Who: Grant Evans & Felix Larsen What: A meeting Where: Francesca's bar When: Recently! Warnings/Rating: None
Being behind the bar reminded Grant of why he preferred to work back of house in lieu of the front of house operations: he simply wasn't outgoing enough to maintain any real level of socialization for more than a couple hours at a time. But he had the night off, so when they called him in a pinch because the bartender had food poisoning and no one else could come in to cover, Grant had did what he always did. He said yes. It was as though the word 'no' didn't have a firm home in his vocabulary. Sure, he could say it, but why do so when he had the ability to do whatever was being asked of him? Some people might have said that was a sign of weakness, that he was willing to let people walk all over him to get what they wanted from him. Grant just saw it as being nice, as extending a hand to his fellow human beings when they were in need. He liked to hope that, if the opportunity arose, they'd do the same, but he had learned a long while ago that not everyone looked at the world the way he did. But that was okay.
There were just a few scattered guests in the restaurant's bar that evening, and all of them had a drink in hand, tended to carefully by the quiet man behind the bar. Things were wiped down, not a spot on the lacquered bartop, and he was busy polishing pint glasses as he sat on a stool behind the bar. It was monotonous, tedious work, but Grant found some measure of peace in it. Polish, examine, polish some more. It was a process, and Grant liked processes, liked seeing the fruits of his labor with a rack of smudge-free glasses waiting to be used. It was the same reason he liked working the line. There was a process there, as well. Stir this, add this, fry this and steam that, season well, wipe that plate clean. And for just a moment, before the plate disappeared into the hands of the waiter or waitress, Grant got a look at what he had accomplished. The fruits of his labor, temporary as they were, would be enjoyed, and that was enough for Grant.
So he sat and polished, poured a beer and mixed a drink, and he waited for the night to come to its inevitable close.
Felix enjoyed dining out. Las Vegas could be woefully asinine with its neon lights and cheap entertainment, but there was a variety which appealed to him. Amidst the dingy hole-in-the-walls there were hidden jewels, and there was a thrill that came with finding one and adding it to his list. And, admittedly, there were upsides to even the most questionable establishments; people were always a guaranteed amusement. He liked to observe. Humans really were fascinating things. And he had, technically, retired to enjoy the quiet life occasionally peppered with college classes, but he did take new patients from time to time when it struck his fancy.
Tonight, however, he was simply out to relax. He’d had a bite to eat already (a subpar dinner, to be honest, but the service was acceptable) and was now merely looking for a drink or two before retiring back to his apartment. The restaurant of his choice was not particularly busy, but that suited him just fine and he headed to the bar without hesitation. As always he was sharply dressed (jeans were simply not his thing) in a dress shirt and dress pants, a light jacket for the weather which he slipped off and draped over the back of the barstool before taking a seat. He turned his gaze towards the bartender and paused, eyebrows raising slightly as a jolt of familiarity coursed through him. It was just a feeling, a sense that he knew the man but, at first, he couldn’t quite place him. But he had a good memory, and he knew it would come to him in another moment or two. He smiled, and he waited.
As the newcomer came to sit at the bar, Grant slid off of the stool he had been perched on and gave the glass he had been polishing a final swipe before putting it on the rack, the towel thrown over his shoulder. He approached where the man sat, not yet recognizing him or feeling any jolt of familiarity like the other man had experienced. That was the problem with the issues he had had in the past: his memory just wasn't what it used to be. The facts and events were there, but they were harder to pull up than they used to be. The doctors used big words that didn't make much sense to explain it to him, but Grant simplified it down to making lists and writing things down to make up for what his brain just couldn't do any longer.
"What can I get you?" he asked, sliding a bar napkin towards the man, fingers resting on the edge of the bar as he met the newcomer's gaze and waited for an answer. He was dressed in the same sort of clothing everyone else in the bar area wore: white button down, black slacks, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up past his elbows. He made the outfit look easy and comfortable, wearing it rather than letting the clothes wear him. Dark hair was wet with gel, pushed back away from his face to keep it from falling into his eyes.
Felix regarded the bartender as any patron would have, despite that half-recognition swirling in his mind. Some claimed, rather dramatically, that eyes were the window to one’s souls, and if that was true than his were covered by opaque blinds; he gave nothing away, as most did, lest it was intentional. Nothing he did was accidental. And, regardless, staring was rather rude. He contemplated a list of wines, but decided against it. “A scotch on the rocks, please,” he said politely, cultured with the barest hint of an accent from studying his native language and a few trips to Europe in-between.
