iron man's number is (atomic26) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-08-04 23:11:00 |
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Entry tags: | harry dresden, iron man |
Who: Toby & Preston
What: Old college roommates have a drink.
Where: Onyx Bar at the Red Rock
When: After this.
Warnings/Rating: None!
His knees hurt, his ankles hurt, and he had a sore throat that wasn't getting better no matter how many cough drops he sucked on. Somehow, Toby knew it was the aftermath of what had happened at the hotel, but he didn't want to think on that, didn't want to think on the fear or the pain. Some alcohol would certainly help that, he knew, and in the meantime, he'd think on what parts of the evening hadn't been horrible. The kissing hadn't been bad, the boldness he had felt, the lack of fear, of worry, of cowardice; that part had been nice. So that's what he held onto, because those thoughts and memories didn't burn as deeply as the others.
He got to the bar less than twenty minutes after speaking to Preston, and things were still relatively quiet in the upscale establishment. A table was found near the back, the music just loud enough to keep people from overhearing conversations they weren't part of, and the alcohol was good. They didn't serve the cheap stuff, didn't water it down with too much ice, and that's what the evening called for, even if it was the first time he had seen Preston in the better part of a decade. He wanted to be nervous, wanted to sit there tapping his foot like he was anxious, even scared, but he tried to hold onto those feelings from the party, let that confidence guide him. Things weren't so bad, not really. He had coffee with Sam to look forward to, March seemed to have made it out in one piece, though not hearing from Jan was either a very good thing or it was a very bad thing; he wasn't sure yet, and he didn't want to worry. It wouldn't accomplish anything right then, and he'd have plenty of time later on to muse over that.
So instead he ordered a drink, wrapped his hand around it when it arrived, and kept an eye on the doorway as he waited for Preston to arrive.
Preston was well aware that he had come out of this as near to roses as anyone was likely to get; that didn’t make him comfortable or grateful. He read of people dying, and dying horribly, and the scribbles on the journals were so casual about it that he was more alarmed by the reaction than he was by the event itself. It reminded him strongly of his first days in the Company, and he never wanted to go back to that time, all confusion and backstabbing knives limned with ballpoint ink.
At this point Preston had found himself one of the most competitive workplaces in the world, and he had done so in order to be exceptionally functional without being competitive in the least. For the most part he avoided the hazing and did his best to be everything he possibly could for the people actually qualified to risk their lives out there, and by throwing everything into it, there was little else in his life. The Company was happy to take whatever time or effort Preston allowed it to have, and he held very little back for himself.
It disturbed him that the hotel could so precisely delve into what he was and carve out the weaknesses held in the starved dark of his mind. He didn’t like thinking about it, and he liked being it even less. It played on his fears, and he was working through a nervous haze that he knew would take weeks to work off. If any of the agents had a similar or worse experience (and knowing who they were and what they did, chances were it was far worse), Preston knew that trying to function as an “office” would be stupid, so he manufactured a problem and gave them the week off. It was something he could be fired for, but Preston was a master of calculated risk.
Such was his meeting with his old roommate, someone that Preston trusted (if Preston trusted anyone). He had no plans about telling Toby about his profession, nor did he plan on telling the Company that this new schizophrenic madness meant he had what amounted to unbreakable communication channels. What he did want to do is have a beer and a cigarette. He’d settle for the former.
Preston had a long stride courtesy of his height, and he’d grown out of his awkward limbs phase (that horrible state had lasted through college) into a tall, outwardly confident man, possessed of warm coloring and careful fashion. His charcoal suit wasn’t expensive, but it fit him well enough that when he shed his coat in the heat, his trim white shirt kept its creases. He spotted Toby immediately, no change in the intervening years on the young doctor’s face. Some of the tension went out of Preston’s broad shoulders, and he threw his suit coat over a chair before collapsing across from his old friend. “Long time no see, Toby.” He flashed a grin.
His old roommate looked older, but he was still very much Preston, that much was unmistakable. Where Preston wore clothes that fit him well, tim and cut well, Toby was more rumpled, the suit jacket that was tossed over the back of his own chair a little old, a little worn, and the button down he wore beneath was creased and rumpled, much like the man who wore them. He had never been one to concern himself much with appearance, a mop of dark curls and two-days worth of stubble. It was what he did, what he said that he felt mattered more than what he looked like.
