I'd just walked out the entrance of the Hoover and around the corner toward the Metro stop when his arm slung across my shoulder, jerking me slightly into his side. I hadn't even seen him there-- which was, I suppose, the point.
"Walk with me Sweets, will you?" His expression was carefully amused as he let go, then waited for me to fall into step.
"Where do you want to go?" I managed to keep my voice from shaking. He scared the crap out of me, coming out of nowhere like that.
He shrugged. "Doesn't matter. There's a cop bar a few blocks from here, I'll buy you a beer. You ever been to O'Reilly's?"
"No," I replied. "I rather assumed I should allow my patients some social release valve free from my observation. O'Reilly's isn't really the place for a shrink and a profiler."
He gave me a glance, and half-smiled. "You're a pretty smart kid, Sweets. Tell you what, no one's going to get creeped out if we sit at the bar for half an hour, and then you can get back to your evening."
He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked at me from time to time as we walked, dodging the other pedestrians and commuters, making small talk about the sports games on for the weekend.
"I've got to admit, Agent Booth, I'm don't follow hockey much, I'm more of a college ball fan, myself."
"Yeah? Who do you peg for the finals this year? I mean, I know it's early, but after the first month it's usually pretty easy to tell who's going to end up in the playoffs." It seemed just like small talk, but I wondered. Was he trying to disarm me before asking me a favor? Was he going to tell me something he wanted to butter me up for? I had no idea, anymore, what to think about him-- I was completely thrown for a loop by last week's events. And I'm sure it was no coincidence he'd coralled me tonight. They were supposed to be in again for their regular appointment, tomorrow.
I answered, and he ragged on my picks, citing their stats from last season and the graduating class as reasons why "This season, they'll totally blow. You'd better pick a backup team for the pool, kid." The calling me 'kid' thing didn't normally bother me. I mean, yes, he was what, twelve years older than me? I was secure enough in my own abilities to mostly ignore older agents' attempts to unsettle me in the hope that I would stop prying into their thought processes as I tried to ensure they ability to perform in their roles. But even before last week's realizations, he unsettled me, and his use of the term 'kid,' while perhaps even an affectionate annoyance, had the desired effect of making me feel defensive.
When we reached the bar, he opened the door and stood aside as I entered, then came past me with a clap on the shoulder to sit at some stools at the back of the bar. An older Irish gentleman, white haired and looking like a prototypical leprechaun, was polishing glasses behind the bar. "Boothy, my boy!" he said, as he came over to greet us. Booth grimaced, then said, "Billy, I told you not to call me that. It's only my mother's lesson, learned at her knee, never to shoot little old leprechauns, that keeps me from teaching you a lesson. Anyway--" he continued, half turning to me, and slapping me on the shoulder hard enough to sting, "this is Dr. Lance Sweets, he's a profiler, among other things. You can call him Sweets."
Great. I hate being called Sweets. What happened to Doctor? Or Lance? Another psychological tactic of his, choosing the name by which he will call you and deal with you, forcing you to either accept it, and bend to his version of things, or insist, probably futilely, that he work on your terms. I wondered, now, if there was anything he didn't do on his terms.
"Well, nice to meet you, Sweets," the old man twinkled, "what can I get you? You look like a Bass man, if I'm any judge."
I nodded, surprised. "I am, actually, although a..."
"Black and Tan might suit, right?" He smiled and walked back to the taps as I looked around. The bar wasn't too full-- there were some people at booths and tables near the front, and no one behind us. I realized now that we were sitting so he had a view of the entrance and all corners, and that the only people who would pass behind us would be the bartender and whatever waitstaff was working in the kitchen.
"Billy always knows what you want to drink," Booth offered. "He just asks the first time to be polite."
"Well then, what are you having?" I asked, turning to him.
He half-smiled. "I don't know, I'll see what he brings me. He's like Sid that way."
Ah. The elusive Sid, whom I'd never met. His establishment closed before I began work at the Bureau, though there were tales of days gone by about his pies and eclectic menu choices, which always seemed to fit the bill-- and tales of terrible indigestion, if you ordered something he hadn't picked out for you. "Just take what he gives you" seemed to have been the operating instruction.
"I never met Sid," I answered.
He shook his head, with a rueful expression. "You really missed something. That was practically my second home for a while. The diner's okay, but it's just not the same. Ruby knows how I take my coffee, but she only knows I want pie, I still have to pick what flavor and say if I want ice cream or not." He sighed in mock disappointment, then shot me his Charm Smile.
