Work Text:
"Do you mind if I join you?"
It takes Barry several seconds to realize the question is aimed at him. Head stuck in his computer, files open on his lap and stacked haphazardly on the table, he's hardly projecting "welcome!" vibes. But when he takes a moment to look around, he realizes that Jitters is packed and, not that it's exactly an ego boost, he's likely a better table-mate than the octogenarian leaning over her mug to steal small sips of tea as her hands absently knit....something in brilliant, eye-searing orange.
The stranger must track his eyes to the other open seat, and the man offers a short laugh, his lips twisting in a pained smile. "I can...you know...go over there," he says, inclining his head. "It's okay, I don't want to bother you."
His expression is saying, "Please don't make me," and Barry can't help but feel sorry for the guy; for a picosecond, he wonders which is worse: death by boring cold case files or death by knitting needles.
'At least knitting needles can kill quickly when wielded with the proper force and knowledge of anatomy, such as a direct attack to the jugular,' his brain helpfully supplies.
Suffocation under boxes of dusty case files was likely to be a long, excruciating ordeal involving nausea, headache, disorientation, pain in the lungs, eventual loss of sensation...which, all things considered, might be a blessing....
"Uh, I'll just leave you to it then."
The stranger shifts slightly, and, with a start, Barry realizes that picoseconds have become actual, noticeable seconds of him staring vacantly off into space.
"No, please, sit." He makes a clumsy attempt to push out the chair across from him using his foot, wincing as the files on his lap threaten to fall. An unnoticeable touch of super speed keeps everything in place, but the stranger still wavers.
"If you're sure?"
The uncertainty does even less for Barry's ego. So much for being option "A," he chides himself, deflating slightly. Out loud he replies, "I'm sure. Please. Sorry, I'm not used to...." He pauses, fumbling for a word. Is it sad to admit that he spends so much time in his lab or racing around at super speed that he rarely has basic, normal conversations with people when he isn't trying to save their lives or solve crimes? Probably.
He barely holds back an embarrassed groan as the man smirks and says, "Talking to strangers?" He offers a slightly bigger, more genuine smile as he places his steaming mug on the table and holds out his hand. "If it helps, hi, I'm Jason."
Barry stares at the hand long enough that Jason huffs a laugh and collapses into the seat, his muscular frame dwarfing the chair; the scientist swears he can hear the wood creak in protest as the man shifts his weight into a comfortable position, slinging an arm around the back and slouching low as he reclaims the mug.
As Jason takes a long sip, Barry's eyes drift back to his laptop screen, quickly re-reading the last lines of his report. He's poised to start typing again when Jason interrupts his thoughts.
"Nice bow tie, …."
It's green with tiny black dots, a not-really-gag gift from Hal given at the League's last holiday party. "Not really" because Hal knew Barry would actually wear it...and like it. "Uh, thanks." Fingering the tie, he adds, "It was a gift." There's another one in his desk drawer, red and yellow, from Diana, and if the way Jason is grinning at him means anything, Barry has just lost whatever "cool points" he might have had. So, once more in the red, he hears Hal say.
"Bold choice, …."
And Barry suddenly realizes that Jason is waiting for something. Oh. "Barry. My name is Barry."
"There we go!" Jason seems strangely pleased with wringing that tiny bit of information out of him. Grinning, the other man offers his hand again. "Nice to meet you, Barry."
He doesn't know what, but there's something about Jason that just feels...off, and as Barry shakes the pro-offered hand, he takes a minute to let his eyes wander over his table-mate.
He's young, maybe mid- to late-twenties to Barry's early thirties. Or maybe younger, 'cause Barry isn't exactly old. He's also big. Not body-builder or hormone-induced big, but definitely spends-a-good-deal-of-time-at-the-gym-lifting-weights big. But there's a certain grace there, too, a purpose of movement that Barry can see in the way Jason tips back his chair, balancing almost without conscious thought on the back legs as he lifts his mug to sip at his...tea? For some reason the choice of beverage throws him; he'd have expected a strong, black coffee or espresso, not – his eyes flick towards the tab hanging over the lip of the mug – spiced tea.
"I get that a lot."
Not that Barry has said anything, but clearly Jason can read his thoughts.
Affecting a posh British accent, Jason adds, "A properly brewed cup of tea is the perfect accompaniment to almost all of life's cherished moments."
Barry blinks, momentarily chasing the scent of cardamom that drifts lazily across the table as Jason gestures with his drink. "The Queen of England?" The resulting snort has considerably less grace, and Jason coughs as the hot tea makes its way down the wrong pipe. "Shit, sorry!" Fumbling for napkins, Barry shoves a few at Jason, who gratefully stems the threatening eruption of liquid.
