because every time Josh thinks they’re finally done, they just start the next round.

At least this has convinced Josh that he really needs to get laid, because he’s starting to get jealous.

And then he remembers: Valentine’s Day. It’s fucking Valentine’s Day. The day when the only people in bars and clubs are sad, desperate men and women, drowning their sorrows about being alone on fucking Valentine’s Day. Josh, who has never had any kind of interest in blowing money on cards and shitty candy and romance, actually feels a pang of excitement until he remembers that he’s trying to stay away from the whole “getting trashed” thing, which is kind of the best part of bars and clubs, and going out to flirt while sober and trawling for a one night stand all by himself seems kind of like a pathetic pick-up artist thing.

Maybe he should just call some of the numbers he already has and see if there’s anyone alone and depressed enough to come over and “hang out”, but once he’s scrolling through his phone, he starts thinking that that’s also kinda pathetic.

God, he’s getting old.

(Definitely too old to get cross faded at a seedy club and aid and abet in an affair by sleeping with two people who are having a goddamn affair and then wake up to a lot of fighting because apparently they aren’t even good at having an affair and have to slip out the back door of an overly nice house, shirtless, to find himself in a part of town he doesn’t even recognize and practically crawl his way back to his place.

Honestly, he was probably too old for that last year.)

He still does kinda want to go out, though, just because he’s either been in his apartment, in someone else’s apartment, or out working for what seems like a long time, and it’s making him feel…well, it’s making him feel old, damn it, which is getting to be a theme in Joshua Faraday’s Life 2.0. Look, he might’ve sort of gotten his shit together, but that doesn’t mean he wants to settle down or some shit. Sure, he likes talking to Vasquez through the wall or going to his place for coffee and idle conversation, and he likes chatting with the others and coming over for pizza and indulging Jack’s weird-ass friendship with Purple, or whatever, but…

It’s not like they’re real friends or anything, they’re just neighbors, and Josh is still a little bored, a little unfulfilled, a little something, and he wants to have fun, out on the town kind of fun, playing a game with himself based on how many phone numbers he can collect. (He’s become more of a booty call and possibly some not-entirely-sexual action while out kinda guy than a one night stand guy. One night stands are usually for when he’s too drunk or high or both to consider the fact that actual spur-of-the-moment one night stands suck.)

Yeah, he thinks he’ll go out.

Alone.

Of course.

Or…maybe not. Maybe, in spite of everything he keeps telling himself about ‘not friends just neighbors’, he doesn’t have to go out on his own. He doesn’t have to do the same old thing again, because there’s someone here who he’s sure he can convince to go out with him, with some wheedling and cajoling and general baiting, someone who can make this shit exciting again, even challenging, if Josh looks at it right.

(Josh is very easily bored.)

Inspired, Josh steps out of his apartment and is immediately nearly bowled over by Emma, who’s barreling down the hallway with a fair amount of junk food cradled in her arms. Josh looks after her, bemused, as she stops in front of Vasquez’s apartment and knocks on the door with her elbow.

“No!” Vasquez calls out. “Not now!”

“Not unless it’s important,” Sam chimes in, because apparently Sam’s in there too for some reason.

“It’s Emma,” she says, sounding annoyed. Then she sighs heavily. “I changed my mind.”

Someone wrenches the door open to allow Emma to enter, and then slams it shut.

Josh stares after her for a second, but he isn’t sure he wants to know what the hell two single men (one of whom is like sixty, and being single and like sixty usually doesn’t have a super happy story attached to it) and a widow are doing locked in an apartment with a bunch of junk food on Valentine’s Day, because that sounds like the most depressing set up to a joke ever, and now he really wants to out of here, because the walls are kinda thin and if the Saddest Posse Ever are going to be talking about personal shit in Vasquez’s apartment, he doesn’t wanna be there to potentially care.

He’s so not here for that yet, he’s only lived in this place for a little over a month and, yes, he’s figured out that these people are possibly as fucked up as him, but he’s not ready to actually go there with the…talking and direct information stuff. He’s just gathering information all on his lonesome. That’s why he still hasn’t asked Vasquez or anyone else why he doesn’t leave his apartment—because he can’t figure it out, so it must be more fucked up than he can imagine.

Than he wants to imagine.

Josh is pulled out of his thoughts by Goodnight and Billy’s apartment door opening, and then his mind goes blank for a second.

“Alright, there’s no way it can go wrong this time,” Goodnight (who apparently doesn’t understand the concept of ‘jinxing’) is saying as he and Billy step out into the hallway, both dressed in suits.

He gives Billy a sappy smile as he adjusts his tie. “You look beautiful.”

Billy snorts and leans forward for a second to brush a kiss against Goodnight’s lips. “Thanks.”

Josh can’t help but comment, because damn they clean up nice, and also he’s surprised that they’re not completely exhausted from this entire morning. And afternoon. It’s nearing seven thirty, and Josh only stopped hearing them going at it like two hours ago. “Wo-ow,” he says, whistling. “Y’all look sharp. I was wonderin’ what happened to the sex marathon next door. Didn’t think you two were gonna stop all day.”

Billy directs a cold look at Josh, who steps back warily, because Billy is incredibly scary and he doesn’t quite know why, before Billy answers, “We’re usually too tired after Valentine’s Day.”

“For sex,” Goodnight helpfully interjects. “So we get it out of the way first and go out already sated.”

“Great, information I totally needed to know,” Josh mutters nearly under his breath.

“You asked,” Billy responds, shrugging.

Josh has to concede to that. “Where are you going?”

“We have a reservation for eight o’clock at a lovely Italian restaurant,” Goodnight says smugly. “And then we are going to take a walk in the park, and then we are going to celebrate the fact that we have finally had an entirely successful Valentine’s Day.”

Josh snorts. “What, you’ve never had a good Valentine’s Day before?”

February 14th, 2016

“I’m so sorry,” the server gasps as Billy stares down at his suit, which is covered in tomato basil bisque. Very, very hot tomato basil bisque.

Goodnight looks apoplectic, rising from his chair like a kraken from the deep, and Billy is honestly more worried about that than the pain, because he’s used to pain and he really doesn’t want Goodnight punching somebody over this and probably getting arrested, not when things have been so much better lately.

“Goody,” Billy says through gritted teeth, and Goodnight snaps out of his fog of anger and turns to Billy, probably after giving the server a very scary look, given how the poor, incompetent bastard squeaks and runs away.

“Are you alright?” Goodnight asks, and the change from anger to panic is immediate, his entire body shaking and his breath coming too quickly.

“Calm down,” Billy says. “And get me to the hospital.”

