Inkblots: With Nathan
"Nathan!! Do you perchance, have anything stronger than aspirin?"
"I don't think it'd be safe givin' ya anymore medication, Doctor Preston. You thought about seeing a doctor yourself, for these migraines?"
"Strangely, I've only been having them since Monday."
"Oh." Nathan thought about it for a second. "Hmmm... that's two days already with them then, isn't it? I think you're probably just suffering from an overdose of Ezra and Vin, doc. If you go out and shoot something, you'll feel better. It always works for Chris."
"I sincerely hope you mean he goes to the shooting range."
"Actually, I was talking about busts. But, I'm sure he goes to the shooting range too, when there aren't any criminals to apprehend."
"Disturbing."
"Well, I didn' say ya **had** to do it. And don't be so judgmental of Chris. He don't shoot to kill, less he gotta. Or less Ezra pissed him off royally." Nate paused. "Never mind that last part."
"Um, right, Nathan. I suppose you know what we're doing today?"
"Er..." Nathan's brow furrowed, as he tried to recall Ezra's exact words. "An inane, archaic, blundering attempt to pass the time without accomplishing anything other than butchering innocent brain cells?"
Preston sighed. "Inkblots."
"Oh. I should have guessed."
"I won't take that as an insult to my methods, Mister Jackson."
Nathan looked completely innocent. "So, I'm supposed to tell you what I see, right?"
Preston smiled. "Exactly. Shall we get started, then?"
He hefted another card; letting Nathan look at it, study it a bit. "Cancer," Nathan responded.
"Cancer? What do you mean? Like the astrological sign, or the disease?"
"The disease. Like when you take an x-ray, and there's that black spot."
"Well technically, this is a black spot, but I don't want you to tell me it looks like another black spot."
"I'm not saying it looks like a black spot. I'm saying it looks like cancer."
"Which looks like a black spot."
"Well, it is a black spot."
"But I don't want you to tell me it looks like a black spot. What does it look like, other than a black spot?"
"Cancer."
"No, Nathan. Tell me what it looks like other than a black spot."
"It looks like cancer."
"Which is a black spot, on an X-ray."
"Yes. That's what it looks like."
"A black spot. It **is** a black spot. I just don't want you to tell me that it **looks** like a black spot."
"That's why I'm sayin' it looks like cancer."
"Which you say looks like a black spot. I don't **want** that. I want you to tell me what shape it takes."
"How about a brain tumor?"
"Is that another black spot?"
"Y..." Nathan paused, reevaluating his problem. "Er...no. No it ain't. It don't look black at all. Brain tumors are...pink?"
Preston scowled. "You're just lying to get out of this faster. Brain tumors are black too."
"Actually, they're usually red."
"I meant on an X-ray."
"Well, yeah. I guess it depends on the X-ray. Sometimes they're blue. Or gray."
"But they're basically a big blob."
"Most of the time."
"That's not what I'm looking for Nathan!! I want a shape, a form. Something this blob reminds you of. Pretend it's something in the dark and you have to tell me what it is."
"If it were dark, I wouldn't be able to see anything except black."
"Okay, bad example. Um...how about this next card? What does the shape of the blob look like?"
"Ebola."
"Ebola?" Preston was incredulous. "How on earth does it look like Ebola?"
"It's stringy and hooked at the end. It looks like Ebola."
"Not a snake? A candy cane perhaps?"
"More like Ebola to me."
"You mean the debilitating virus that turns organs to mush? How could that possibly look like a snake!"
"The cells look like that when you photograph 'em!" Nathan protested, not liking how he was being judged for his answers.
"Do they also happen to be black?" Preston asked.
"Um...depends on what you stain the cells with. And how you photograph it?"
"You've seen black stained cells, haven't you?"
Nathan shook his head. "I ain't sure. The book I read on Ebola was black and white to begin with."
Preston sighed. "Do you not understand me, or are you doing this on purpose, Mister Jackson? I thought perhaps, you'd be the sanest of your comrades. However, I'm beginning to think Mister Standish wins that title, and you have **no** idea how much that thought frightens me..."
"Actually, you're startin' to scare me too, doc. You really think Ezra's the most sane?"
"Yes! At least he lets me know he does what he does on purpose. He does it because he wants to be flippant and disrespectful. The rest of you really make me believe you don't know any better than to do what you do. It's unnerving."
"You're talking like we committed a crime!"
"I'm not saying you did. I'm saying I don't understand why you can't grasp this simple concept."
"Well now you're talking like we're stupid."
"Do you do this on purpose, Mister Jackson?"
"Do what?!"
"Get offended over everything I say, whether I meant it as a derogatory comment or not?"
"It's my prerogative as a minority. Just like it's Ezra's prerogative to be an ass."
"Because he's southern?"
"There you go making biased remarks again. I meant just 'cause he's Ezra. You just offended half of the country!"
"So I'm not allowed to assume you're making a bigoted remark, but you're allowed to assume that I am?"
"Yes. See, if you were southern, you'd be able to say that and get away with it. But you ain't, so you keep your mouth shut."
"I thought you of all people would object to inequality in any form."
"What do you mean, 'me of all people'? Was that a remark against my being black?"
"No! That's not what I meant."
"Than what did you mean?"
"I meant that as an African American you should..."
"See? You did mean it because of my race. And who are you to tell me what I should or shouldn't do?"