"Entirely too long," he said by way of greeting, unable to help the smile that came to his lips at Preston's appearance. He didn't have a lot of friends, a lot of people that he really felt comfortable around, but Preston had been one of those. He was also one of the few people in Toby's life that he allowed to even think about bossing him around; he was well aware that he had a tendency to get lost in his work, in his projects, and there were few people other than his brothers that could pull him out of such states. Preston was one of them.
"It's good to see you again, I have to say. I hope you don't mind if I started without you." He gestured to the drink in his hand, one shoulder inching up sheepishly. "One of those days. One of those weeks."
The blond man shook his head, lifting one hand to catch the attention of a waiter holding a tray a few tables down. He got a nod in return and he left it at that. “Not in the slightest. You have to tell me how many you’ve had so I can catch up.” Preston leaned forward, planted two white-clad elbows on the he the table and ran long tapered fingers through his short blond hair. It didn’t take him that long, but it was a concerted effort at ruffling his appearance. He massaged his scalp for maybe ten seconds, then sat up fully to face Toby once more, taking his time to calculate what change the years had wrought. This close he could make out a few lines, some color he’d never noticed before.
“It’s good to see you too, but I hate it here. This town is depressing.” Preston offered a weak smile, tapping his fingers rapidly on the table to prevent from thinking about a cigarette. They never put pretzels on the table in the bars out here, and Preston missed being able to shred whole peanuts onto filthy floors just to have something to do with his addict’s fingers.
"Just my first one, so you don't have very far to go." He leaned back in his chair just a bit, fingers lingering on the glass, watching as Preston made every effort to ruffle hair that was almost too short to do so. The effect, or maybe just the action, was worth a grin, and he gave him a long look as Preston looked back towards him. Toby's gaze dropped moments later, down to his drink, and he didn't say anything as he took a long sip, letting it burn on the way down, something to chase away everything that had happened.
"It's not that bad," Toby said in defense of his home town. "But I grew up here, so perhaps I'm a little biased." He would never say that Las Vegas was his favourite city in the States, but it held a certain fondness for him that he would never be able to shake. It was home, it was familiar, it was full of memories, good and bad. "You're looking good, Preston. Pretty much exactly what I remember from school." That wasn't entirely true, because they were both showing signs of age, but the other man did look good. Familiar. And familiar was always a good thing in his book.
Preston smiled at the compliment, and did not argue. This was some improvement of the past, as a much younger, college-bound Preston did everything humanly possible not to warrant compliments. If he could have, he probably would have chosen clothes to exactly match the wallpaper. These days he appeared to do so without effort, even managing to diminish his relative height simply by avoiding looking over people’s heads, a thoughtless but effective tactic.
Preston had never had a soft voice, but he used it well and despite the Boston on his tongue he managed to sound both confident and cultured. “Maybe I’m living in the wrong place,” he suggested, tapping his first two fingers on the table a few times more and then directing his attention to the waitress. He asked for what was on tap, ordered the blonde, and then pointed out a random appetizer or two. Eating was better than smoking. He made a mental note to stock up on healthy finger foods. He knew exactly what this stage in quitting was like, and he hated it. “It’s just everywhere I turn around they’re selling sex, either cheap or expensive, and it’s starting to wear on me.” That wasn’t the only thing wearing on him, but he was getting around to that.
"I'm not sure if it's just testament to how long I've been in the city that I hardly notice the sex anymore." Toby knew it was there, but he didn't really notice it any longer. It was just part of the background, the things he passed day in and day out, but having it brought up, brought to the very forefront of his thoughts, he realised how bad it was that he didn't really notice the details any longer. There was a small furrow of his brow, a moment of concern, but he didn't let it linger, not right now. This was a reunion some years in coming, and he wanted to focus on that instead of the worries and thoughts.