Long story short, that’s how Billy ends up with the equivalent of a sunburn on his chest even though it’s five degrees and cloudy.

“No,” Billy and Goodnight say in solemn, unsettling unison.

“…Well, then. Um. Good luck?”

“Thank you,” Goodnight says cheerily, and then he gets serious and lowers his voice. “I’d suggest getting out of here. Vasquez’s apartment might get…” He waves his hands vaguely, as if that explains literally anything. Josh just nods sagely.

“I figured,” he whispers back. “I was about to try and get RH to go out with me, to a bar or club or something.”

“Not a date, right?” Billy asks, sounding suspicious.

Josh wants to note that he’s a goddamn catch and Red Harvest would be lucky to have him, but also, “Ew, no, he’s like twelve. I’m going to mentorhim in the ways of having a life, get him out of the apartment.” (Look, Josh knows for what he’s pretty sure is a fact that Red Harvest’s life consists of doing whatever the fuck a farrier does, the other people on the fourth floor, doting on Purple, and going to the gun and archery ranges.)

Goodnight snorts. “Well, then I’d suggest something a little tamer. Like the bowling alley.”

“He’s not actually twelve,” Josh protests. “And being around other people, mingling, flirting... come on, he’s in his twenties, he should see some action. Anyway, it’s probably just that no one’s asked him if he wants to go be…young somewhere.”

“He’s young everywhere,” Billy says flatly.

“You know what I mean.”

Goodnight shakes his head as if he’s giving up. “If you can get him to do that, you’re a more convincing man than I.”

Josh flashes a bright smile at Goodnight as he and Billy push past him to make their way to the stairs. “I probably am. Have fun!”

+

“Oh, I don’t even remember if I told you about Josh…I swear my memory’s going.” Jack chuckles ruefully. “He’s new. Hasn’t been around for long, but honestly, I guess we’ve been blessed, because he’s fitting right in, even if he’s a little more…I don’t know. Normal than the rest of us, I guess. But then, I can tell he’s got his demons. So do we all. And, well, he’s a certain kind of normal. Sam calls him a 'smooth operator', and I can’t tell you if I disagree yet, but even Sam seems like he’s warming up to him.”

Jack sighs and then shrugs. “He gets on with everyone, at least. Even Red. Josh has a dog, is the thing, and I swear that dog and Purple are getting to be friends, so Josh is spending time in Red’s apartment with the dog, and…well, Red even talks to him.” Jack laughs. “The dog’s name is Jack, can you believe it? It’s awfully confusing.” Jack’s smile fades. “A lot of things are confusing, lately. But now’s not the time to talk about that, is it?”

He sits with her in companionable silence for a while, and then says, “Red is twenty-five now, you know. Same age as Katie would be. He must’ve done the math, because ‘round me he always says he’s twenty-six, like I don’t know what he’s trying to do.” Jack shakes his head. “Well, really, I don’t know what he’s trying to do. I just know he must think it’ll make me feel better. His logic’s always been a little different, but God bless him for caring.” He pauses. “But no, I’m not trying to replace them with him. Red’s his own person, nothing like Luke or Kate were. I don’t even know if they’d’ve gotten along at all.”

+

When Red Harvest opens the door to Josh, his eyes immediately move to scan the hallway. When he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, his brow furrows. “Where’s Dog Jack?”

Josh wonders if every time he knocked on Red Harvest’s door really has involved Jack, and thinks that maybe, possibly, it has. Jack might be the only reason Josh has communicated so much with Red Harvest, now that he thinks about it. He swears to God, Jack and Purple are warming up to each other faster than Josh and Red Harvest are warming up to each other. “Dog Jack’s in my apartment. All you get today is Human Josh.”

Red Harvest frowns suspiciously. “Why?”

“What, I need an ulterior motive to visit a buddy?”

“I’m your buddy?” Red Harvest asks, sounding deeply skeptical.

Josh wonders if he should be hurt or pleased that, apparently, Red Harvest doesn’t really consider him a friend. He takes a third option and just shrugs it off. “Okay, whatever, we’re going to a bar, I’m gonna teach you the ways of the world.”

Red Harvest looks vaguely alarmed. “What?”

“Okay, I’ll teach you the ways of hanging out in the chillest bar I know where you can still get action.”

“Action?”

“Yeah, action. I’m not talking, like, one night stands, just getting some phone numbers for future, safer one night stands.”

“I…” Red Harvest starts, and then he trails off. His face has gone very blank.

Josh isn’t sure if he’s getting through to him, but damn it, he’s going to be a more convincing man than Goodnight, because if there’s something he’s good at, it’s talking people into doing shit. “C’mon, it’s probably been forever since you got some.”

“Some what?”

Josh falters, not entirely sure how to explain what he means without offensive hand gestures, but then Red Harvest breathes out, “Oh.”

Josh nods solemnly. “Exactly. It’s Valentine’s Day, man, might as well take a leap of faith and do something new.”

“I don’t…think…that’s the point…”

“Come on. Come on. Loosen up a little.”

Red Harvest squares his jaw at that and responds, “I’m loose.”

Josh grins, amused. “Yeah?”

“I have lots of, um...sex. All the time."

Josh swallows his laughter and instead narrows his eyes at him. "You know I don't believe you, right?"

"I have a girlfriend back in Oklahoma?" Red Harvest says hopefully.

Josh tries really, really hard not to laugh at that, but an awkward, huffy squawk comes out anyway, because wow, this is already gold, Josh needs to see this kid in the wild. "Really. What's her name?"

Red Harvest’s eyes scan the room, quickly enough that Josh is pretty sure that someone not so in tune with body language wouldn’t notice. Then he says, with great conviction, “Key.”

When Josh says nothing, he explains, “It’s a, a nickname.”

“Really? You sure it’s not that you looked at my door, saw that there’s a key sticking out of the knob, and decided that would be your fake girlfriend’s name?”

Red Harvest deflates slightly. “…Maybe.”

“Come on,” Josh wheedles, sure that he’s finally breaking him down, so he tosses his pitch again, and hard. “Live a little! You’re young, you should go out sometimes, do something exciting!”

“I don’t really…do clubs. Or bars.”

“Well, have you ever tried?”

“I’ve…been to casinos?”

“Not the same thing, trust me. Casinos ain’t for fun.” At least not for Josh. To him, going to a casino is like going to the office, or what going to the office must be like for people who actually work in offices.

Red Harvest hesitates and then nods. “True.”

“So, try something new!”

Nearly out of options, Red Harvest counters with, “Aren’t you old for clubs? And…picking people up?”