"In part, yes, but I didn't mean it in a derogatory fashion. And I wasn't going to tell you what to do."
"That's still discrimination."
"It's not a negative form of discrimination. I just think..."
"You think there's a positive form of discrimination?" Nathan was incredulous. "What kind of loony are you?"
"I...I..."
But Nathan would have none of it. He was in a fire now, full of righteous indignation and spitting a storm. "When my ancestors came to the new world hundreds of years ago on ships from Africa..."
Chris looked up from his article on brown being the new black at the sound of muffled shouting from Preston's office. He looked at his watch. Five minutes? Nathan was just getting warmed up. Sighing, the team leader glared at Ezra, JD and Vin, who were fiddling the television set on the far side of the reception area. "Josiah, Buck, get ready. Nate's already lecturin' him," he ordered the boys. He wondered if either had heard him, Josiah still asleep and Buck still chatting up Linda at her desk. "Ezra, what the fuck are you three doing to the TV?"
"We're gonna pirate cable," JD grinned. He yelped when Vin smacked him.
"Well go on and **tell** him, why dontcha, kid?!" the sniper hissed.
"Ow!! Sorry, geesh."
Chris quirked an eyebrow. "Can you guys get the Cooking Channel?"
"That has yet to be determined, Mister Larabee," Ezra responded, peeking out from the mess of wires connected to the back of the television. "However I do think I managed to tap into the security cameras."
Vin grinned. "Hey, ain't there a women's yoga class downstairs?"
"Yes, I believe so."
"Cool."
Chris looked at his watch again. Nathan had been going for seven minutes now. He turned back to his fashion article and decided he'd send Josiah in there after Preston had had ten minutes worth of Nathan's righteousness. He turned the page in his article. "Hey Buck?" he asked. "How do you think I'd look with a brown duster?"
Inkblots: With Josiah
Josiah waited until Nathan had to stop to take a breath before knocking on the door. "My turn yet, Nate?" He waited a beat before turning the knob and opening the door, peeking inside the office, where Nathan had ceased, finger still in the air, standing across from a very frightened looking psychologist.
Nathan stopped. "Is it?"
Josiah looked at his watch. "It is if we want time to go to lunch before getting back to work."
"Oh, okay." Nathan lowered his hand and turned to regard Preston. "I take it you've learned your lesson?"
The man nodded vigorously. Satisfied, Nathan headed towards the door, thanking Josiah as he held it for him. "Do you feel like some Cajun for lunch?"
"I think Vin had planned on taking us to that Texas BBQ restaurant he likes so much," Sanchez responded truthfully.
Nathan shrugged. "I just got a hunkering for some southern food all of a sudden," he admitted. "Can't imagine why."
"Nope, guess not," the preacher's son responded with a wry smirk before shutting the door behind him.
"Mister Sanchez, oh thank God," Preston muttered shakily. The older man realized the psychiatrist was on the verge of tears.
"Long day, doctor?" he asked, voice soothing and sympathetic.
"Like you wouldn't believe."
The agent's eyebrow quirked and he looked half amused by the young man's comment. "Doctor Preston, I work with them."
As if to emphasize the point, a loud, "Yahoo...BEND baby! Hey Ez, can you get that thing to zoom in?" echoed through the door, followed by a round of Buck's whoops and Nate telling the ladies man that his comments were sexist.
"Yes, I see your point," he responded as he adjusted his glasses. "Um, we're doing inkblots."
"So I've been told."
The doctor waited for the snide retort on the validity of such an exercise. Josiah looked at him expectantly. When he was certain none was coming, the young man resumed. "All right then. I'll show you a picture, and you're to tell me what it looks like to you. Okay?"
"Sounds fine."
"All right, what do you see here?" He picked up a board and showed it to Josiah.
Sanchez studied it, furrowing his bushy brow. "It looks like a butterfly."
The doctor was stunned. "Really? You really think it looks like a butterfly?"
Josiah nodded. "That's what I see, anyway."
Preston didn't know whether to be elated or suspicious. "You're sure?"
"Positive."
"Not a horse, or a post civil war town? Or cancer?"
The ATF agent's brow furrowed. "Cancer? The astrological sign or the disease?"
"Um, never mind. So, a butterfly, correct?"
"Yup."
"How about...this one?" he asked, hopefully.
Sanchez looked from the picture to the doctor, back to the picture. "A man with a briefcase."
"You're certain?"
"Doctor Preston, is there something wrong?"
"No, nothing's wrong Josiah. This is just... normal."
"Isn't that good?"
"Yes, yes it is. All right then. Next picture. What do you see?"
"A field of flowers."
"And this one?"
"A forest."
"This last one?"
"Two people hugging."
"That's remarkable."
"What?"
"Do you realize that every one of your answers is the exact label I have on the back of these cards?"
Josiah looked surprised. "Well, isn't that something? Does that mean we're done?"
"Yes! Yes, we're done. Thank you, Josiah. Thank you more than you'll ever know. Um, please send in Mister Wilmington now," he instructed the departing agent. Well, it couldn't have gotten any worse after Nathan, perhaps it was time for things to look up?
Inkblots: With Buck
"Hey doc, you're lookin' a lot happier than Vin said ya were."
"Yes, Mister Wilmington. My session with Josiah was extremely refreshing. I now have faith in the future of mankind again."