That Charm Smile is a thing of legend around the Bureau. No man, woman, or range master was immune-- he always got what he wanted, even as everyone knew they were being conned into doing something they might not otherwise do. But the chance to get a thanks and another smile had even grizzled old agents wrapped around his finger-- when he felt like being obvious about something. The only one who truly seemed to be immune was Caroline Julian, and even then, she usually did what he wanted, too.
"I presume by the Charm Smile that you want something from me?" I might as well be blunt-- it seemed to work sometimes for his partner. He laughed out loud, then took his drink on the rocks, some amber liquid, from the bartender as he returned and slid them across. He took a small sip, then smiled and took another.
"Johnnie Black Label, Billy? You're too good to me." The old man laughed at him, then watched me until I took a sip of my Black and Tan.
"Perfect, Mr. O'Reilly," I said. It really was, one of the best I'd had since that week I spent in Ireland.
He laughed and said, "Oh, call me Billy, everyone does," then walked off.
I was still looking at him, waiting for his response, though I wouldn't be surprised if that laugh was all that I got.
He took another sip of his drink, and then shot me a sidelong glance. "Just a few rules of engagement, here, just so we're clear."
My breath hitched in my chest. He was actually going to acknowledge that I was onto him? "I'm listening, though I've got to hear them out before I agree." He smiled, as if he knew I was bluffing. The fact that I'd even come with him, rather than pled off, was all the answer he needed, and he knew it.
He lifted his glass for another sip, then set it down on the bar, toying with the glass and looking straight ahead with a small smile on his face. Seemingly looking straight ahead. Even though he wasn't looking at me, the weight of his regard had me pinned in place. "Rule number one. I've got it under control. Rule number two. Do not push her, I already told you that once during Gormogon, and I will not repeat myself a third time. Rule number three. Comments about Coldplay and the general loser status of her dates are welcome. Comments about her physical appearance are not. Rule number four. She is my partner, and it stays that way, no matter what. Period. Care to guess about rule number five?"
I lifted my glass and took a long pull as I thought, a shiver passing down my spine as I realized exactly how much he had it all under control, and considered the tone he'd taken of friendly joking around. He was nothing if not serious, though. "Follow your lead?"
He shot me a glance, and then smiled, widely. "Yeah. See, I told you, Sweets, you're a pretty smart kid."
Even as part of me was scared shitless, my inner twelve year old was basking in that smile, like a geek who'd helped the Captain of the football team pass a math test. Well, since he was being frank, and I was now completely committed, I figured I might as well ask. "How long a lead, exactly?"
His expression sobered, and he picked up his glass again to take another sip. Despite the fact that it looked like he was drinking, I finally noticed that the overall drink level hadn't really gone down. I was drinking a hell of a lot faster than he was, and I certainly wasn't gulping mine down. "As long as it takes, Sweets, as long as it takes." Then he raised his hand, and called "Billy, some pretzels, or are you getting cheap in your old age?" When he looked back at me, it was clear that part of the conversation was essentially over, so I took another pull of my beer and looked up at the television.
"Why me?"
He snorted. "Like I said, you're a pretty smart kid. And you're a romantic."
God. Was I that obvious? I'd never had any intention of breaking them up, I honestly wanted the two of them to keep working together, but the sheer number of rules they'd broken on the other's behalf made keeping them in therapy safer than letting them back out only to make them come back in, maybe work with someone besides me who didn't see what a good partnership they had. We sat in silence, watching the game, as I pondered some more, and worked on my drink. When he'd mostly finished his, he looked at his watch. The half hour he'd mentioned was nearly up, and he shot me another sidelong look, and then spoke, turning fully to look me in the eye.
"Well, it's seven o'clock and Bones has been at the lab since six-thirty this morning, time for a little rousting out. But I'll answer your question a little more, if you like."
I nodded, my mouth dry. Which question? His voice dropped, so low that anyone standing right next to us still might not have heard us, and his eyes darkened, blacker than night. "You asked how long a lead, Sweets? Well, here's a measure of things. I staked out a Serbian general once for two months, following him through scree-riddled foothills in the middle of winter while he met with all of his bully boys, until I knew who all of them were. And then I got all of them, over a week. Bones? Well, she's more of a challenge. But I'm patient, Sweets. And I always hit what I aim at."
Then he stood, and slapped a twenty on the table, calling, "Another one for Sweets, here, Billy, and keep the change." Clapping me on the shoulder, he smiled and said "Coldplay. Friggin' brilliant. See you tomorrow."
"See you."
He was off, without a backward glance, but then again, why would he? I was no threat, and he was the one who was brilliant.