Josh reels back. “Trying to hit me right where I live, huh? I’m not old, and just so you know, I score all the time. All. The. Time.”

“Okay,” Red Harvest says flatly.

“Well, moving on, the fact that I’ve had time to do this kinda stuff just means I can show you the ropes! How to have a good time, how to socialize with other pretty people…”

“I just don’t know if I’m…interested.”

Josh shrugs that off. “Well, that’ll probably change once you get there, and Valentine’s Day’s the easiest day to woo someone, perfect for a beginner. Look, I won’t abandon you to go home with someone or anything, we’ll just collect phone numbers, I’m a booty call kinda guy anyway. I’ll teach you how to wingman, it’ll be like a game, it’ll be fun, you know what that is, fun?”

Red Harvest looks mildly offended. “Yes.” He sighs. “You really won’t…just leave?”

“Absolutely not! And I’m actually telling the truth!”

“Go with him, Rojito! Me and Emma and Sam are celebrating Singles Awareness Day and we want to be alone!” Vasquez calls from his apartment. “It might get loud and sad!”

Red Harvest pauses, and Josh finally caves and throws the low blow. “Emma’s a widow. That means hardcore feelings. You wanna deal with potential hardcore feelings?”

(Personally, even close proximity to hardcore feelings gives Josh hives. That’s why he never goes looking for them, and when he encounters them, he does everything possible to keep them from making direct contact with his soul.)

Red Harvest’s eyes widen very slightly, and he shakes his head. “Fine,” he says.

“Have fun!” Vasquez calls.

“Thanks!” Josh calls back. He looks Red Harvest up and down. That damn suede vest, the black undershirt, brown corduroys (sorry, is he seventy? Is he seven? Josh can really find no in between reason to wear fucking corduroys) the same color as the vest—as usual, Red Harvest is teetering on the edge of being a fashion disaster, but thankfully he’s hot enough to pull off ‘charmingly eccentric’, so all Josh says is, “Put on a coat and some dancing shoes and let’s go.”

Red Harvest sighs heavily and trudges back into his apartment, reappearing a few moments later wearing hiking boots and a maroon overcoat that looks nothing like the rest of his clothes and that would be nice if…

“RH, do you have any jackets with less cat hair on them?” Josh asks, vaguely exasperated.

Red Harvest gives him a blank look. “No.”

Josh rolls his eyes. At least there’s a coat check so no one will get the wrong idea about Red Harvest and think he’s some kind of crazy cat guy.

…Okay, so no one will get the right idea about Red Harvest and think he’s a crazy cat guy.

Josh shakes his head and says, “Fair enough. Let’s go.”

+

Vasquez’s liquor cabinet is well-stocked, which Sam thinks might be a good thing, considering it means that Vasquez isn’t actually drinking most of his stash, just letting it pile up for a rainy day. At least, as far as Sam knows. Vasquez could be drinking his booze as fast as he’s getting it and just be getting it way more than Sam thinks he does, but Sam doubts it. He may not know everything, but he does have to admit that he knows most things going on around here, including Vasquez, and Vasquez has never been any kind of addict.

(Unless terrible television can get to be an addiction, in which case Vasquez is probably lost to them forever.)

But just because Vasquez isn’t a regular heavy drinker doesn’t mean he doesn’t drink, which is very obvious right now, with half of Vasquez’s well-stocked liquor cabinet spread out over his scratched-up coffee table along with all the artery-clogging bullshit Emma brought along. The alcohol is mostly wine, which makes sense, considering Vasquez’s subscription to a wine of the month club that he can somehow afford.

Emma is sprawled on the couch with her bare feet in his lap, and Vasquez is chugging some Merlot like it’s water.

“Come on,” Sam says, stepping in because that’s why he’s here, to stay sober and not let Emma and Vasquez follow their best guys into the great beyond. “You still have plenty of time to get trashed. Would be a pity to get cut off after an hour.”

Vasquez reluctantly detaches his lips from the bottle and sighs heavily. His eyes are already a little glassy. He hands the bottle to Emma, who drinks straight from it.

“Same goes for you, Emma,” Sam grumbles, settling down in Vasquez’s armchair, shooting a look at whatever’s playing on TV. A Valentine’s special of Soulmates Always Forever. Of course.

Emma and Vasquez have, Sam notes, begun squabbling over the junk food. “I bought it,” Emma snaps. “Don’t eat all the best chips.”

“You can have the organic ones,” Vasquez says, tossing the violently green bag of veggie crisps at Emma’s face.

She bats it away.

The smooth bag, which is so blown full of air it might as well be a balloon, skids off of the coffee table and floats sadly to rest on the floor.

“Why did you even buy that?” Vasquez asks.

Emma deflates. “Habit,” she mutters, but doesn’t say anything else.

Vasquez doesn’t mention it either; he just deflates right along with her and goes back to listlessly watching TV.

Sam goes back to much less listlessly watching his two friends. Half his age and they’ve already lost the loves of their lives. Sam’s had bad luck, but at least he’s never been through that grief. The two of them are miserable, and Sam ought to say something, but it’s not like he’s going to be able to choke out some comforting words. He’s never been good with that “feelings” business.

Agent Buzzkill, the others at the DEA used to call him. Except for Quique, of course, but Quique loved everyone.

That’s half the reason Sam’s here, isn’t it?

Well, not exactly, he amends in his head. Quique loved everybody, but he definitely didn’t love everybody like he loved Vasquez.

(“What do you got?” Sam asks when Agent Richards finally calls over the secure line, hoping there’s more good news. Lately there’s been more good news than not, and Sam doesn’t want that winning streak to get derailed, now that they’re so close to finally bringing Jacinto down.

“Gio told me the other day that we’re getting close…” Quique tells Sam over the line before trailing off with a suspiciously dreamy sigh.

Sam furrows his brow. Sounds like good news, if his hardened, grown-ass agent would just finish the sentence instead of standing there mooning over the line like a fourteen year old with his first crush. “Close?”

“…To the big haul, obviously,” Quique continues quickly. “That’s what I was talking about. The job. The job, duh. Gio and I, we’re meeting up tomorrow, and he’s gonna confirm the location, and we’re gonna be set. We just…we just have to meet up. Tomorrow. At eight. Us two.”

Sam fights to not roll his eyes. As his handler, Sam should probably ask Quique what the hell his relationship with their star C.I. has become, but, come on, it’s as obvious as a brick to the face at this point. “Yeah. Be careful, both of you.”

“Of course,” Quique says, sounding more like himself, just short of overconfident. “We’re gonna bring this guy down, Kansas. Another week, tops, and he’ll be in a hole and I’ll be home.”