"Er, good to know. So, I hear we're lookin' at a colorblind kindergartener's finger paintins?"
Preston sighed. "Let me guess. That one was from, Mister Tanner?"
Buck grinned. "Well, looks like you are getting' to gauging our way of thinkin'. How'd ya know?"
"Not as eloquent as Mister Standish would have put it, but just as caustic," Preston replied absently. "Shall we begin, then?"
"Finger paintin'?"
"No, we're not finger painting. We're doing inkblots. I show you a picture, and you tell me what it looks like."
"If it's a picture, won't it just look like whatever it's a picture of?"
"It's an inkblot. You're supposed to tell me what it is by the shape of it."
"What?"
Preston sighed. "Um... look, here. For example..." he flipped up one of the cards. "What does this look like?"
Buck studied the picture for a second, looked at the doctor, then back to the picture. He grinned. "It looks like a cat."
The psychologist's eyebrows shot up. "That's what you see?"
Buck saw all the hope in the man's eyes and decided he didn't have the heart to lie to him. He was nothing, if not an honest government worker. He bit back a snicker. "Do you really want the truth about that, doc?"
"Truth? You mean to tell me that you're lying about seeing a cat?"
"Well..." Buck paused. "What I really see? I see a big black blob. Maybe a tail. But, I can see what it's supposed to be cuz the labels on the back of yer card are reflecting offa your glasses. It says that big black hunka shit is supposed to be a cat."
"You mean... you can read the labels on the cards through my glasses?" Preston asked, horrified.
Buck nodded. "Yup. Light catches it jest the right way when you hold it like that," he explained, tilting his head a little bit. "Perfect reflection."
"So that entire time..." The doctor sighed, hands shaking slightly. "I knew it! I knew it was too good to be true!! I thought he was normal!! But noooo... I suppose none of you are sane, are you? None of you can even **try** to be."
Buck snorted. "I ain't gonna comment."
"Do you know that your oldest member all out lied to me?"
"How do you know that? He coulda not seen the cheat sheet at all."
"He did it to frustrate me."
"I thought ya felt better after talkin' to him. How do you know he did it to be ornery?"
"Because all of you don't care. If Mister Sanchez could see the answers, that means all of your friends could as well. They've just been messing with me all day! And he's no different."
"Guess it beats the cable Ezra got entertainment wise," Buck chuckled.
"I'm going to ignore that comment, because it is disturbing on **so** many levels, Mister Wilmington." The psychologist paused to take a breath, and calm himself, before his voice rose too many octaves more. "Can we just finish this? Please?"
"**Now** we're on the same page. Let's get on with it."
Preston removed his glasses and took a moment to pinch the bridge of his nose, easing the tension there. He pulled up a card. "What does this look like, Mister Wilmington?"
Buck opened his mouth to reply.
"Before you answer, please humor me and avoid saying "black blob" or something to that effect?"
Buck's jaw snapped shut. "Uh, guess I'll have to think on it some then," he admitted, studying the picture.
"Yes. Do that."
The agent snapped his fingers after a second longer of thinking. "It looks jest like Linda's..."
Preston's eyes widened in horror and he automatically slammed his hands over his ears. "Mister Wilmington I refuse to listen to your lewd comments about my secretary!!" he shouted, glaring at the man.
Buck looked wounded. "I was gonna say tattoo!!! The one on her arm!!! Geez!"
The doctor looked at Wilmington in irritation, feathers quite ruffled. "I sincerely hope so. Buck, this picture was supposed to be a ladybug. Do you see why that is?"
"If it's a lady bug, why didn't they just take a picture of a ladybug? Then I coulda been all, 'that's definitely a lady bug' instead of looking at a big ink stain. You know what? It doesn't look like Linda's tattoo. It looks like a spill JD got on the carpet back in the apartment. The one that wouldn't come out short of cuttin' the rug off."
"Why are you all like this? Look!" Preston pulled out a handful of cards from the discard pile. "This was Mister Tanner's. He said it looked like Job. And this one? Mister Standish took the better part of fifteen minutes explaining in minute detail, why it looks like a frontier town. This one? Mister Jackson said it was cancer." He tossed all three cards on the floor in front of him. "They are not cancer!! Or Job, or a town. Everyone I've ever used these on knows that. Why don't you men know that?"
Buck made to answer, but Preston stopped him with his hand. "No. I'm going to go and get something to drink, and use the facilities to gather myself. When I get back, I want Mister Larabee in here. Not shooting, or biting anything."
Wilmington watched as the psychologist marched out of the office, through the reception area, and out of the clinic. The agent was a little disappointed when the man didn't shut the door to the clinic behind him. It would have been great to see Ezra and Vin's little trap work, especially after that particular tirade.
Shrugging, Buck picked up one of the cards Preston had thrown on the floor in his fit of rage. "Hey!" Buck grinned as he turned it around in his hand. "This one looks like a lizard!"
Inkblots: With Chris
Doctor Preston returned from his sojourn to the bathroom 5 minutes later, trying his best to look composed in the face of chaos. He noted that Linda was sweeping up the remains of a shattered flower vase, looking at Vin and JD in annoyance.
"Ah..." he made a small noise, indicating that he was back.
"Chris is waitin' on ya, might not be safe to keep 'im that way," Buck advised, flipping the channels on the TV.
