Title: Unmarked Files: Part One- Grief Acknowledged
Pairing: Jack/Nathan, implied Jack/Fargo
Rating: T, for implied sexual content
Word Count: 1600
Disclaimer: If I owned them, THAT would NOT have happened!
Warnings: slash, canon character death, angst, spoilers through episode 305, a missing scene set pre-305. Written for the eurekatag challenge on livejournal.
Summary: Fargo finds something surprising when he sorts through his mentor's office.
Fargo had chased off anyone and everyone who had tried to come help pack up Stark's office and home. He knew it was fiercely irrational to be so loyal to a man who was dead and gone, but he had no qualms about chasing off the GD goons and insisting on doing it himself. He owed the man at least that much.
He rubbed his too tired eyes, adjusted his glasses, and focused again on the stack of files in front of him. He opened one marked "MAP-G Multiverse Project", reviewed the schematics, drawn in Stark's careful hand, and added the file to the box of projects for Henry to sort through before handing over to GD. Some of his mentor's work was simply too dangerous to turn over to someone as untrustworthy as Thorne, which probably explained why Stark had taken to storing it at home.
Fargo flipped through a rather innocuous file of work related to the dream spectrometer and the improvements Stark had made that allowed direct dream sharing. Fargo set it in his own bag, planning to turn it over to Sueños, whose job was one of those potentially on the chopping block. Knowing that one of his best friends was working on a serious crush on the dream scientist, Fargo decided that really, Stark wouldn't have minded Fargo's decision to lend a helping hand in thwarting Thorne. It was almost an homage, after all.
Half an hour later, the stack was almost sorted, just a handful of files left, and Fargo sleepily contemplated heading home for the night and restarting in the morning. "One more," he murmured to himself, frowning as he saw that the tab of the file was unmarked.
He opened it, pulling out a pile of odd little scraps of paper, with hurried notes scribbled on them. "Half smile to right, eyes squint embarrassed." Fargo read, his forehead crinkling in confusion.
He pulled out another note, this time on a torn piece of calendar from Stark's planner. "Both hands in pockets worried." He rifled through some more, producing a post it that read, "stalling by rubbing back of neck, time to think".
"Huh," Fargo mused, shrugging. "Sheriff Carter does that."
He found another note, on a scrap of napkin, which observed, "Huff of air, like laughter, not actual laugh strikeimpatience/strike not amused. Pretends to be."
Fargo continued to rifle through the observations, quicker now, suddenly certain they related to the little tells that revealed Carter's mood. Why had his mentor spent so much effort cataloguing the Sheriff's expressions? He ran out of scraps and sighed, setting them back into the file. The next file, likewise, was unmarked. He opened it, curiosity reviving his energy.
The first page was a simple line sketch, basic and clearly done from memory, of Sheriff Carter. It was dated a few days after the death of Callister. The lines resembled an architectural plan more than an actual drawing, but the set of the Sheriff's frown was clearly recognizable. The second sheet was another drawing, the lines a little more rounded, trying to soften the years of scientific precision into something art-like, but was harder to recognize as Carter. As Fargo flipped through the sheets, the drawings improved slightly in technique, but remained essentially the same, building on the original image.
Suddenly a new image appeared. It was softer, the subject in the drawing sleeping, a soft crescent of eyelashes over cheekbones, relaxed lips, and messy hair falling over the sheriff's forehead. The artwork had improved significantly, and the drawing captured a very gentle looking Jack Carter. The date was scrawled in the corner, revealing it to be sometime during the Sheriff's recovery after the VR therapy device had nearly scrambled his brains. Working from a subject clearly had helped Stark's ability to create art, Fargo decided, flipping through a few reproductions of the sleeping man, a few starting to add long muscular lines of the chest and abs of the other man starting around the date of last year's science fair.
Fargo felt his face heat at one of the images, dated the day of the chemical spill before the dream sharing began. Stark had clearly been guessing, speculating and compiling based on what he'd seen, but the intent behind the Jack Carter drawn nude and sprawled across the bed was pretty clear. A few variations of this followed, and like all of Stark's earlier drawings, they improved as he went. A sudden leap in talent, rivaling the first leap to the sleeping Carter followed around the time of the invisibility catastrophe, but the image couldn't have been drawn from a live subject, Fargo told himself. The loose limbed, sprawling image of the sheriff sleeping on the bed he recognized from the next room, a sheet tangled around one leg, a hand curled toward the empty half of the bed, and again, a nude Jack Carter. Everything about the image screamed a sated, satisfied sheriff.