The words are final enough that Sam could hang up then, but he feels something else clouding the air, so he takes a stab in the dark as to what Quique could want to know and says, “Vasquez’s papers are in order. You come home, he’ll be with you.”

Quique doesn’t sound surprised that Sam’s figured out that his interest in their informant is a little more than professional when he says, “Didn’t expect nothing less from you.”

“Get some rest. Don’t do anything stupid. We need you home in one piece.” Sam pauses. “We need both of you home in one piece.”)

“Oh my God!” Vasquez yells at the TV, snapping Sam out of his memories. “How could she?! She already knows she and Terrence are meant to be!”

“She’s rebelling against the system,” Emma argues. “She and Terry aren’t together, why should she be stuck to him just because they have each other’s Words?”

Vasquez narrows his eyes blearily at the TV. “…You’re right. But she’s only doing it because she doesn’t want to admit she does lovehim!”

Emma scoffs and, after swallowing three mouthfuls of wine in one, says, “What’s love, anyway?”

The room goes very quiet for a moment, excepting the blaring TV, until Vasquez finally, quietly warbles, “…Baby don’t hurt me…”

Sam lets out an unintentional snort of amusement, and both Emma and Vasquez dissolve into peals of hysterical drunken giggles and nineties pop.

Sam shakes his head and changes the channel, pretty sure that today’s not the right day for Soulmates Always Forever (‘never’ is the right day for Soulmates Always Forever), and falls on a rerun of Ghost Doctors. He actually kind of likes that show.

He really thinks these kids should try reading a goddamn book sometime, though.

+

Jack looks up at the dimming sky and says, absently, “I oughta get back home.”

He’s been saying that for the past half hour, and still hasn’t left.

“Everyone’s probably doing their own thing. I know today must be awfully hard on poor Vasquez and Emma. Lord knows their wounds from what they’ve lost aren’t quite as healed as mine. They haven’t learned to live with it yet.”

“Yo, y’all!” Someone calls, and all the people who’ve come to visit their loved ones on Valentine’s Day, including Jack, turn to look at Reggie the graveyard caretaker. “It’s dark! I’m sure everyone appreciated you coming to see ‘em, but it’s time to say your goodbyes and head out for now, yeah?”

There are several murmurs of assent in response, and Jack stands and folds up the lawn chair he brings around when he comes here and brushes his hand along the well-kept gravestone.

“I’ll be back soon, darling, to see you and the kids. I hope you liked the flowers.”

(Ada Horne

1959-2008

Mercy, peace, and love be yours in abundance)

+

“God damn it!”

The words bounce through the car as Goodnight leans on the horn again, just like fifty percent of the other people in this traffic jam. The horns, unsurprisingly, are doing nothing but giving Billy and probably every other patient person stuck in here a headache. Billy is pretty sure that the car has moved an inch in the last half hour.

“Goody, you’re giving me a headache,” Billy mutters, and Goodnight immediately quits it with his ranting and honking.

“I’m sorry, hon,” he says. “This is just ridiculous. What did we ever do to deserve this? Have we done something to be cursed with this string of terrible Valentine’s Days?”

Billy attempts to look innocent as he shrugs. Nope, not a clue.

Goodnight sighs heavily. He’s been sighing so much Billy is kind of surprised he hasn’t passed out. “It’s an amazing restaurant,” he says sadly. “Lobster that melts in your mouth…butter that... also melts in your mouth…and that bread, that special bread they make…”

“I know,” Billy grumbles. “I’ve been to Fulgenio’s before.”

Goodnight just keeps rambling about the food, giving Billy the impression that he’s just really hungry. Billy is also really hungry.

He is hungry enough that his stomach makes an undignified sound, and he glares at the world in general. How dare you.

Goodnight goes silent. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I know you’re hungry too.”

Billy shrugs flippantly, and says, aiming to be reassuring, “It’s fine, you know I’m still used to it.”

It takes him a beat to realize that that may not have been the best thing to say, especially since Goodnight is now officially looking at him with those Sad Cow Eyes.

Fucking food.

February 14th, 2015

Goodnight is sick, and when Billy thinks about it, it all leads back to one thing: the bread pudding.

That’s odd, because Billy has it on good authority that his bread pudding is delicious. Except right now, listening to Goodnight’s stomach turn itself inside out from outside the bathroom, he realizes something: the only person who’s ever even tasted his bread pudding, otherwise known as the only food-like thing that he can make, is Goodnight. Which means that the only authority that he actually has stating that his bread pudding is delicious is—

That liar.

Goodnight’s gone silent in the bathroom, and Billy barges in, partially to check if Goodnight’s still alive and partially to say, “You don’t like my bread pudding.”

Goodnight, who is slumped sadly over the toilet, rolls his head awkwardly to look at Billy, and says, weakly, “I’m sorry, hon.”

Billy frowns hard, vaguely confused and starting to get frustrated because he’s feeling vaguely confused. He’s been making that bread pudding for Goodnight for a year now, ever since he learned the recipe and then served it to Goodnight and he seemed to love it. Billy personally hates it. He thinks it tastes like carpet. “Does it always make you feel sick?”

Goodnight nods weakly. “It tastes like carpet.”

“I thought that was how it was supposed to taste!”

Goodnight shakes his head.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Billy asks, no longer frustrated or confused, instead having moved on to straight-up bamboozled.

“You seemed so proud of it…you said it was the only thing you can make well…”

Billy feels a pang of affection in his chest, which seems out of line with the information he just acquired, which is that his boyfriend hid a pertinent fact about Billy’s abilities from him out of pity, but…

Looking at Goodnight right now and knowing the silly, pointless lengths he’s gone through to save Billy’s feelings from being hurt (when they wouldn’t even have been hurt in the first place, probably) kind of makes him feel like his soul is being covered by an electric blanket.

It’s just nice to know that someone loves him enough to eat his “bread pudding” until the truth can’t be hidden anymore.

Billy’s told Goodnight he loves him, of course. But he’s never told him first.

This time, he does.

+

Josh chooses a bar as opposed to a club for Red Harvest’s first, his favorite bar, and, sure enough, when they walk in, Josh is immediately relaxed. He knows this place. The bartender still knows his name and he still doesn’t know hers. This is like a second home, there’s no way someone can’t relax here.

Red Harvest, on the other hand, looks like he’s just walked into the lion enclosure at the zoo and isn’t entirely sure how he got there or how he’s going to get out.