The tapping of fingers on the table, the fidgeting, had Toby taking notice, unable to ignore it for long. Even though he had never had too many bad habits, never one to really drink or smoke more than occasionally, and his affair with illegal substances had been extremely brief and filled with bad memories, he knew the signs. A nod of his head towards Preston's fingers before he took a drink, "How long?" he asked, and it made him think of the cloves tucked in his pocket, the sharp spicysweet cigarettes that he wanted, but didn't want the memories that went with them, the things he couldn't have.
It wasn’t that Preston was ready to attack people with morals, or that he thought selling sex was some heinous crime (even if he had, he didn’t have the personality to proselytize), it was simply that Preston had a romantic side that he hid very deep down, and that intimacy could be found so cheaply depressed him. Some of that showed on his face when he sighed and put all the weight of his torso on one arm that he spread out over the corner of the table. He didn’t pursue it.
Preston looked at his fingers when Toby did and scowled. “Twenty-four hours and counting. Damn party. I swear, I’ve spent half my life quitting.” He lifted his eyes and shifted the scowl into a self-deprecating smile. “I was going on five years. Broke my streak.” His eyes roved. You could smoke indoors in Vegas, but the HVAC systems were always so robust that you almost never noticed unless you were right next to someone. He started willing a smoker to sit nearby. This was so unprofessional.
Preston’s clear gaze settled once more on Toby’s face. “Your family is around here too?”
Toby didn't mention that he was hardly through the worst of it, but he gave a nod of understanding at the mention. "Dare I ask what happened that made you break your streak?" he asked, one brow arched in question. And then the question about the family came around, as it usually did, and Toby found himself giving a small nod of his head, finishing off the rest of his drink, not so much to drown his sorrows in, but to simply fill up some of the space before he had to answer.
"January never really left, actually. He still lives in our parents' home and is an Elvis impersonator at a local club. And March made his way here from... somewhere. I can't recall. But he went to medical school, got his license as well." It felt strange laying his brothers out so simply, facts laid out on the table but no depth to go with them. "And they both have journals as well, actually," he tacked on at the end, and maybe that was the reason he had drank.
Preston took in a deep breath and let it out through his nose. He would have liked if it was warm gray smoke instead of just chalky-tasting breath, but the sound still had a hint of exasperation, and he willed his mind to remember to relax. “I met someone that was all smoke, and he was smoking, and what am I if not a sheep.” Here Preston flashed a grin that implied he didn’t actually believe what he was saying, but he didn’t mind if other people did.
Preston’s beer came, and the first appetizer, a gleaming mess of french fries smothered in cheese, black beans, salsa and sour cream. Preston extracted a fry and nibbled on it after his first sip from the cold glass.
Preston grinned at the mention of the Elvis impersonator, just because everyone grinned at the thought of Elvis impersonators. He also never really got tired of the idea that Toby’s parents liked naming their children after months. It was faintly romantic, though he knew Toby’s family situation was far from good. When he heard they had journals, Preston lifted an eyebrow. “Do they really. Strange how it runs through connections like that. Everybody knows everybody else, one way or another. The Kevin Bacon effect.”
Preston's explanation about the man made of smoke made Toby smile and shake his head in return, giving the man a roll of his eyes before he gestured towards the fries. "Do you mind if I have one?" Or two. Maybe even five. He lived off of cafeteria food more often than not, and even to his pedestrian pallet, it was a little old.
"It's less strange and more frightening," Toby admitted, taking another drink, thumbing the moisture away from the corners of his mouth. "It makes me want to reach out to other people I know that aren't in Vegas to warn them away from strange journals arriving in the mail and the like." He shrugged one shoulder and leaned back in his chair. "Please tell me you have someone, at least, who isn't going to cause you a lot of trouble. I see too often what this place does to people, and I don't like it."
It took Preston a little while to fully comprehend that question. He wasn’t used to this, to talking about “having people” in a way that was, at best, metaphysical. He took a drink and set it down before answering, taking his time, rolling the bubbles and the rye on the back of his tongue before fully facing that subject. “He does like trouble,” he said, carefully. “He’s opinionated, and he’s... he talks a lot. Not loud but...” Preston drew circles in the air with his right hand (he drank with his left). “There. A lot.” He gave Toby a sideways look to see if the other man understood.