When the coughing fit ends, it gives way to laughter.
"Oh, that's good -- I'll have to tell him that one." Jason plants his chair on the floor and sits up ramrod straight, holding his mug with a pinky finger out. "Did you know, old chap, just the other day, I met this man at a coffee shop, and he thought you were the Queen Mum. That said, he was wearing a ...bow tie."
The accent is back, and despite the obvious derision directed at his neckware, Barry finds himself laughing. "Sorry, I guess tea quotes aren't really my thing." He pauses and cants his head slightly. "Are they even a thing?"
"Hell if I know."
Jason shrugs, but even going for "nonchalant," Barry has spent enough time around skilled fighters to see the subtle fluidity in the simple gesture that hints at some kind of training – maybe martial arts, dance.
Their eyes meet for a second before Jason looks away sheepishly, running a hand through black hair that almost touches his ears as he blows out a breath. "I'm sorry, you were trying to work, and I totally interrupted. I'll let you get back to it," he says, flapping a hand at the files on the table.
The files that Barry has hardly made a dent in despite his self-imposed exile from all the distractions in the lab. Singh will kill him, but what else is new? "It's alright," he finds himself saying, closing the files in his lap and adding them to the stack on the table. Thankfully there are no crime scene photos poking out and the folders are pretty innocuous –- he's learned the hard way not to leave something stamped with "Property Of CCPD: Confidential" face up on a table in public; he would have gotten less attention in his Flash costume -- because he's not in the mood to explain blood spatter patterns and the life cycle of larvae on corpses as an indicator of time of death to the morbidly curious. Which he's not sure Jason is, but still....
Jason raises an eyebrow as he takes another sip of tea. "You're sure? You don't have to humor me, I can just sit here quietly and drink my tea."
Hal is always telling Barry how he needs to do normal things. Like talk to people who can't bench-press skyscrapers. "I'm sure. Just don't expect...." Again he fumbles for words, and he feels the heat rise in his cheeks.
Jason again fills the awkward silence, his face a perfect mask of innocent wonder to go with his regally outstretched hand and affected theatrical tone. "A dazzling display of lyrical wit? The sonnets of the Bard lovingly interwoven with the tender, moving depictions of nature as laid bare by Frost? Would a rose picked on a road less travelled smell as sweet? Nay," he says, leaning forward and holding up a finger, "would it even be a rose but a new form of life not yet discovered if not for its smell?"
Barry has absolutely no idea how to respond, because he totally bombed English 101 and has no idea what just happened. So he's sucking on his lips to hold back a giggle that's already visibly shaking his shoulders, not sure if this man is meaning to be serious or utterly ridiculous. He meets Jason's eyes, and after a beat his resolve cracks with a totally inelegant snort. Thankfully, the other man dissolves into laughter right along with him, loud enough that a few other patrons shoot them bemused glances. "Oh, god, what was that?" he wheezes.
"Absolutely nothing. Complete and utter garbage." Jason's still trying for theatrics even though he's laughing so hard there are tears in his eyes. Getting himself under control with some effort, he adds, "It's okay, if Shakespeare isn't your thing, I like Eddie Izzard. Or Bill Engvall."
The speedster can't help that his head cocks to the side, betraying how confused he is by the dichotomy that is apparently Jason. Who is also wearing a motorcycle jacket over an "I like big books and I cannot lie" t-shirt. And Barry's head really hurts right now, because just...wow.
Lifting his mug high, Jason says, "Tea, remember?" like that actually explains anything.
"I prefer cake," Barry finds himself mumbling quietly. He watches as Jason chews on his lower lip for a moment before smiling.
"I guess it's better than death."
"But not the chicken."
And just like that they're laughing like idiots again, making halfhearted attempts to apologize to the exasperated patrons around them before quickly breaking back down into giggles and jokes.
As the tension finally disappears, the conversation moves to more normal topics. When Barry finally looks up over an hour later, he's learned that Jason is single, came to Central City a few weeks back looking for a new start, impulse-bought the bookstore on Gardner and Fox and the flat above it because he was driving by, saw the "for sale" sign, and his gut told him: This!, works on bikes in his spare time, cooks real meals, and can somehow find a way to insert random Jane Austen quotes into almost any conversation.