Josh soldiers on, figuring Red Harvest will get over it once he actually starts hanging out in this place, and he bumps his shoulder against Red Harvest’s, quickly withdrawing when Red Harvest shoots him a flat glare. Josh shoots him a smirk and a nervous shrug in response and says, “C’mon, let’s start. Mission: have some actual fun.”

Red Harvest gives him a look that lacks anything approaching comprehension, and Josh rolls his eyes. “Okay, mission: hang out, try and make enough of a connection with a pretty girl to get at least one phone number, and relax.”

Red Harvest mutters something under his breath along the lines of doesn’t sound very relaxing, but Josh ignores him. Josh still wants to know how Red Harvest is gonna manage human interaction in an unfamiliar environment, and anyway, he already knows Red Harvest will get used to it. Besides, he doesn’t protest further, so Josh really has no reason to worry about it. “Drinks first,” Josh says brightly, and he makes a beeline for it, Red Harvest trailing after him.

“Barkeep!” Josh greets grandly, leaning against the bar and grinning at the pretty, purple-haired bartender.

She raises her eyebrows. “Faraday, it’s been a while.”

Josh frowns. “It’s been like a month.”

“For you, that’s pretty much a century.” She smirks. “Should’ve known you’d show up on the day when everyone’s looking, though.”

Josh shrugs. “What can I say? I’m a lazy man.”

“No kidding,” she says. “Tom Collins, straight?”

“Nah,” Josh says, trying to stay casual. “I’ll go for your best local beer. Nothin’ too strong, I’m driving.” He jerks his thumb at Red Harvest. “This one doesn’t know how.”

The bartender looks vaguely surprised, in a seen-it-all kinda way, but obviously doesn’t comment. “Wow. Great, coming right up.”

Josh sits at a barstool and motions to Red Harvest to sit next to him. The place is pretty full, once he looks at it, singling out all the prettiest people, but he barely notices it anymore. Josh may not be huge on connection, but he does like being around people.

Red Harvest, for all Josh has assumed that he’d let his metaphorical hair down once in this environment, looks no less unimpressed.

“Hey, how about you order something?” Josh coaxes.

“I don’t drink,” Red Harvest says.

“Well, they don’t only serve alcohol here,” Josh responds, trying to climb over the giant wrench that has been thrown into his plan. He figured that Red Harvest did drink (but now that Josh thinks about it, he makes a lot of assumptions), and that that would be helpful when it came to loosening him up—and also, hopefully, amusing. Josh loves seeing how people are when they’re drunk. You can find out a lot about a guy. But, clearly none of that is going to be relevant, and Josh just has to move on and accept that Red Harvest is going into this dry and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. Josh certainly isn’t going to. He’s not a peer pressure kinda guy anymore.

“Okay,” Red Harvest says slowly as the bartender squints at him.

She looks surprised again for a reason Josh can’t place until she shoots a look at him and says, mostly mouthing the words, “Is he a friend of yours?”

“Yeah,” Josh says, feeling a little defensive. “I have friends.” Sort of. “I’m showing him how to have a good time out on the town.”

“Huh,” is her response. “Okay, then.”

Red Harvest is contemplating the menu written on the chalkboard above the bar with a concentration Josh doesn’t even try to afford the horrible mishmash of different colors and looping letters and barely decipherable words anymore, and he finally seems to steel himself to speak.

“Ready?” The bartender asks, vaguely amused, and Red Harvest nods and says, with impressive confidence, which is the only thing that keeps Josh from face-palming at the order, “7&7, hold the alcohol.”

The bartender heroically keeps a straight face as she asks, "You know 7&7 is just 7 Up with whiskey, right?"

Red Harvest pauses in a way that makes it clear that he did not know that.

"...Do you just want 7 Up?"

With the great dignity of someone who has said something very stupid and is really hoping no one will mention it again, Red Harvest responds, "Yes."

"Coming right up, buddy."

After Red Harvest gets his 7 Up and Josh his damn good beer that he’s trying to enjoy without just gulping the whole thing down in five seconds, they sit at the bar for a little while, Red Harvest focusing intensely on his drink while Josh’s eyes go back to roaming over the human contents of the place.

It doesn't take too long for a girl to approach Red Harvest. She's pretty, blonde and green eyed with Cupid's bow lips painted candy pink. She's a little tipsy, but not too drunk to remember her phone number, as far as Josh can tell, and Josh is kind of an expert at knowing how drunk someone is. She's definitely going for Red Harvest, Josh has seen her eyeing him for a couple drinks, which is why he hasn't approached any of the people who've caught his own eye. Yet.

Red Harvest seems to notice her, because he tenses up before she gets there, but then just stands up and leans awkwardly against the bar.

Josh usually doesn't play wingman, a side effect of going to bars on his own pretty much always, but he turns to smile at the girl. It's clear that Red Harvest isn't about to say anything, and she seems a little nervous too.

"Hey, there," Josh says. "How you doing?"

"Oh, um, fine," the girl says far too quickly. She is not fine. She is at a bar on Valentine’s Day and just broke up with someone, Josh can see it in her eyes. Perfect. She smiles at Red Harvest. "Hi, I'm Aimee. How's it going?"

It seems like she actually has some experience with flirting, and Josh may be interested in how Red Harvest is going to react (currently, he's just sporting a poker face)…but plans change, because there's also a very, very hot, tall chick giving him a come hither gaze, and damn, she's his type, and he's reminded of how much he needs to get laid, so he decides, spur of the moment, to leave Aimee and Red Harvest to do their own thing.

Aimee seems nice anyway, and Red Harvest has actually told her his name by now (he just went with 'RH', which Josh understands) and seems to be listening to whatever Aimee's talking about with something that may approach interest (clearly Red Harvest plays hard to get by nature), so Josh says, "I'm just gonna be over there," pats Red Harvest on the shoulder, and goes over to where the hot chick is waiting for him.

He has no idea what they talk about—it's mostly just flirtatious innuendos, and he makes her laugh a few times, but they eventually gravitate over to the bar when she asks if she can buy him a drink. Josh has known plenty of guys who would be downright offended by the idea of a woman buying them a drink, but Josh isn't an idiot, and he's not gonna let his manly pride extend to something ridiculous like refusing free stuff.

When he gets to the bar, he suddenly remembers something: earlier, he was sitting at the bar with someone. With Red Harvest. Shit, he actually came here  with someone this time. That was the point, wasn't it? It wasn’t that much about hooking up, once Red Harvest came into the picture.

The thing is that Josh's points change a lot, he's kinda irresponsible that way, but usually they don't when living things are involved. But come on, Red Harvest was with a girl, and what is Josh supposed to do? Facilitate?

The problem is that Red Harvest isn't at the bar anymore. Actually, a quick scan of the place shows that Red Harvest isn't anywhere.