Preston took another french fry, dragged it meditatively through the sour cream, and chewed slowly. “He’s been paired with someone else, and it didn’t end well. I’m fairly sure he died.” Then, clearing his throat to clarify: “Both of them.”
Unfortunately, Toby was becoming quite used to thinking about it that way, to being comfortable with having someone else in his head that wasn't him. After the initial worries that perhaps he was turning into his mother, perhaps he needed to have his head checked, he had tried to settle, tried to just become comfortable with it. Luckily, Harry wasn't someone who talked a lot, and luckily, Harry was also just as uncomfortable with having another person in his head as Toby was. As a result, Harry usually didn't pipe up much, except when he had something to add to the conversation, usually some smartass remark that would have Toby smirking at inopportune moments. "I get it. Mine is fairly quiet, but he likes to comment on things when he's bored. Which is often. Not used to being inactive, it seems." He shrugged a shoulder up as if to say 'what can you do' before reaching for a fry to nibble on, much better than the cafeteria food his diet mostly consisted of.
At the mention of the other person, the death, Toby looked up sharply, his eyes widening just a little bit before he crumpled slightly in his chair. "I don't like hearing things like that," Toby said softly, his brow slightly furrowed. "I knew injuries carried over, but it's scary knowing that death can also affect us both." The rest of his drink was downed, a needed buffer against news that wasn't comforting, and as soon as the waitress neared their table again, he gestured for another, pushing his empty glass towards the edge of the table.
Preston was a little dismayed to hear his worries so thoroughly confirmed. There wasn’t anyone around that he’d been in a hurry to discuss the things he’d learned, especially the people that Tony seemed to recognize, like Max Main. So far it seemed that the loud scientist could not hear his thoughts unless Preston extended the effort, but he still didn’t want to spend too much time dwelling on it, just in case. “I think,” he ventured, carefully, “he plans on being more careful this time.”
The next appetizer showed up, a thoroughly bizarre tray of various fried vegetables, half of which were obviously onion strings. Preston bit into something that turned out to be a mushroom. He chewed with a little more enthusiasm upon discovering its origins, and tried the sauce. “What kind of things does yours say?” Preston asked, hesitating a moment before actually moving into the flow of the conversation about strange voices. He glanced over his shoulder at the door and back.
Toby had found himself, with the couple of people he had shared his headspace with, having a relationship with them that was almost symbiotic. They were quite there, but never were they intrusive, something that Toby was more grateful for than he could likely express. "He had best be careful. The last thing I need in this place is to lose a friend." It was bad enough knowing that his siblings were here, dealt with the same risks he had, and that every trip through the door was something that could end poorly. A memory of March in the hospital flashed through his mind, and when his next drink arrived, he took a long swallow before even thinking of continuing.
He gave an eye to the tray of vegetables that had arrived, and erring on the side of caution, helped himself to some of the onions, not quite daring enough to risk something he didn't like. He was picky, something he wasn't completely proud of, but Toby felt that there was nothing wrong with liking the things he didn't and staying away from things he was wary of. That was one of the perks of being an adult, right? "Mine just likes to comment on the situation. He seems to think he knows better than I do, which I'm doubting at times considering the amount of trouble he manages to get into." The corner of his mouth lifted in a wan smile. Toby had little problem talking about these things any longer, and with a drink or two in him, he had even less trouble. "He's a wizard. The one I have," he added, shoving an onion string in his mouth.
Preston, inexperienced with this bizarre sharing of consciousness, thoroughly hated it. He didn’t think that Tony was watching his every move, and in fact he thought it was likely that the man was being uncharacteristically silent for his benefit, probably because he’d never been in the mind of a secret paranoid neurotic. After a moment, Preston had to admit that his own estimation of himself probably wasn’t fair, but he never thought so much about his weaknesses except when there was someone else seeing them. He took a drink of the beer, and belatedly wished it was in a bottle. A bottle he could be turning in his hands. He smiled gratefully when Toby called him a friend, as if this was a great favor.
After a moment and a few more selections of greasy, yet relatively vegetarian fare, Preston turned his mind again to the conversation. “A wizard?” he repeated, trying and failing to prevent himself from smiling. “Like Lord of the Rings or like Harry Potter?”