The psychologist nodded, realizing he didn't want to know when his building had suddenly gotten VH1. He strolled through, giving an apologetic look to his secretary, before closing the door to his office behind him, leaving her alone with six of the seven members yet again.
Chris Larabee looked up at him as he stepped into the office, relaxed in the armchair, and looking for all the world like he owned the place. Preston noted it seemed darker, smaller, less familiar, and more foreboding. He swallowed uncomfortably and sat down in his leather recliner. Funny how this office had seemed so very spacious one moment and next, he felt all too close to the man called Chris Larabee. "Um, good morning, Chris. Today, we're doing a..."
"I didn't say you could call me Chris."
"Oh, um, my apologies, Mister Larabee. May I call you Chris?"
"No."
"Okay. Well, we're doing inkblots today. I'll show you a picture, and you tell me what it looks like to you."
Chris's eyebrows narrowed. "The government pays you to do this sort of thing?"
Somehow, the psychiatrist couldn't find himself to take on annoyed tone with this man.
"Um, yes. They do."
"Well I obviously got into the wrong kinda work then. I could make a fortune showing people stupid pictures and get paid instead of busting my ass getting shot at every other day."
"If you're implying that my work isn't as important as yours..."
"Did I say that?"
"Um, no."
The supervising agent of Team 7 leaned back, as if that explained everything.
"So... we should get started. Um, what does this look like to you?" He flipped up a card, holding it by his head, away from his glasses.
"A bullet hole."
"I should have seen that one coming, I suppose. Mister Larabee, just because this is a big black splotch, it doesn't mean I want you to tell me that it's a big black splotch. I want you to tell me what **else** it looks like."
"It's a pink and orange polka dotted elephant."
"Mister Larabee, please don't just say any random thing because you're annoyed."
"It's better than me shooting you."
"I agree with that. And I understand that you might not see a point in this exercise, but trust me, I'm doing this for a reason. I just need you to tell me what this..." the doctor circled the splotch with his hand, "looks like."
"A bullet hole."
"Just because it's black?"
Chris's eyes narrowed. "What's wrong with black?"
"Nothing. Really."
Chris glared. He knew a liar when he heard one. Leaning back into his chair to get comfortable, he stared at the psychologist, until Preston coughed uncomfortably and turned away. "Um...moving on. What do you see in this one?"
Chris continued to glare.
Preston waited for a few minutes. Larabee didn't seem intent on answering. "Uh...okay, we can skip this one. How about, this one?"
Chris crossed his arms.
Preston put his card down. "Mister Larabee, we have a good 15 minutes left in today's session. Do you really think you can sit here the entire exercise and not say a word?"
Larabee's expression didn't change.
"Fine. I'll wait you out." Preston crossed his arms in reply and looked at Chris, waiting. He'd done this before, with a particularly spoiled four-year-old. His patience usually won out.
**Five minutes later**
Preston fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair, as the two combatants sat in silence. The only sound that echoed in the room was the clicking of Preston's wall clock and the occasional crash and grunt from the reception area. He tapped his pencil on the arm of his chair for a bit, making a tapping noise, hoping to annoy Larabee out of his silent treatment.
Chris smirked to himself on the inside, though his mask of cold indifference didn't crack to the least physically. The doctor thought tapping a pencil would get him? He snorted internally. He'd dealt with Ezra's rants about ruined clothing, Josiah and Nathan's debates on the ethics of powerful governments versus those of the individual, Vin's whining about itchy stitches, and JD telling Buck to leave him alone with Buck teasing the kid about a date with Casey all the while. All in the same room. At the same time. For an hour. Chris Larabee was a pillar of stability. He only had to imagine shooting each and every one of them to keep himself busy. He smiled to himself and wondered how Preston would look with a hole in his ass.
**10 Minutes later**
"Mister Larabee! Please just **try** and cooperate?! Please? For the sake of my sanity, just tell me what you see. I **know** you think this is stupid, but humor me?"
Chris rather liked Preston groveling on the floor at his feet, begging that he cooperate and finish the exercise off. It made him feel all-powerful. He continued to stare straight ahead.
"Mister Larabee? This is unhealthy. You could become comatose. Okay, I'm not **that** kind of doctor, but please. We're almost done for the day, and look; we only have a few minutes left! All you have to do is cooperate! Look at **this** picture. Just tell me what you see?" The psychiatrist held up the last card in his pile. "How about just this **one**?"
Chris pursed his lips as if he was going to think about it, but didn't move to say anything. The silence was driving Preston insane.
"Mister Larabee?! I'm sorry about what I said earlier, and the tone I used. I'm sorry if I offended you in any way. Now will you please just do the exercise with me?"
Chris's eyes flitted to the clock. He watched the seconds count down until the hour. 3...2...1...
As if on cue, Buck poked his head into the door. "'Ey, Chris, we leaving or what?" he asked, anxious.
Chris got up out of the chair and headed towards the door without a word, leaving a stunned Doctor in his wake. Buck grinned and let his old friend out, watching him head straight for the clinic door. The ladies man turned back to the doctor and the card the young man was still holding up. The ladies man studied it a moment before smiling largely. "Chris would probably say that it looks like a bullet hole."
*slaps Muse* That took long enough, didn't it? Well, we'll see about the next part. I haven't even started it yet and my muse would rather be playing video games. LOL But enjoy this part, in any case.