Aimee is, though.

…But she's talking to another dude. So either Red Harvest split (except Josh drove, so where would he go?) or he found someone to go home with, which seems so unlikely that just the thought is hysterical.

Oh, God, Josh thinks. I lost him.

"Hey," the girl he's been hitting on this whole time, who is this close to giving him her number and possibly some action in the extremely unsanitary restroom, says, frowning. "What do you want to drink?"

"Uh," Josh says. "Gimme a second. Hey, barkeep," he calls.

She rolls her eyes, wandering over to him. "Your friend is outside. Probably. He told blondie over there that he was going to get some fresh air and just kind of left. Didn't even take his jacket."

Josh raises his eyebrows and she rolls her eyes again. "He was practically on the moon here, Faraday, I was watching him to make sure he didn't die or something."

Josh snorts. "Trust me, RH can take care of himself."

"He could probably use someone to take him home, though," the bartender says pointedly. "Since even I could tell that he wanted to be literally anywhere but here from the second he walked in."

Josh feels a pang of guilt. "I just wanted to take him out so he'd have some fun."

"Yeah, maybe you should consider that not everyone thinks this is fun. And you left him after five minutes."

Josh finally snaps at that. "Okay, why do you even care?"

"Because you're an asshole, Faraday," she snaps back, "with no actual friends, and I remember when Emergency Services might as well have been your designated driver. And now you come in with an actual friend and what are probably even good intentions, and you know what? I don't think you should fuck it up, because that kid seems like he needs a friend too. You're shaping up, Faraday. You just have to actually try to consider other people’s feelings sometimes and, like, empathize, dumbass.”

Josh stares at her. “Wow."

The bartender shrugs awkwardly. "Sorry, man. You're not the only student of human character here, and I kinda know you."

"How the fuck...?" Josh starts before getting cut off.

"Because we’ve had plenty of conversations, Faraday, and I wasn't too drunk to remember them the next day."

Josh leans against the bar, not to look cool this time, but just because he's too surprised to move, because, shit, he feels like there’s some revelations here that he’s going to have to sift through later, and she's right about at least something.

Josh has been alone for a long time, and now he's less alone, so he left one of the people who makes him less alone...alone. And that makes no sense.

Josh shoots a look over at the chick he was talking to earlier. She's in the corner of the bar making out with some other girl, so—

Shit, he has no reason to stay.

"Damn it," Josh says. "You're fucking right. What are you, my Fairy Godmother?"

"I've definitely conjured up enough carriages for you to count as one," the bartender mutters.

"Fine," Josh says. "I have to go get someone." He turns away, and then hesitates and turns back, suddenly curious about something he's never been curious about before. "Hey, what is your name?"

The bartender snorts. "Val, Faraday. My name's Val."

Josh nods. "Thanks, Val. I guess."

And then he books it, already trying to figure out a way to make this up to Red Harvest with a minimum of fuss, even if, honestly, he still doesn't really know where it went wrong.

Before he leaves, he grabs his coat and Red Harvest's from the coat check, and then he makes his way outside and wanders around for a second trying to find Red Harvest. He does, finally, in the alley behind the bar, which is definitely seedier than Josh remembers.

Red Harvest is there, looking...forlorn.

Ugh, Josh fucked up. He fucked up, and he may or may not feel bad, and he's not sure how to go about this, so he just does what he usually does when he doesn't know what the fuck to do: the first thing that comes to mind.

"Hey," Josh says carefully, inching over to where Red Harvest is leaning against the club wall, playing with the string of red and black beads around his neck.

"It's not Comanche," Red Harvest says abruptly, and Josh frowns.

"Uh, context please?"

"The necklace. It's not Comanche. An Aymara friend of my mom's gave it to me. I don't remember my mom, but I remember her funeral a little, and her friend gave me this. And, and a rosary. Made of..." He gestures to the red and black beads.

"Oh," Josh says.

"It's good luck," Red Harvest says. “So I wore it."

Josh smiles. "To help score?"

"Mhm."

"Hey, I think you were getting somewhere with that girl before you bailed."

“I got her number,” Red Harvest admits, but he doesn't look happy about it.

Josh follows Red Harvest's example and leans against the wall, but he does it James Dean style with one foot planted against it, because it looks cooler. He digs out a cigarette, but at Red Harvest's disgusted glare, he tucks it away again. "Fine, fine," he mutters. "I see how it is." Red Harvest doesn't respond, just staring at something so intensely that Josh follows his gaze. It's literally just the far wall. Of course it is. Red Harvest still looks unhappy, under the interest directed towards the wildly uninteresting wall.

Channeling his mother, Josh asks, because he honestly still doesn't quite know, even if the conversation with Val has started to clear things up, “So…why so glum, sugar plum?"

Red Harvest shoots him a brief look of total confusion before explaining, like he's humoring him, "I...I don't know if I w...if I want to call her back."

Josh nods. "Oh." Considering the tone of this conversation, he senses this isn't just about a lack of attraction to Aimee, and more of a lack of attraction to girls in general. "Look, I'm bi, actually, so I don't, like...I won't judge you if you'd rather go to a gay club. I mean, there's one pretty close...or maybe another day." Josh mutters the last part, because he's not sure Red Harvest is ready for Tricks, which has always sounded like a brand name violation lawsuit waiting to happen to Josh anyway.

Red Harvest shakes his head, looking frustrated. "No, no, no, it's, it's not...not th-th-th...It's n..." He coughs, and Josh feels an uneasy squeezing feeling in his chest at the vaguely panicked look on Red Harvest’s face, even if it’s gone almost before it appears. "N-n-" He cuts himself off completely this time, and Josh can practically see walls go up around him, like he's an Earth Bender or something. An emotional Earth Bender. He ducks his head, but Josh can see the embarrassment on his face.

Oh.

Okay.

The throat clearing makes a lot more sense now. Actually, a lot of how Red Harvest communicates makes a lot more sense now. Josh is kinda disappointed in himself for not figuring out the severe stutter part of the equation earlier.

He still isn't sure what to actually do, though, and he kind of still really wants to know what Red Harvest was going to say before, so he soldiers on. I won’t mention it if you won’t. "It's not that?"

Red Harvest shakes his head and clears his throat again, looking a little like a kitten who just fell into a full bathtub. "I don't want phone numbers at all."

"Y'know, you can text," Josh says carefully. “You don't have to actually call anyone, no one does that anymore."

"I...I know. But it's..it's not th-that...I t-talk on the, on the phone j-just fine. I just, just don't l-like it, but it's not about...it's just..."

