WHO: Hal Cooper and Marty Solverson WHEN: Friday evening - January 13, 2017 WHERE: One of the bars in Central SUMMARY: Robin Hood and the Sheriff of Nottingham walk into a bar, and have a frank conversation. WARNINGS: Tense af, as usual. STATUS: Complete.
“It wasn’t funny the first time,” Marty grumbled as he removed his driver's license from his wallet yet again. Even aged down he didn’t look like he could be younger than twenty-one, but the bartender was a buddy from the gym. And it was the kind of week where everyone had to get their jokes in.
If it had been any other week, Marty would have been drinking at his place, or with a friend, but this wasn’t any other week. It was another in a long line of strange uncontrollable events, and for once Marty was prepared to enjoy this one. As much as he could, anyway.
As the bartender returned with his drink, Marty raised it to his lips only to notice that the older man at the end of the bar was once again looking his way. He lowered the glass long enough to narrow his eyes and jeer in the man’s direction. “You got a problem?”
Hal, on the other hand, hadn’t need to show his driver’s license this entire week in order to get a drink, which was a welcome change, considering his face normally made him look younger than he actually was. Whatever was happening to Woodsbridge’s hapless residents this time, at least it didn’t seem detrimental to anyone’s health; it was mostly just funny. And maybe Hal was just being optimistic, but on average, the weird things that had been happening lasted less than two weeks, so he figured he might as well sit back, try to figure out what the hell was going on, but also not freak about it, because it’d probably go away.
He snapped out of his reverie when a familiar voice addressed him, and sure enough, there was Marty Solverson, Robin Hood himself. A younger Marty, but it was undeniably him. “Not at all,” Hal replied mildly, taking a sip of his whiskey. “I just couldn’t tell if it was you or not.” He shrugged. “But it is, so. Sorry to bother you.”
This was another game that Marty was playing a lot of this week, guess which friend, neighbor, or random acquaintance is sitting across from you. And he was still sober enough to try and put the pieces together. He watched the older man with a quizzical expression before downing his glass, stuck in the days when drinking had been more about how much you could drink and how fast you could do it.
Blond-ish, blue eyes, and the man obviously wasn’t Vincent or Jason. A slow smile spread across Marty’s face, one that the other man new well, in this lifetime and others. “Sheriff,” a mock salute. What was the most loaded question he could ask? It didn’t take long to puzzle that one out. “How’s work?” It seemed innocuous enough, but the last time they’d discussed it, Hal had been handing over classified information.
Amusedly, Hal watched Marty attempt to put the pieces together. “Bravo,” he drawled, once he’d figured it out, and drank some more, mostly because even thinking about work was enough to make Hal want to throw something.
He fought to keep his hand from clenching around the glass, and his expression neutral, because Hal was better than that. He had to be. So naturally, his smile was the kind of smile you give someone when you want to murder them but you can’t because you’re in public and have to play nice because Hal had no poker face whatsoever. “It’s work. Just got back from a business trip a few days ago, so I haven’t been in the office too much.” Thank God. “How was your Christmas?” Hal returned, as if he didn’t know perfectly well that the holidays couldn’t be easy for divorced families.
Hal’s smile seemed to light a slow fuse within Marty, one that manifested as a slight glimmer that flashed in his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched. It was excitement or maybe anticipation. God, what he wouldn’t give to see the other man lose his cool. “You don’t want to hear about me,” he didn’t break eye contact. “You know, I don’t think I ever said thanks for the info,” the bar wasn’t anywhere near empty but that didn’t seem to concern Marty. “So, thanks.” It was painfully clear that some sort of punchline was still coming. “I still think you’re a dick, but that was halfway decent thing to do.”
“No? What do I want to hear about then, Marty?” Hal waited for him to finish what was sure to be a truly heartfelt display of gratitude. Yup. That was about what he’d expected. “You’re welcome.” He finished his glass. As much trouble as Hal could’ve gotten in for telling Marty what Elena had been looking for, he didn’t regret doing so. It was high time the Business Office started practice appropriate safety measures, rather than ignore problems that posed any kind of inconvenience. And if Hal’s intel had helped find Amara in the process, then that was all the better.
Marty snorted in reply. This time when the bartender wandered over he refilled the glass without asking for identification. As his back turned and he walked off toward the other end of the bar, Marty condescendingly called out, “Thanks, Bill.” At which point it was clear that he was heading from slightly buzzed to completely drunk.
He raised his glass before swiveling in Hal’s direction, miraculously no liquid spilled. “I don’t know. What do you want to hear about? None of that small talk bullshit, what do you actually want to hear about?”