"Nathan!! Do you perchance, have anything stronger than aspirin?"
"I don't think it'd be safe givin' ya anymore medication, Doctor Preston. You thought about seeing a doctor yourself, for these migraines?"
"Strangely, I've only been having them since Monday."
"Oh." Nathan thought about it for a second. "Hmmm... that's two days already with them then, isn't it? I think you're probably just suffering from an overdose of Ezra and Vin, doc. If you go out and shoot something, you'll feel better. It always works for Chris."
"I sincerely hope you mean he goes to the shooting range."
"Actually, I was talking about busts. But, I'm sure he goes to the shooting range too, when there aren't any criminals to apprehend."
"Disturbing."
"Well, I didn' say ya **had** to do it. And don't be so judgmental of Chris. He don't shoot to kill, less he gotta. Or less Ezra pissed him off royally." Nate paused. "Never mind that last part."
"Um, right, Nathan. I suppose you know what we're doing today?"
"Er..." Nathan's brow furrowed, as he tried to recall Ezra's exact words. "An inane, archaic, blundering attempt to pass the time without accomplishing anything other than butchering innocent brain cells?"
Preston sighed. "Inkblots."
"Oh. I should have guessed."
"I won't take that as an insult to my methods, Mister Jackson."
Nathan looked completely innocent. "So, I'm supposed to tell you what I see, right?"
Preston smiled. "Exactly. Shall we get started, then?"
He hefted another card; letting Nathan look at it, study it a bit. "Cancer," Nathan responded.
"Cancer? What do you mean? Like the astrological sign, or the disease?"
"The disease. Like when you take an x-ray, and there's that black spot."
"Well technically, this is a black spot, but I don't want you to tell me it looks like another black spot."
"I'm not saying it looks like a black spot. I'm saying it looks like cancer."
"Which looks like a black spot."
"Well, it is a black spot."
"But I don't want you to tell me it looks like a black spot. What does it look like, other than a black spot?"
"Cancer."
"No, Nathan. Tell me what it looks like other than a black spot."
"It looks like cancer."
"Which is a black spot, on an X-ray."
"Yes. That's what it looks like."
"A black spot. It **is** a black spot. I just don't want you to tell me that it **looks** like a black spot."
"That's why I'm sayin' it looks like cancer."
"Which you say looks like a black spot. I don't **want** that. I want you to tell me what shape it takes."
"How about a brain tumor?"
"Is that another black spot?"
"Y..." Nathan paused, reevaluating his problem. "Er...no. No it ain't. It don't look black at all. Brain tumors are...pink?"
Preston scowled. "You're just lying to get out of this faster. Brain tumors are black too."
"Actually, they're usually red."
"I meant on an X-ray."
"Well, yeah. I guess it depends on the X-ray. Sometimes they're blue. Or gray."
"But they're basically a big blob."
"Most of the time."
"That's not what I'm looking for Nathan!! I want a shape, a form. Something this blob reminds you of. Pretend it's something in the dark and you have to tell me what it is."
"If it were dark, I wouldn't be able to see anything except black."
"Okay, bad example. Um...how about this next card? What does the shape of the blob look like?"
"Ebola."
"Ebola?" Preston was incredulous. "How on earth does it look like Ebola?"
"It's stringy and hooked at the end. It looks like Ebola."
"Not a snake? A candy cane perhaps?"
"More like Ebola to me."
"You mean the debilitating virus that turns organs to mush? How could that possibly look like a snake!"
"The cells look like that when you photograph 'em!" Nathan protested, not liking how he was being judged for his answers.
"Do they also happen to be black?" Preston asked.
"Um...depends on what you stain the cells with. And how you photograph it?"
"You've seen black stained cells, haven't you?"
Nathan shook his head. "I ain't sure. The book I read on Ebola was black and white to begin with."
Preston sighed. "Do you not understand me, or are you doing this on purpose, Mister Jackson? I thought perhaps, you'd be the sanest of your comrades. However, I'm beginning to think Mister Standish wins that title, and you have **no** idea how much that thought frightens me..."
"Actually, you're startin' to scare me too, doc. You really think Ezra's the most sane?"
"Yes! At least he lets me know he does what he does on purpose. He does it because he wants to be flippant and disrespectful. The rest of you really make me believe you don't know any better than to do what you do. It's unnerving."
"You're talking like we committed a crime!"
"I'm not saying you did. I'm saying I don't understand why you can't grasp this simple concept."
"Well now you're talking like we're stupid."
"Do you do this on purpose, Mister Jackson?"
"Do what?!"
"Get offended over everything I say, whether I meant it as a derogatory comment or not?"
"It's my prerogative as a minority. Just like it's Ezra's prerogative to be an ass."
"Because he's southern?"
"There you go making biased remarks again. I meant just 'cause he's Ezra. You just offended half of the country!"
"So I'm not allowed to assume you're making a bigoted remark, but you're allowed to assume that I am?"
"Yes. See, if you were southern, you'd be able to say that and get away with it. But you ain't, so you keep your mouth shut."
"I thought you of all people would object to inequality in any form."
"What do you mean, 'me of all people'? Was that a remark against my being black?"
"No! That's not what I meant."
"Than what did you mean?"
"I meant that as an African American you should..."
"See? You did mean it because of my race. And who are you to tell me what I should or shouldn't do?"