Red Harvest cuts himself off again, looking down at the ground and scuffing a foot angrily against the asphalt, arms crossed protectively over his stomach. It's probably thirty degrees, which, all things considered, isn't that bad, but Red Harvest's wearing a short sleeved shirt and clearly there needs to be some kind of interruption here that isn’t Red Harvest’s own voice, so Josh hands him his jacket.

Red Harvest takes it, but all he does is hold it, which is not even close to the point. Josh doesn't say anything about that. Instead, he says, “It’s just…?”

"I mean I don't want phone numbers at all because I don't want dates or sleeping with people," Red Harvest says, talking like he's speaking in time with a metronome.

Josh furrows his brow. "You mean you...don't want sex? Not even casual sex?" He pauses. "Not even… uncasual sex?"

"Not...not just th-th-th...no, I don't want anything. At all. Not dating. Not sex. Not girls, not boys, not anyone else."

Josh lets out a bemused breath and is on the cusp of letting out an equally bemused laugh, because what the fuck, how can an actual human being not want sex, but then—

He sees Red Harvest, who is standing so still he looks like an extremely realistic action figure, and realizes that, shit, there is an actual human being who doesn’t want sex right in front of him, an actual human being who was just, like…vulnerable with him.

Red Harvest clearly doesn’t like talking, and also clearly has a reason to not like talking, given that he just stuttered through five minutes of a two minute conversation, but he did talk. To Josh. About something personal.

Shit.

Josh is pretty sure that he’s been, like…shown trust or something, whether he wanted it or not, and he doesn’t have hives, and suddenly Josh understands something.

He shouldn’t laugh, because that’s the kind of thing an asshole does. And Josh is an unapologetic asshole, but he doesn’t want to be one right now. Actually, at this moment, he specifically wants to try to not be one, like at the dinner party.

So now isn’t the time to be super obvious about how bewildered he is that a twenty-whatever year old doesn’t want sex (though the romance thing is more understandable; romance is overrated, Josh gets why someone wouldn’t want the whole candles and going out to dinner and having sex with a person more than once and celebrating Valentine's Day together and being in love and all, who would want that? Not Josh), maybe it’s time to try being supportive of the fact that maybe Red Harvest just doesn’t like sex (or bars).

Josh doesn’t know if he’s ever actively been supportive before (well, to anyone but his mom), but he reaches into a part of himself that he didn’t know still existed, a part that isn’t an asshole at all, and manages to choke out, "Hey, it takes all kinds to make the world go 'round, right?"

His ma used to say that. He hopes it’s enough, whatever ‘enough’ might be in this situation, to…hell, he doesn’t know. Make Red Harvest feel better? He’s so out of his depth. This is his fault. He decided to throw Red Harvest into the deep end and didn’t consider that he himself might follow him into another, even deeper deep end. Nothing like that has ever happened to him before. But then again, maybe no one else has actually ever reached out to him before, or looked like a wet kitten while doing it.

Red Harvest looks at him, eyes curious and calculating. Josh still isn't quite used to Red Harvest's slightly creepy/threatening microexpressions, but he just shrugs awkwardly, pretty done with emotions for the day, and grins, hoping that it’s obvious that he’s marking the end of the Emotions portion of this evening. "Hey, let's blow this joint and get something to eat. It's not like I'm getting lucky tonight either." Too busy getting cockblocked by friendship.

Red Harvest smiles at him, a real, honest to God smile with a flash of teeth and everything. It makes his face more open and lively than Josh has ever seen it, and for a moment Josh literally does not know what to do, because he is a hundred percent sure that Red Harvest has never smiled at him, ever, and this moment will probably go down in history, the first time Red Harvest smiled at Josh, in a suspiciously fragrant and dubiously safe alley outside of a bad decision in building form, to the dulcet tones of "Hot in Herre" in thirty degree weather.

So this is what being a decent guy feels like.

Fuck, Josh is so okay with this it’s weird.

He's missed having challenges, he's missed caring, he's missed having friends.

(Even if he’s not sure if you can miss what you never really had.)

Josh grins back. He feels good. Because he made someone else feel better. Fuck, Josh is becoming a real boy. "C'mon, man, let's get outta here."

Red Harvest, serious again, nods eagerly, and he’s out of there like a shot, Josh following at a more leisurely pace.

All in all, Josh thinks this night's been a win, in spite of everything.

(In spite of Josh.)

+

"O Canadaaaa, our home and native land, God save the Queeen, la Marmalaaade..." Vasquez slurs out somewhat tunefully, and Sam surreptitiously moves away the last couple bottles of wine, instead nudging forward some glasses of water. Maybe they'll confuse it for vodka.

Sam's definitely cutting them off, though. If Vasquez is singing an out of tune medley of national anthems (he's now on something about the rocket's red flare, the bombs bursting in air, showed the entire universe that the flag was still there, America, America, God shed his grace on thee, from sea to Colorado Rocky mountain hiiiiigh…), he's probably a shot away from alcohol poisoning.

And Emma is actually laughing, which is a sign that she's not much better.

"And crownnnn thy good with brooootherhood, from sea to nuestros brazos, hasta hoy desarmados estén siempre cebando el cabrón, que algún día las playas de Iberia sentirán algo algo el terror, somos liiiiibres, seamos, lo siempre seámoslo lo siempre, piensa ¡oh Patria querida! que el cielo un soldado en cada hijo te dio...C'est la lutte finale, Groupon-nous, et demain L'Internationale será le genre humainnnnn..."

"How do you even know all of these?" Emma asks, giggling as she leans against Vasquez, who is rocking her from side to side and raising his empty glass as he sings with a chorus of absolutely no one.

Sam suspects, as he takes the bottles that still hold any alcohol at all and stashes them away in Vasquez’s liquor cabinet, that it might be a stretch to say that Vasquez actually knows anything he's singing.

This is still exactly what they were all going for, though. Distraction.

Sam opens a drawer to find...something to make coffee with (it's been a while since he has—coffee makes him sick now, after practically subsisting on it through his entire DEA stint and his work as a U.S. Marshal), and is instead greeted by a stack of papers.

He knows he shouldn't snoop, and he doesn't, exactly, but he does take one of the pieces of paper out (it caught his eye, and he’s not dead), trying to ignore the ache in his chest (heartburn, obviously, he's not as young as he used to be) when he looks at the dashed off drawing on the flimsy printer paper; a mountain range with a smiling sun over it, plus stars in the sky, because Quique never let reality stop him, did he? Not until the bitter end. In the corner of the paper there's chicken scratch written with a red ballpoint pen that clearly ran out of ink halfway through the note, because the rest is in black Sharpie.