Fargo swallowed, shifting a little uncomfortably at the image. He hadn't ever really thought of the sheriff as a sexual man, but now it was all he could see. He turned the page quickly, flipping past the variations on the post-coital images. There was no artwork after them, just the back of the folder.
The final file was also unmarked, but the envelope had the name "Jack" written across it in a large scrawling hand he recognized as Stark's. He hesitated, but the flap was unsealed, and there was only a single sheet of stationary contained within.
Fargo unfolded the note, the contents short but changing his opinion about what exactly had passed between the sheriff and Stark. He looked back at the images, seeing a patient, careful hand and the gentle, open ease on the sheriff's face in the drawings. The long limbed sprawl he now accepted was clearly drawn from the subject directly.
He ran a finger over the closing salutation, wondering if the scientist had ever swallowed his pride enough to use that word with the sheriff and what had lead to the events of Stark asking Allison to marry him instead of Carter. The soft sadness that he'd so often seen Carter shove aside in order to comfort Allison or even Fargo himself rose unwelcome in the young man's mind.
He took the images and slowly studied them again, refocusing his eyes to see through the eyes of Nathan Stark, and he felt his heart breaking a little for the stoic sheriff who had no one who knew what he was going through, no one to lean on. He pulled out a large envelope, and slid all three unmarked files inside. He turned off the lights and carefully locked the doors behind him, sliding into his smart car.
The little digital clock warned him how late it was, but Fargo bit back his concerns and drove straight to the bunker. He hesitated though, when he hovered at the door, finger mid air next to the doorbell. He looked down at the envelope in his other hand, trying to stiffen his resolve, when the door slid open for him.
"Fargo," Carter nodded at him, looking expectant.
"I…" Fargo started, and something must have shown on his face, because Carter stepped aside ever so slightly, gesturing Fargo inside. "You know I've been going through Dr. Stark's stuff, right?"
"Yeah," Carter replied, tucking his hands into his pockets. "Are you okay, Fargo?"
"Um, I think I should be asking you that," Fargo said quickly, thrusting the envelope at the sheriff. "I'm sorry… I didn't realize… he…" Fargo trailed off as Carter opened one of the files, revealing the sketches.
"You went through these?" Carter asked, his voice a little odd. His fingers trembled a little when the images of the sleeping, nude man appeared briefly, before he slammed the file closed.
"I didn't know," Fargo said, feeling lame as he spoke.
"I suppose I might be asking too much to ask you to keep it to yourself?" Carter asked, folding his arms, the frown failing given the pain in the too blue eyes.
"I won't tell anyone," Fargo promised quickly. "I promise."
Carter looked at him, evaluating. "There's a letter from him in there too," Fargo told him, adjusting his glasses to cover his nervousness. "I'm not sure he ever meant for you to see it, but since he's gone…"
"Yeah," Carter breathed, and Fargo felt his own breathing catch as he realized the depth of the hurt the other man was experiencing.
He started to turn away as Carter reopened the file, looking at the first crude sketch and fingering the date in wonder. "Did he ever tell you?" Fargo blurted out, a little desperate. "How he felt?"
"He never had to," Carter muttered, and Fargo gave into impulse, wrapping his arms around the sheriff and hugging him while he pulled himself back together, trying to convey how well he understood the sentiment.
Carter finally pulled away from the embrace, a false smile in place. "I'll be fine," Carter said, seeing the look Fargo gave him. He nodded, sighing, and turning and making it to the door this time. He wasn't sure what steeled his nerves just then, but he liked to believe it was Dr. Stark who prompted him to turn back.
"Jack?" he asked softly, and the other man looked up, waiting for him to continue. "I know I'm not him, but…I would like…"
"It's going to take me a little time," Carter said roughly, and Fargo nodded, understanding. "But… thanks, Douglas," he said, and Fargo felt something uncurl inside him at the sound of his own name. He nodded to Carter, before heading out. Behind him, Carter unfolded the letter, his composure sliding away as he read the words.