"In part, yes, but I didn't mean it in a derogatory fashion. And I wasn't going to tell you what to do."
"That's still discrimination."
"It's not a negative form of discrimination. I just think..."
"You think there's a positive form of discrimination?" Nathan was incredulous. "What kind of loony are you?"
"I...I..."
But Nathan would have none of it. He was in a fire now, full of righteous indignation and spitting a storm. "When my ancestors came to the new world hundreds of years ago on ships from Africa..."
Chris looked up from his article on brown being the new black at the sound of muffled shouting from Preston's office. He looked at his watch. Five minutes? Nathan was just getting warmed up. Sighing, the team leader glared at Ezra, JD and Vin, who were fiddling the television set on the far side of the reception area. "Josiah, Buck, get ready. Nate's already lecturin' him," he ordered the boys. He wondered if either had heard him, Josiah still asleep and Buck still chatting up Linda at her desk. "Ezra, what the fuck are you three doing to the TV?"
"We're gonna pirate cable," JD grinned. He yelped when Vin smacked him.
"Well go on and **tell** him, why dontcha, kid?!" the sniper hissed.
"Ow!! Sorry, geesh."
Chris quirked an eyebrow. "Can you guys get the Cooking Channel?"
"That has yet to be determined, Mister Larabee," Ezra responded, peeking out from the mess of wires connected to the back of the television. "However I do think I managed to tap into the security cameras."
Vin grinned. "Hey, ain't there a women's yoga class downstairs?"
"Yes, I believe so."
"Cool."
Chris looked at his watch again. Nathan had been going for seven minutes now. He turned back to his fashion article and decided he'd send Josiah in there after Preston had had ten minutes worth of Nathan's righteousness. He turned the page in his article. "Hey Buck?" he asked. "How do you think I'd look with a brown duster?"
Inkblots: With Josiah
Josiah waited until Nathan had to stop to take a breath before knocking on the door. "My turn yet, Nate?" He waited a beat before turning the knob and opening the door, peeking inside the office, where Nathan had ceased, finger still in the air, standing across from a very frightened looking psychologist.
Nathan stopped. "Is it?"
Josiah looked at his watch. "It is if we want time to go to lunch before getting back to work."
"Oh, okay." Nathan lowered his hand and turned to regard Preston. "I take it you've learned your lesson?"
The man nodded vigorously. Satisfied, Nathan headed towards the door, thanking Josiah as he held it for him. "Do you feel like some Cajun for lunch?"
"I think Vin had planned on taking us to that Texas BBQ restaurant he likes so much," Sanchez responded truthfully.
Nathan shrugged. "I just got a hunkering for some southern food all of a sudden," he admitted. "Can't imagine why."
"Nope, guess not," the preacher's son responded with a wry smirk before shutting the door behind him.
"Mister Sanchez, oh thank God," Preston muttered shakily. The older man realized the psychiatrist was on the verge of tears.
"Long day, doctor?" he asked, voice soothing and sympathetic.
"Like you wouldn't believe."
The agent's eyebrow quirked and he looked half amused by the young man's comment. "Doctor Preston, I work with them."
As if to emphasize the point, a loud, "Yahoo...BEND baby! Hey Ez, can you get that thing to zoom in?" echoed through the door, followed by a round of Buck's whoops and Nate telling the ladies man that his comments were sexist.
"Yes, I see your point," he responded as he adjusted his glasses. "Um, we're doing inkblots."
"So I've been told."
The doctor waited for the snide retort on the validity of such an exercise. Josiah looked at him expectantly. When he was certain none was coming, the young man resumed. "All right then. I'll show you a picture, and you're to tell me what it looks like to you. Okay?"
"Sounds fine."
"All right, what do you see here?" He picked up a board and showed it to Josiah.
Sanchez studied it, furrowing his bushy brow. "It looks like a butterfly."
The doctor was stunned. "Really? You really think it looks like a butterfly?"
Josiah nodded. "That's what I see, anyway."
Preston didn't know whether to be elated or suspicious. "You're sure?"
"Positive."
"Not a horse, or a post civil war town? Or cancer?"
The ATF agent's brow furrowed. "Cancer? The astrological sign or the disease?"
"Um, never mind. So, a butterfly, correct?"
"Yup."
"How about...this one?" he asked, hopefully.
Sanchez looked from the picture to the doctor, back to the picture. "A man with a briefcase."
"You're certain?"
"Doctor Preston, is there something wrong?"
"No, nothing's wrong Josiah. This is just... normal."
"Isn't that good?"
"Yes, yes it is. All right then. Next picture. What do you see?"
"A field of flowers."
"And this one?"
"A forest."
"This last one?"
"Two people hugging."
"That's remarkable."
"What?"
"Do you realize that every one of your answers is the exact label I have on the back of these cards?"
Josiah looked surprised. "Well, isn't that something? Does that mean we're done?"
"Yes! Yes, we're done. Thank you, Josiah. Thank you more than you'll ever know. Um, please send in Mister Wilmington now," he instructed the departing agent. Well, it couldn't have gotten any worse after Nathan, perhaps it was time for things to look up?
Inkblots: With Buck
"Hey doc, you're lookin' a lot happier than Vin said ya were."
"Yes, Mister Wilmington. My session with Josiah was extremely refreshing. I now have faith in the future of mankind again."