"Top shelf or house?" Grant asked, already pulling one of the squat tumblers from the rack, and after giving it another shine with the tail of his rag, a few ice cubes were shoveled in from the cooler beneath the bar. The man's voice was familiar, that slight edge of culture that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up in response. There was something familiar about him, itching at the edges of his memory, but he couldn't quite place the man's place in his memories. Perhaps someone he had known in passing; the accent wasn't normal, after all, and would be one that would be easily remembered.
“Top shelf,” he responded, not missing a beat. The man whose name currently escaped him seemed to be treating him as just another customer, which indicated a lack of familiarity on his part; it didn’t surprise him, however. Felix often found his memory was better than most. Further perusal was necessary in order to determine why he felt as though he’d met this man before. “Busy night?” A harmless inquiry.
The bottle was located and two fingers of scotch was poured into the waiting tumbler of ice. Capping the bottle, Grant finished putting it away before he slid the glass over towards the other man, leaning against the bar on his elbows, one shoulder shrugging up slightly. "Busy enough," he said in response. "I'm filling in for someone who's ill. I usually work back of house in the kitchen." Grant paused and straightened, grabbing a damp bar rag to wipe down the bar in front of him, even though it was immaculate. "What brings you in?" The medical alert bracelet slid down Grant's arm to ride lower on his wrist, the very public declaration of the issues that he still carried with him after that medical snafu of five years prior.
Interesting, really, how even such a casual, thoughtless response could reveal so much about a person. The man didn’t often work the bar, then, which meant he was usually away from the public. Perhaps he preferred it that way. Many were not, as they said, a ‘people person’, and even just from initial observation Felix suspected this was the sort of man who was quiet, not so much of an extrovert. But he was willing to fill the shoes of a sick coworker, regardless. “I wouldn’t have been able to tell,” he remarked with a smile. And it was true, to an extent. He didn’t seem outwardly uncomfortable. “Nothing in particular,” he said, taking a sip and nodding to himself in approval. “I simply didn’t feel like staying in.” His gaze lowered, almost imperceptibly, when the bracelet came into view, and he hid his smile well. Ah, there it was. Another piece of the puzzle. Perhaps he’d known him in his medical days.
To say that Grant wasn't a people person was both correct and incorrect in the same breath. He didn't dislike people, or even dislike being around them, he just didn't see a need to fill the air with senseless conversations about things he didn't particularly care about. No, Dallas was the talker in the family, and he relied on her to fill the gaps. He'd sit quietly and talk when it was needed, but otherwise, he preferred to save his words. "I try to do good at it," Grant said in response. "No sense in looking like I didn't know how to do my job. People prey on you when you do that."
The bar rag was laid to the side, folded neatly in quarters, and Grant hauled his stool over so he could sit again, setting up across from the other man. "From the area or here on business?" he asked, and for someone who didn't do conversation, he made a decent play at it at times.
What an interesting choice of words. Prey. “No one wishes to be seen as incompetent,” he agreed. “But how might people prey upon you?” He liked that word, and it rolled off his tongue easily. Oh, he was certain the man didn’t mean anything quite as nefarious as the word might suggest, but Felix was curious nonetheless.
He had wondered if the bartender would pursue conversation or simply be content to respond, and it seemed he had his answer. “From the area. I believe I’ve entered the leisure part of my life and left business behind,” he chuckled. Which was true. Even now, the odd patient that he saw was based upon his own criteria and not necessity. Teaching, too, was much of the same. Enjoyment. Pleasure. When it stopped being those things, he would stop doing it, as he had with practicing medicine.
"By taking advantage of me during a moment of weakness." And Grant had experienced plenty of weakness in his life, had enough disabilities, to use a word he disliked, to carry around that he worked as best he could to be strong despite them. "I'd like to avoid that if at all possible." It was a simple enough answer, alluding to other aspects of his life that he wasn't going to divulge to a complete stranger. "What did you do?" he asked a moment later, and then, to keep his hands busy and to keep from being idle, Grant rose to fetch a container of lemons, an empty bowl, and a sharp knife, and then he sat once more and began expertly cutting the lemons down into neat wedges.
At that moment, the puzzle pieces fell into place. The man’s mention of weakness being taken advantage of sparked his memory, and though Felix failed to recall his name he did recognize his face. It had been years ago, while he’d still been practicing medicine; the poor young man had come in with a neurological disorder, one easily treated. But Felix had been bored, then. He’d wanted to conduct an experiment and so he had, at the young man’s success. And then he had gone, sought treatment elsewhere, and he too had moved on.