And Barry offers that he's a scientist and, yes, a nerd. ["Ah, that explains the...." Jason traces the shape of a bow tie over his neck. Barry snorts. The rest of the crime lab would be insulted to find themselves lumped in with his fashion sense.] He's also widower who spends most of his time in a lab. When he reads, it's almost always sci-fi/fantasy, because he already lives real life. He has a best friend who keeps him social whenever said friend is in town, he runs for fun (which isn't a complete lie, it helps him clear his head), and despite not doing it a lot anymore, he can cook much better than plain spaghetti and red sauce – his wife and nephew gave rave reviews to his Sunday-morning pancakes. And yeah, "gave," because his nephew died, too.
There's an awkward pause after that, and if only to change the topic, he tells Jason that he was drinking decaf, because caffeine makes him wired and jittery.
Jason grimaces, somehow putting his whole body into the expression, makes a comment about accounting for taste, and then pointedly drinks the last of his tea with a small smile on his lips.
And then it strikes Barry that he really needs to go or Singh really will kill him. "I'm sorry," he says, meaning it, because he hadn't expected this and the conversation had been, well, fun. "I need to get back to work."
Jason shrugs again. "S'alright, I should probably head out myself."
They stand together, and Barry grabs his messenger bag off the floor and starts shoving in folders. It takes a moment before he realizes that Jason has gone still, his gaze on Barry's hands.
The scientist looks down and then back at the other man, and he realizes that Jason's eyes are tracing the CCPD logo emblazoned on the cover of a folder. Well, crap.
"So, you're actually a cop?" Jason asks slowly, his voice flat.
"No, I'm in forensics. Crime lab." Barry knows that to some people it doesn't really make a difference; blue is blue.
"Ah."
Jason is resolutely studying the folder as if he can see through it, but Barry's eyes are trained on Jason. Nothing is telling him to run or evacuate the other patrons, so... "Is that problem?"
Something like disappointment flashes across Jason's face, but Barry doesn't have to ponder it too deeply. "I might have a...past. Just wanted to know if you'd lock me away." And there's a hint of sadness that chases the disappointment.
Barry officially has no idea where this is going. "A past? As in...."
"As in I've done some things I'm not proud of."
"In the past."
"S'why I'm here. New start, new city." Jason's wide gesture encompasses the cafe and the city beyond.
He doesn't exactly answer Barry's question, and it's kind of an important question. "In the past?"
"Almost. Three more months; just tying everything up. Making sure everything...everyone is alright, before I walk away."
"You done time?"
A stricken look crosses Jason's face, and he nods, swallowing audibly. His hand goes to the back of his neck, absently tracing a pattern Barry can't really see. So he pushes down his own discomfort and asks the next question. "Where?"
"Gotham."
And if that doesn't ping every alarm in Barry's head, because in Gotham having a "past" can mean anything from being a street-corner dealer to a mercenary or crime lord to a costumed villain. And dear god, Barry hopes he wasn't enjoying a coffee and chit chat with Joker's son. The thought makes him queasy, and his discomfort is immediately obvious to Jason.
Who sighs softly, pushing his chair in and grabbing his mug. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have bothered you," he says as he turns away.
Even though he knows he shouldn't, Barry reaches out and catches his arm. Hal would roll his eyes and tell him that he's doing it again – feeling too much, caring too much – but it's just who Barry is, and something tells him Jason would hurt if he were to walk away now. So he asks, "Why are you telling me all this?"
"Because I enjoyed talking to you."
"Still, you don't have to share your past like that."
"I think I do if I'm going to ask you to do it again."
That stops Barry short. "Do what?"
Jason shrugs, missing "casual" by a mile. "Talk to me. Over drinks, food – dinner, lunch. Your choice, really."
"Me?" Next to Jason's feigned indifference, Barry's bald-faced shock must look comical.
"Yeah, you. I...liked this. You're interesting to talk to, obviously smart, despite the...questionable fashion choices. But then again, I know someone who is so much worse, so...." He lets the sentence hang for a moment before asking, "Will you go out with me?"
Barry ponders the question for a second, which is to say he gives it some serious thought. "Will you be straight with me?" It's clear that Jason has to tamp down a snort, because it's so not the time, but even Barry can admit it's an awful choice of words. "About your past," he clarifies needlessly.
After a beat, Jason nods. "I'll answer whatever questions you ask."
Barry knows it's not the same thing, but he can tell that Jason means it. If Barry asks, he'll answer. If.... If he wants to know.... His eyes catch the CCPD logo just as Jason's had, and he offers up a short prayer asking for this to be "okay."
Because truth be told, he liked it, too.