"Er, good to know. So, I hear we're lookin' at a colorblind kindergartener's finger paintins?"
Preston sighed. "Let me guess. That one was from, Mister Tanner?"
Buck grinned. "Well, looks like you are getting' to gauging our way of thinkin'. How'd ya know?"
"Not as eloquent as Mister Standish would have put it, but just as caustic," Preston replied absently. "Shall we begin, then?"
"Finger paintin'?"
"No, we're not finger painting. We're doing inkblots. I show you a picture, and you tell me what it looks like."
"If it's a picture, won't it just look like whatever it's a picture of?"
"It's an inkblot. You're supposed to tell me what it is by the shape of it."
"What?"
Preston sighed. "Um... look, here. For example..." he flipped up one of the cards. "What does this look like?"
Buck studied the picture for a second, looked at the doctor, then back to the picture. He grinned. "It looks like a cat."
The psychologist's eyebrows shot up. "That's what you see?"
Buck saw all the hope in the man's eyes and decided he didn't have the heart to lie to him. He was nothing, if not an honest government worker. He bit back a snicker. "Do you really want the truth about that, doc?"
"Truth? You mean to tell me that you're lying about seeing a cat?"
"Well..." Buck paused. "What I really see? I see a big black blob. Maybe a tail. But, I can see what it's supposed to be cuz the labels on the back of yer card are reflecting offa your glasses. It says that big black hunka shit is supposed to be a cat."
"You mean... you can read the labels on the cards through my glasses?" Preston asked, horrified.
Buck nodded. "Yup. Light catches it jest the right way when you hold it like that," he explained, tilting his head a little bit. "Perfect reflection."
"So that entire time..." The doctor sighed, hands shaking slightly. "I knew it! I knew it was too good to be true!! I thought he was normal!! But noooo... I suppose none of you are sane, are you? None of you can even **try** to be."
Buck snorted. "I ain't gonna comment."
"Do you know that your oldest member all out lied to me?"
"How do you know that? He coulda not seen the cheat sheet at all."
"He did it to frustrate me."
"I thought ya felt better after talkin' to him. How do you know he did it to be ornery?"
"Because all of you don't care. If Mister Sanchez could see the answers, that means all of your friends could as well. They've just been messing with me all day! And he's no different."
"Guess it beats the cable Ezra got entertainment wise," Buck chuckled.
"I'm going to ignore that comment, because it is disturbing on **so** many levels, Mister Wilmington." The psychologist paused to take a breath, and calm himself, before his voice rose too many octaves more. "Can we just finish this? Please?"
"**Now** we're on the same page. Let's get on with it."
Preston removed his glasses and took a moment to pinch the bridge of his nose, easing the tension there. He pulled up a card. "What does this look like, Mister Wilmington?"
Buck opened his mouth to reply.
"Before you answer, please humor me and avoid saying "black blob" or something to that effect?"
Buck's jaw snapped shut. "Uh, guess I'll have to think on it some then," he admitted, studying the picture.
"Yes. Do that."
The agent snapped his fingers after a second longer of thinking. "It looks jest like Linda's..."
Preston's eyes widened in horror and he automatically slammed his hands over his ears. "Mister Wilmington I refuse to listen to your lewd comments about my secretary!!" he shouted, glaring at the man.
Buck looked wounded. "I was gonna say tattoo!!! The one on her arm!!! Geez!"
The doctor looked at Wilmington in irritation, feathers quite ruffled. "I sincerely hope so. Buck, this picture was supposed to be a ladybug. Do you see why that is?"
"If it's a lady bug, why didn't they just take a picture of a ladybug? Then I coulda been all, 'that's definitely a lady bug' instead of looking at a big ink stain. You know what? It doesn't look like Linda's tattoo. It looks like a spill JD got on the carpet back in the apartment. The one that wouldn't come out short of cuttin' the rug off."
"Why are you all like this? Look!" Preston pulled out a handful of cards from the discard pile. "This was Mister Tanner's. He said it looked like Job. And this one? Mister Standish took the better part of fifteen minutes explaining in minute detail, why it looks like a frontier town. This one? Mister Jackson said it was cancer." He tossed all three cards on the floor in front of him. "They are not cancer!! Or Job, or a town. Everyone I've ever used these on knows that. Why don't you men know that?"
Buck made to answer, but Preston stopped him with his hand. "No. I'm going to go and get something to drink, and use the facilities to gather myself. When I get back, I want Mister Larabee in here. Not shooting, or biting anything."
Wilmington watched as the psychologist marched out of the office, through the reception area, and out of the clinic. The agent was a little disappointed when the man didn't shut the door to the clinic behind him. It would have been great to see Ezra and Vin's little trap work, especially after that particular tirade.
Shrugging, Buck picked up one of the cards Preston had thrown on the floor in his fit of rage. "Hey!" Buck grinned as he turned it around in his hand. "This one looks like a lizard!"
Inkblots: With Chris
Doctor Preston returned from his sojourn to the bathroom 5 minutes later, trying his best to look composed in the face of chaos. He noted that Linda was sweeping up the remains of a shattered flower vase, looking at Vin and JD in annoyance.
"Ah..." he made a small noise, indicating that he was back.
"Chris is waitin' on ya, might not be safe to keep 'im that way," Buck advised, flipping the channels on the TV.