Pa' Gio

This is what it's like there.

See u 2moro no te olvides de la cosa

Chao

Quique

Sam feels his lips twitch of their own accord. This is what it’s like there. Quique always gave Vasquez such an idealized view of America (Sam wonders, a little bitterly, what Quique must think of it now), and Sam knows that being here actually was a little like that for the two of them, for a little while. Ideal.

He looks at Vasquez over the kitchen island counter, Vasquez who's laughing with Emma, and wonders if that was even for the best. Maybe Vasquez wouldn’t’ve been quite so destroyed if he’d been disappointed first thing, if his new life with Quique hadn’t been perfect, a reflection of the hope and the vision of the future in that note, right up until it wasn’t.

Sam shakes his head and thinks, we can’t ever bring them back. Thinks, it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. He knows everyone says that, but it’s only because Tennyson knew what he was talking about.

And at least something good came of Quique’s loss, Sam thinks. Vasquez being here, that’s good.

Of course, maybe that’s just his own opinion, because it wouldn't be the same here without Vasquez, and for a moment Sam wonders if it's selfish that he wouldn't change this, what they’ve all made on the fourth floor.

He looks down at the drawing again, tracing over the grooves left by the ballpoint pen, making sure not to smudge the almost expertly shaded mountains, and thinks, again, we can't ever bring them back.

Vasquez breaks Sam’s melancholy pondering by calling out, "Sam, Diarios de pishtacos is starting! Today Dolores is going to reveal herself to Cabeza de Pez! You can't miss it!"

Sam absolutely can, because he's pretty sure the Peruvian network that produces that telenovela completely misunderstood exactly what it was about the vampire craze that was actually attractive to people, but he says, "I'm coming," anyway, and carefully slides the note into the drawer again along with all the other pieces of nonsense Vasquez has in there (Quique was prolific—Vasquez has stuff Quique gave him hidden all around the apartment, and it’s definitely not all of it; hell, Sam has a few of Quique's notes and drawings around his apartment too, and he threw most of them away far before he considered he might want those memories someday), closes the drawer, decides to forget about the coffee, and goes back out to 'enjoy' the next installment of a series that can honestly only be enjoyed when on a mind altering substance.

Overall, he thinks this went a whole lot better than it could’ve, and if it could’ve gone better?

Well, Sam’s been around for a while, and he knows better than most that you take what you can get.

+

“So, what are you going to order?” Billy asks, perusing the menu critically.

Goodnight hums in indecision. “I don’t know. It’s been a bit since I ate here.”

“Me too,” Billy says, not mentioning that he knows Goodnight has never eaten here. “Takes me back, though. I used to come here all the time.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Cheap.”

Billy and Goodnight fall back into contemplative silence, and then Goodnight says, “Is the Big Mac good? I feel like I should get one, if I’m going to eat here.”

Billy shrugs, squinting at the brightly lit menu above them. “I mean, it’s one burger, and then there’s another burger inside it. So.”

“An interesting culinary decision. I think I will get the Big Mac. Hell, I’ll get the meal.”

Billy smiles. “It’s Valentine’s Day, isn’t it? Might as well go all out.”

Goodnight chuckles, much more laid-back than he was thirty minutes earlier as he finally swerved out of traffic, crying out, We’ll find somewhere else! Their lobster isn’t that good anyway!

Now, he’s standing next to Billy, the sleeve of his fancy suit brushing the sleeve of Billy’s fancy suit, and he looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like giving up on a traditional Valentine’s Day was the absolute best option for both of them.

To be fair, it was, and it has been since the beginning, and Billy’s glad that the stressful part of the day is over. He always enjoys finding that sweet spot where neither of them care about anything but each other anymore.

Billy stands next to Goodnight and breathes in the smell of greasy food and tasteful cologne, and says, because it seems like the right moment to say it, “I’m having a great time.”

It takes him a beat to notice that he didn’t really ‘emote’ when he said that, but then he looks at Goodnight, wondering if his completely sincere opinion was misinterpreted as sarcasm, and sees Goodnight beaming at him and remembers that, wait, he doesn’t have to worry about that. He’s with the only person in the world that actually, honestly gets him.

“I’m having a great time too,” Goodnight says. “I have to admit it. Even when everything goes wrong, we always manage to get things to work out eventually, don’t we?”

“Yeah,” Billy replies, and he knows neither of them are just talking about Valentine’s Day. “We do.”

“Maybe we’re not meant to have a traditional Valentine’s Day,” Goodnight suggests suddenly. “Maybe, when it comes down to it, this is actually things going right.”

Billy grins.

He already knew that.

February 14th, 2013

Billy sits at the dinner table and stares down at Goodnight’s flask. It’s empty. He should refill it. He really wants some more to drink.

He stays glued to the table.

He never cared about Valentine’s Day before, he thinks sulkily. Never gave a damn.

Even last Valentine’s Day, he didn’t give a damn. He was just indulging Goodnight.

Billy almost smiles, remembering the fire Goodnight started and the pizza dinner they had after it was finally put out. It was probably the best pizza Billy had ever tasted, never mind the smoke clogging the whole place up.

It was fun.

It was, in the end, a good Valentine’s Day, even if it was technically a disaster.

But Billy would take another disaster if it meant having Goodnight here and not in fucking Afghanistan getting fucking shot at.

He doesn’t need Valentine’s Day. Certainly doesn’t need a perfect one.

Or—

Yes, Billy needs Valentine’s Day. Last year, he might not have cared, but now he does. Now it feels important, because Goodnight’s not here and Billy is realizing something.

He needs many, many more Valentine’s Days with Goodnight, needs a day that he can mark off in the calendar in triumph.

It’s been two, three, four, five, twenty Valentine’s Days and we’re still together. Us.

That’s all he needs from this holiday, really.

He doesn’t need it to be great, or good, or even passable, he just needs Goodnight to be there, and the thought that he’s so desperate for another human being, that he’s afraid someone won’t come back when he’s been so independent his whole life should at least terrify him a little, but he’s too drunk to feel anything but muted heartbreak.

He’s alone on Valentine’s Day, and because he lives in a world where Goodnight Robicheaux exists, that matters to him.

Billy snorts in dismay, and then, after a few long moments of drinking and sulking and contemplating the flask he stole out of Goodnight’s bag the day they said goodbye, he says, to nobody,  “I don’t give a fuck if every Valentine’s Day after this is a disaster, as long as it’s a disaster with him.”

Billy looks off thoughtfully into the distance after saying those words, which feel kind of like…a promise.

Then he passes out.