It was a good question, decided Hal, as he watched Marty fall deeper into his drink. “I don’t know.” He said evenly, and down the last of his drink before putting the glass forward for a refill. “You’ve made it clear time and time again that you want nothing to do with me, so I made my peace with that. I really don’t know what you want me to tell you,” Hal shrugged, his heart pumping fast, but exterior cool so far.
Hal wasn’t nearly drunk enough to ask why Marty didn’t like him, after all.
Marty swivelled once again, this time to dramatically look up and down the bar. “I don’t see anyone else to talk to,” more like antagonize, but it was close enough. “Why don’t you …” a finger pointed at Hal for emphasis, “Tell me why you hate your job so much. What I don’t get is how you seem to hate this one so much but before you were --- God, how did you put it?” Spiteful but amused might have been the best way to describe Marty’s tone, his body language, everything about him as he seemed to think hard. “A good man doing his best, something like that. Some bullshit like that.”
“I don’t hate my job,” Hal raised his eyebrows in surprise that that was the question Marty chose to go with, when he really had an entire arsonry he could probably say that Hal wouldn’t be able to properly respond to because they were in public. And Marty was clearly drunk. Of course he was going to try and get a rise out of Hal, and he refused to give him the satisfaction. “I like my job very much, actually, I - ” he paused, because just because Hal was angry with the Business Office, didn’t mean that he was ready to reveal every single artifact he’d ever found to a man who was clearly spoiling for a fight. Even if the artifact had at one time belonged to him. “ - still think the Sheriff was a good man. It was his job to hunt down outlaws, Marty, which you were, and I’m not going to apologize for that. The only thing I don’t like about my job this time around is how we’re all being kept in the dark, and yet, whenever something bad happens, we’re supposed to ignore it and pretend it’s not a thing. But I don’t hate my job.”
Marty seemed to brush off the explanation, he’d been assuming, if he was wrong, whatever. Maybe the older man didn’t hate his job but Marty knew that you didn’t take big risks if you were that dedicated to the idea of staying... “The laws of the time were bullshit,” his words weren’t bitter or tired, instead he sounded every bit the passionate college student. “What’s the point in upholding the laws if the laws are wrong?” He paused for a second before carefully adding. “It sounds like you hate parts of your job, man. It sounds like the same fucking thing as before. Why follow the orders if you don’t know why you’re following them?”
A throbbing was starting at Hal’s temples, and he gratefully started in on the drink once the bartender had given him another serving of whiskey. It burned slightly as the drink slipped down his throat, but it was a welcome distraction, and gave Hal time to formulate an answer that didn’t involve calling Marty names or rolling his eyes, or some other childish retort. “King John had some bad qualities,” he agreed. History certainly proved as much, and denying - not that he wanted to - would make him look stupid and naive. Some good ones, too, like, hey, they got the Magna Carta out of his reign, though people always seemed happier to remember someone’s faults than their better contributions. “But I wasn’t going to commit treason because of it, and potentially endanger my family.” If it came down to it, the Sheriff owed Robin Hood nothing; of course he’d prioritize his own well-being above a criminal’s.
“I don’t think anyone likes every aspect of their job,” Hal pointed out in the same careful tone, not wanting to break the tentative civility of their conversation. The very tentative civility.
“I get it,” the disgust in his voice was palpable, “Always looking out for number one. As long as your family is safe everyone else can go fuck themselves, right?” Marty was too drunk to drag out the long laundry list of ‘awful things’ that had happened at that point in history, and more importantly he wasn’t at an age where any of that mattered. As a dismissive expression lit up his face, he shrugged and took another drink.
Marty didn’t want to debate Hal, he wanted to piss him off.
“Yes,” he said simply.
Marty obviously did not get it, but apparently, being in his forties all of a sudden afforded him a wisdom younger Hal hadn’t quite yet discovered. Nothing Hal said was going to change Marty’s mind, so he really saw no point in trying to convince him of something the man did not want to believe. And there was something incredibly satisfying about watching Marty work himself up, try to work Hal up, and failing miserably.
But, as it were, with being older and wiser came the knowledge that continuing this conversation for much longer would prove very stupid. And Hal didn’t need Nic to tell him that. “Speaking of my family, I should get back to them.” He slid off the barstool and slipped his coat on. “Make sure you take an Uber home tonight. Or hell, you can even call me if you need a ride, but please don’t drive home like this.”
As Hal placed some money on the counter, including a generous tip, he nodded to his antagonist. “Good talk, Marty. Take care of yourself,” before heading out the door.