And of course Preston had to bring up Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter. It was all Toby could do not to start chuckling at the wizard's indignation at being compared to such things. There were some rude phrases tossed around which Toby chose not to share, instead simply shaking his head as he took another onion, peeling the coating off and eating that and then the onion separately. "He says he's real, unlike those stories, and he'll not listen to any argument otherwise." He took another drink and settled back in his chair, fingers resting lightly on the perspiring glass. "If people overheard us, Preston..." he said, shaking his head in the negative. "I don't even want to imagine what they might be thinking."
Preston raised both eyebrows as he lifted his glass, Boston style with a firm grip fingertips alone, the way he’d held every glass since freshman year at BU. “It’s Las Vegas. Nobody thinks anything.” That wasn’t technically true, but Preston noticed that in Vegas moral perversion was the norm, and nobody even noticed the regular run of the mill crazy. This lack of compassion sometimes reminded him too much of an impersonal Company system, and he put his glass down and picked it up twice, restless. “Does your other... person... realize that all the other doors are stories too? And I believe Harry Potter is there, as a matter of fact.” Preston ate a fried bit that turned out to be a pepper and choked a little when it flared on the back of his tongue.
"I don't think the fact that he's supposed to be fictional matters to him in the slightest. He's quite firmly cemented in his own reality, and I don't think anything will be budging him from that." Toby munched on another onion, greasy and salty in all the right ways, before washing it back with another drink, his glass set down moments later so he could rest his chin in his hand. "Enough about the wizard with the bad attitude. Do I get to hear about yours, or is he one of those hush hush ones that you don't wish to talk about?" Toby wouldn't push if Preston didn't want to or couldn't talk about it, but he was curious; he knew little about who had whom in this place, didn't worry about asking unless it was offered, or anything else. But alcohol made his tongue a little looser, dropped the walls he kept up, and overall made him more apt to say things he didn't normally say.
Preston figured that it was better to be cemented in your own reality than to accept the idea that in someone else’s equally believable reality, you were a figment of a stranger’s imagination. So far, he’d been very successful in preventing himself from thinking about what he would do if the situations were reversed.
Just then, Tony did something extremely odd at the back of his mind. If it had a sound, it would have been like someone clearing their throat at the back of a very large movie theatre. There were no feelings, no emotion, just what was actually communicated, and so far it had been very little. Preston’s expression narrowed as he turned all of his internal intention at the relatively foreign presence in his mind. Tony did nothing further, which Preston liked even less. After a moment, his eyes focused again and a frown settled deeper onto his face. He returned to the fries, building a small pile of each of the condiments onto a set of three in idle preparation of eating it. One beer wasn’t going to do much to Preston, especially with this much grease in him. He said, “Tony Stark. He’s from a comic book.” Preston assumed Toby glanced at the journals now and then; Tony had certainly not been quiet on paper.
Toby had to wonder what was going through his friend's mind in the moments that ensued, the narrowing of his expression, the frown that etched its way onto his face moments later, but Toby didn't ask. Instead, he occupied himself with his drink, hands curled around it, palms damp with the condensation from the outside of it, cool in a way he was grateful for with the heat of the desert. He wasn't all that hungry when it came down to it, so the fried foods were ignored in favour of his drink, another swallow, a signal for another, leaving him free to push the empty glass towards the edge of the table, skidding on a trail of condensation. And that's when Preston brought up Tony Stark.
Toby was not someone who kept up with pop culture. He didn't go to movies that often, rarely listened to popular music, and his reading edged more towards non-fiction and medical journals than anything else. But he knew who Tony Stark was, and who didn't what with the movies that had been everywhere for the past few years. "Tony Stark," Toby repeated, his hand frozen beside the glass, surprised at the mention. "As in Iron Man, Tony Stark?" No, he wasn't a fanboy, but it was Tony. Even Toby liked Tony.
Preston scowled. He had a long, angular face that was suited to frowns and scowling, the long smiles that split his face both surprising and rare. He didn’t much care for Tony’s fame on either side of the door; it was the direct opposite of what he wanted for himself, and just the idea of flashbulbs popping out him outside his front door literally gave him night terrors. Preston waited for Tony to perk up and bask in the attention, even Toby’s, but the man was still silent, which even Preston knew was uncommon. He pushed away the basket with the last grease smeared crumbs left on that plaid paper. Settling his arms carefully on his side of the table, he picked up his glass and looked at Toby over it. “Yeah.”