The psychologist nodded, realizing he didn't want to know when his building had suddenly gotten VH1. He strolled through, giving an apologetic look to his secretary, before closing the door to his office behind him, leaving her alone with six of the seven members yet again.
Chris Larabee looked up at him as he stepped into the office, relaxed in the armchair, and looking for all the world like he owned the place. Preston noted it seemed darker, smaller, less familiar, and more foreboding. He swallowed uncomfortably and sat down in his leather recliner. Funny how this office had seemed so very spacious one moment and next, he felt all too close to the man called Chris Larabee. "Um, good morning, Chris. Today, we're doing a..."
"I didn't say you could call me Chris."
"Oh, um, my apologies, Mister Larabee. May I call you Chris?"
"No."
"Okay. Well, we're doing inkblots today. I'll show you a picture, and you tell me what it looks like to you."
Chris's eyebrows narrowed. "The government pays you to do this sort of thing?"
Somehow, the psychiatrist couldn't find himself to take on annoyed tone with this man.
"Um, yes. They do."
"Well I obviously got into the wrong kinda work then. I could make a fortune showing people stupid pictures and get paid instead of busting my ass getting shot at every other day."
"If you're implying that my work isn't as important as yours..."
"Did I say that?"
"Um, no."
The supervising agent of Team 7 leaned back, as if that explained everything.
"So... we should get started. Um, what does this look like to you?" He flipped up a card, holding it by his head, away from his glasses.
"A bullet hole."
"I should have seen that one coming, I suppose. Mister Larabee, just because this is a big black splotch, it doesn't mean I want you to tell me that it's a big black splotch. I want you to tell me what **else** it looks like."
"It's a pink and orange polka dotted elephant."
"Mister Larabee, please don't just say any random thing because you're annoyed."
"It's better than me shooting you."
"I agree with that. And I understand that you might not see a point in this exercise, but trust me, I'm doing this for a reason. I just need you to tell me what this..." the doctor circled the splotch with his hand, "looks like."
"A bullet hole."
"Just because it's black?"
Chris's eyes narrowed. "What's wrong with black?"
"Nothing. Really."
Chris glared. He knew a liar when he heard one. Leaning back into his chair to get comfortable, he stared at the psychologist, until Preston coughed uncomfortably and turned away. "Um...moving on. What do you see in this one?"
Chris continued to glare.
Preston waited for a few minutes. Larabee didn't seem intent on answering. "Uh...okay, we can skip this one. How about, this one?"
Chris crossed his arms.
Preston put his card down. "Mister Larabee, we have a good 15 minutes left in today's session. Do you really think you can sit here the entire exercise and not say a word?"
Larabee's expression didn't change.
"Fine. I'll wait you out." Preston crossed his arms in reply and looked at Chris, waiting. He'd done this before, with a particularly spoiled four-year-old. His patience usually won out.
**Five minutes later**
Preston fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair, as the two combatants sat in silence. The only sound that echoed in the room was the clicking of Preston's wall clock and the occasional crash and grunt from the reception area. He tapped his pencil on the arm of his chair for a bit, making a tapping noise, hoping to annoy Larabee out of his silent treatment.
Chris smirked to himself on the inside, though his mask of cold indifference didn't crack to the least physically. The doctor thought tapping a pencil would get him? He snorted internally. He'd dealt with Ezra's rants about ruined clothing, Josiah and Nathan's debates on the ethics of powerful governments versus those of the individual, Vin's whining about itchy stitches, and JD telling Buck to leave him alone with Buck teasing the kid about a date with Casey all the while. All in the same room. At the same time. For an hour. Chris Larabee was a pillar of stability. He only had to imagine shooting each and every one of them to keep himself busy. He smiled to himself and wondered how Preston would look with a hole in his ass.
**10 Minutes later**
"Mister Larabee! Please just **try** and cooperate?! Please? For the sake of my sanity, just tell me what you see. I **know** you think this is stupid, but humor me?"
Chris rather liked Preston groveling on the floor at his feet, begging that he cooperate and finish the exercise off. It made him feel all-powerful. He continued to stare straight ahead.
"Mister Larabee? This is unhealthy. You could become comatose. Okay, I'm not **that** kind of doctor, but please. We're almost done for the day, and look; we only have a few minutes left! All you have to do is cooperate! Look at **this** picture. Just tell me what you see?" The psychiatrist held up the last card in his pile. "How about just this **one**?"
Chris pursed his lips as if he was going to think about it, but didn't move to say anything. The silence was driving Preston insane.
"Mister Larabee?! I'm sorry about what I said earlier, and the tone I used. I'm sorry if I offended you in any way. Now will you please just do the exercise with me?"
Chris's eyes flitted to the clock. He watched the seconds count down until the hour. 3...2...1...
As if on cue, Buck poked his head into the door. "'Ey, Chris, we leaving or what?" he asked, anxious.
Chris got up out of the chair and headed towards the door without a word, leaving a stunned Doctor in his wake. Buck grinned and let his old friend out, watching him head straight for the clinic door. The ladies man turned back to the doctor and the card the young man was still holding up. The ladies man studied it a moment before smiling largely. "Chris would probably say that it looks like a bullet hole."
*slaps Muse* That took long enough, didn't it? Well, we'll see about the next part. I haven't even started it yet and my muse would rather be playing video games. LOL But enjoy this part, in any case.