He wondered how long it would take the man to achieve similar recognition. He wondered if he would at all.
“Ah,” he said, understanding, giving no sign that he recognized the man. “There are, unfortunately, some who would do so.” He ran his finger along the rim of his glass and considered his next response. “I was a doctor,” he said, finally. “Then a psychiatrist. Now, I teach. Occasionally. Any patients I do take are exceptions, if you will.” Felix wanted to see if it would be enough for the young bartender to connect the dots, or if he would need a little more.
"A doctor." Grant's lips pursed at that, giving the other man a long look, hands paused mid-slice of the lemon he was currently working on. "Where did you practice at? Just curious." His gaze slid back down to the job at hand, expertly dividing yet another lemon into neat wedges which were tossed in the waiting container. The smell of citrus was thick in the air as his brows furrowed slightly. There was something achingly familiar about the other man, and he cursed the memory issues that had plagued him ever since-
Ever since that scare several years ago.
Grant looked up again, meeting the other man's gaze. "You were in New York, weren't you?" he asked, his voice almost cold, hands again still in their task.
Felix didn’t respond, not right away. He watched the other man carefully, watched the way he looked at him, and he could practically see the gears in his poor fractured mind working, working, to put the pieces together. He did wonder what had happened in the aftermath; unfortunately, he doubted the man would be forthcoming. Pity. He would have liked to know just how resilient the human mind could be. “I practiced in numerous locations,” he said, finally, a small smile to convey his supposed honestly. And then New York was mentioned, and he was pleased. the man seemed to remember something after all. But he knew better than to smile at that, however much he might have liked to.
“I did practice in New York, yes,” he said, feigning ignorance to the cold tone. “Why do you ask?”
Grant was quiet for a long while as the pieces of the puzzle continued to fall into place, forming a picture he had spent the better part of five years recovering from. "Larsen," Grant said after a moment, and he ducked his head down, averting his eyes as he made quick work of the last two lemons in his pile, sweeping the wedges into the container. This was the reason he didn't partake in casual conversation - you never knew what you were going to find out about a person, and sometimes, there were things you were better off not knowing. Or, in his case, not remembering.
He didn't say another word as he wiped his hands off on a towel and put the lemon wedges away, moving with careful practice to put everything back where it belonged. He didn't want to be rude, didn't want to tell him to get the fuck out like he really wanted to, but something boiled beneath the surface, and it was growing more and more visible as the moments ticked on. The towel was tossed over his shoulder and Grant leaned in towards the bar, hands pressed against the edge. He could feel his heart racing, that familiar pressure building in his head whenever he got angry, a headache forming almost instantaneously behind his eyes. "You should go," he finally said, words rough and hard around the edges. Grant still hadn't met the other man's eyes since that little revelation, and he didn't now, either. No, his head was bowed, shoulders hunched up towards his ears, pushing through whatever episode he was dealing with.
There was a slight quirk at the corners of his mouth, a twitch, not a smile but a subtle indication of amusement when the man (Grant, yes, he remembered now) said his last name. Clever boy. Felix finished the remainder of his drink and set the glass down, watching as the eye contact was broken, as he busied himself with clearing the counter. “Yes,” he said, mildly puzzled, pursuing his little facade just a little longer. “Felix Larsen.” But perhaps the novelty of it had worn off; it was clear he remembered, now, from the way in which he completely withdrew from the conversation. Were he to take a guess, he would have said that Grant did experience lingering symptoms from his misdiagnosis based on how he was acting. He only wished he could find out more details.
For a moment, he considered refusing. He wondered how Grant would respond. But then Felix nodded, sliding off his stool and collecting his jacket. “I apologize if I made you uncomfortable,” he said. “But it is nice to see you again, Grant.”
Grant didn't move from where he stood until long after the doctor's footsteps had faded away. Only then did he look up, giving a long look to the stool Felix had occupied only moments before, and he wondered how, in a country as big as the United States was, that he could run in to the one person he had all but been running from for the better part of five years. His hand clenched against the edge of the bar, a fierce headache blossoming behind his eyes. He wanted to go home. Wanted to go home, lock his doors, and sleep this off. But he couldn't, and he wouldn't. Responsibility came first, as much as he loathed it some days.
He glanced towards the exit of the bar again for a moment, as though expecting the doctor to step back through, to reignite the horror from before, but nothing happened. So Grant grabbed his towel again and went back to polishing the glasses, glancing at the time every so often and counting the minutes until his shift ended.