"I'm a jerk."
The suddenness of Birkoff's comment stopped Walter's hand from dropping the contents of his drink into his throat, though it was bewildering enough to make him spill it on the bar. Calmly, he placed the glass on the table and looked at the younger man, who was lost in his own glass, oblivious to the surroundings. They could've been in the middle of the street and he would've probably said the same. He looked numb. Birkoff only looked numb when he hadn't broken some highly encrypted code fast enough or when he was drunk. Siberia mission had been a rousing success, even Operations had congratulated him, and so Walter inhaled deep in order to keep his patience awake with his sloshed friend.
"I'm a real jerk, Walter," he said again."
"Nerd. Geek. That you are, Birkoff. But jerk? C'mon. Of all the insults in the world for you, jerk would be pretty down on my list."
"No, Walter, I'm telling you," he insisted. "I'm the dumbest, obtuse imbecile around that place."
"That's a little too redundant. But better than obnoxious jerk anyway. How many drinks did you have before I got here, again?"
Birkoff ignored Walter's sarcasm and kept rambling. "You know how I saved my life?"
Walter rolled his eyes in an attempt to hide his increasing exasperation. He really wasn't in the mood for a tipsy rant, but he didn't want to hurt his friend with a blatant rude retort. "Birkoff, that happened months ago. You were sent to join that group, things got a little out of hand, and you got yourself back, end of the story. You know better than to dwell on the past in our line of work."
The thing Walter didn't like about Birkoff drunk was that he didn't really care about being in public places while talking about the job. Somehow between the first and fourth margaritas he had that bad habit of forgetting he was working for a covert antiterrorist organization.
"You know how I saved my life?," he repeated.
The second thing Walter hated the most about a drunk Birkoff was that he didn't listen.
"Enlighten me," said Walter with a sigh of resignation.
"Information."
"Whatever, Birkoff. What's your point?"
"Information is power. We call it intel, we call it numbers, we call it coordinates, we--"
"Birkoff. To the point."
"We're all about information, right?"
"Is this rant really necessary?," asked Walter in an almost pleading tone.
Once again, Birkoff ignored him. "Who handles all the information here, Walter? Who receives it and feeds it?"
"Mostly you."
"That's right. Me. I control the power." He stared silently at his friend, as if waiting for Walter to see the light. Instead he got a blank stare made of complete Michaelness. "Don't you see the 'I'm a jerk' part now?," he finally asked.
Walter turned serious at Birkoff's implication. "Let me tell you something, Seymour," he said using his first name to completely catch his attention, "what do you know about last year's Adrian event?"
"Nikita brought her in."
"That's all? And you call yourself the keeper of all information known to man?"
"No, I mean...I know something big happened, there are rumors of Nikita confronting Operations over some files she had to bring in. Actually that would've been cool to see," he suddenly reflected.
"Yeah. Well, if you had been there, now you'd be growing up daisies six feet under, so be glad you didn't."
"Nikita's alive. Michael's alive," said Birkoff defending his case.
"Michael had Vacek as leverage. He saved Nikita. Heck, you helped him save her, Birkoff, you should know."
"My point exactly, thank you," said Birkoff. "We used intel to stop the cancellation orders. And I got that intel."
"Yes, you get it, you provide it, good for you." Walter paused for a second. The ices in his whisky had turned the drink so watery there was no point in drinking it anymore. Slightly bothered about the bucks lost, he decided at least he'd invest his time in something useful. "Guess what was the infamous confrontation between mother hen and top banana about."
"Nikita told you?"
"Answer me, Birkoff."
The young operative though for a second. he knew the answer Walter was waiting for. "Information."
"Exactly. And you don't know a thing about what happened there. And not having that information is what actually saved your life. When are you going to learn that everything inside our working place is relative? That black and white clarity does not exist? There is only one thing clear, Birkoff, the chain of command. And you're not the one on top carrying the key to all our locks."
"But maybe I could be, and I'm not doing anything about it."
Birkoff was drunk, so he didn't really know how thankful he should've been of being in a crowded public place. Walter would've punched him unconscious for that comment.
"Throttle."
"What?"
"Throttle," repeated Walter. "The device enabling the fuel into the engine. That's what you are. You're not, and hear me out and carefully, Seymour. You are NOT the guy behind the wheel, and do you know why? Do you know why you're the one holding the ladder and not the one on top of it?"
Birkoff looked at him, the answer slowly forming inside his head. Walter saw it behind those darkened glasses. The ugly realization mirrored in those young eyes. Walter spoke again with a softer tone.
"What is it, Birkoff? What is it that keeps you down there at the base, holding that ladder?"
"Fear."
"It's not the monthly check, it's not the prospect of a golden retirement what keeps us alive." Walter placed his hand on Birkoff's shoulder, making the young adult look at him so he'd listen to his next words. "But it is people like you who keep us alive. So don't do anything stupid like getting yourself killed, all right?"
The good thing about Birkoff drunk, was that no matter what, he was still the brightest mind around. He needn't go deeper to be understood. The slight smile curling his lips upwards was the 'message received' sign.
"Now stop drinking before you start torturing me with the Abby fiasco and go home," said Walter.
"Oh, you had to bring that one up, didn't you?"
"Yeah, that time you were really a jerk. Your other brain is not as well trained as the upper one, Seymour, still got a lot to learn from this old guy. Don't pay, I'm buying."
Walter also paid for the taxi to take Birkoff home.
Once back inside the bar, he asked for another whisky and started thinking about his conversation with Michael and those nine last words that had made him feel alive one more day. We are making it work. We will be together.
"I'll definitely drink to that, Michael."
Thanks for reading. :)