He knew what that frown meant, knew that it was not a happy thing, knew that Preston wasn't pleased with it, and immediately, Toby regretted his initial reaction. His expression grew more neutral and he gave a small nod of his head, fingers lacing together atop the table, the dampness of his palm that he had admired and enjoyed not so many moments ago now making him feel awkward and strange. "I'm sorry," he offered, because he didn't know what else to say. Toby wasn't horrible at social situations, but he was awkward, and the niceties that came so easily to so many people didn't come easily to him, and he felt that awkwardness sinking back in, the prickling at the back of his neck that he was in a position he didn't want to be in.
Preston was displeased, but not with Toby. His expression eased somewhat in a natural reaction and unthinking attempt to soothe. Preston operated well in an extremely high-pressure environment filled with angry human firecrackers, some of them disabled and all of them armed to the teeth. He did “soothing” very well. “I would say that it isn’t anybody’s fault, luck of the draw, and everything, but I’m not sure that’s the case.” He took a few deep swallows of the beer, thoughtful, and then leaned back into his chair hard enough to send it back onto two legs, not a lot, but enough to stretch his knees out under the table. Preston had a lot of leg. “I think we’re both waiting to see if I have anything in common with this last person that died.” The frown didn’t return, but Preston looked thoughtful.
"And so far, do you?" Toby wanted the answer to be no, he needed the answer to be no. Similarities could lead to similar ends, and while Toby hadn't been touched by anyone here who had been harmed, who had died, he didn't need his friend to be the first. Long fingers curled together a little tighter, his brow furrowed, knuckles going white. Worrying about people, focusing on people, it was what Toby did best, and between friends and his family, he had more than his fair share of people to watch over. It was something that he did instinctually, and it was, in no way, him saying that he thought any of them weak or unable to take care of themselves. The role of the protector was something he did naturally, and along with that, came the worry.
Preston looked faintly furtive. They had reached a point in the conversation where Preston had to talk around his true field of work. Usually he had no trouble talking about his profession, which was fairly administrative to his mind, and much of the politics were not unlike that found at large financial companies or the fictitious digital company that served as cover right now. He knew, however, from his own research, that he and Silver McKellar had quite a bit in common, thanks very much. Preston drank most of the rest of his beer. “A little. Same kind of work. So far that’s it, though.” This was not strictly true, but the details were classified.
Preston called up a smile to reassure Toby across the table and gave the waitress a wave for the check. “We’re getting along so far,” he said, in a valiant attempt to remain positive.
Toby wasn't entirely convinced, even with the smile that accompanied the words, but he didn't press upon the other man for more reassurance or information. "Just let me know if you need any assistance. Either side of the door." He wasn't entirely sure that Harry would be helpful on the other side, but that didn't mean he wouldn't at least try, and god knows that the wizard was good at that. And blowing things up, but that was besides the point.
When the waitress came by with the check, Toby pulled his wallet out to pull a couple bills out, enough to cover it, plus some, because even if Preston was determined to pay, then they would make the waitress' day with a large tip. "It was good seeing you again. Need to do this more often."
Preston made a faint mutter of protest when Toby put out more than was necessary and didn’t allow for extra contributions. He didn’t put any more out there, but folded his wallet and pocketed it instead. “I get next time,” he said, seriously, and he meant it. “Thanks for the offer. I’m there for you, too, you know. If you need it.” He thought it would be amusing for Tony to meet a wizard, but he didn’t take the man’s help for granted. He assumed that, like every other mission, he would need to trade favors for help if it was needed. He didn’t ask Tony just then, because he knew he had currency Tony valued: time behind the door.
Eventually, when both men stood, Preston stepped in and took Toby’s hand again to give it a squeeze. There was a sharp movement as he pulled their clasped hands a little closer in a distinctly brotherly movement and smiled into his eyes. “It was good to see you again, October.” Then he let go, turned, and took himself out of the bar, faintly reassured to have one firm ally in this city.