Notes: Title taken from "Youth and Calm" by Matthew Arnold http://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poem/112.html

I don't own the poem or the movies, dudes. I make no profit-- I only leave them slightly used.

Written at hobbit-feet's request.

Linus didn't know what he expected, really.

Elation at being back in the game with men who were what he one day hoped to become? Relief at not being dead, at being able to throw out his half-eaten roll of antacids?

They'd had their game of poker, the whole "team" together, and he'd had a heart attack when Rusty brought his new/old/ex-cop girlfriend along for shits and giggles, there'd been champagne all around, and now they were going their separate ways again. The adrenaline that had buoyed him for (what felt like forever) weeks was finally wearing off, but he swore-- He swore-- there were still people following him, flickering in the periphery of his vision, but he knew that was just exhaustion and maybe some post-traumatic stress talking there.

He'd been planning to catch a quick nap in his fancy hotel room, but he couldn't relax long enough to fall asleep, champagne bubbling in his system. Not with an early flight out in the morning and the thought that everything was over now.

But was it really?

Benedict didn't seem like the type to let slights go-- ever-- and Toulour had a bigger ego than Danny, so yeah. It didn't feel like it was over.

But it was.

With a sigh, he rolled off the bed, slipping on his shoes and gathering his key card, wallet. Habit made him keep everything he wanted to run with on his person at all times, and anything he left behind he didn't mind losing. Life as Bobby Caldwell's son had taught him not to get too attached to anything from an early age.

The lobby wasn't as busy as he expected, but then, even in Vegas there were slump times, and for here, it looked like three in the morning was it. But the bar was barely inhabited, and that's what he wanted.

"Sea breeze, please," he ordered quietly, slipping onto a stool.

The bartender turned away with an air of heavy boredom to make his drink. An old man at the end of the counter was watching the television mounted on the wall, and the high pitched dings of the slot machines and computerized games were a familiar sound. Add in the haze of cigarette smoke, and Linus relaxed a little. Something about money moving around him, people chatting, people sitting there mechanical-- it was a little part of his world, but it was something he'd grown up with and it soothed him.

Garnishing his glass with a wedge of lime, the bartender placed it on a napkin in front of him and he slid a twenty over. He had two hours before he had to leave for the airport and he hated flying.

Two hours, and he'd be back in Chicago, lifting wallets on the L for kicks and maybe attending classes. Looking for the next big thrill and getting on with life in the meantime.

Movement in the bar mirrors caught his eye as Turk paused in the entranceway, eyes on Linus' back. Forcing himself to stay relaxed, Linus just sipped his drink and regarded the television with disinterest.

Resolved of whatever conflict he had, Turk continued in, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, tough guy face on.

"After all that champagne, you're going for more fruity shit?" Turk asked with a snort as he took the stool next to Linus. To the bartender, he said, "Jack and Coke."

"I thought Mormons didn't drink?" Linus responded mildly, swirling the ice in his glass. When Turk didn't respond, Linus glanced at him, but the other man looked away.

"Whatever." Turk muttered under his breath, and knocked his drink back like an old hand when it was placed in front of him.

Linus arched an eyebrow at how quickly the first glass disappeared.

"Although, I guess you do a lot of stuff you're not supposed to, don't you," he drawled and decided that he might be a little bit tipsy if he was channeling Danny. He'd certainly left his common sense long behind if he was taunting a guy who was built enough to rip his arms off and beat him to death with them.

Not that Linus found that attractive at all. And he wasn't flirting, either.

Turk was watching him with an odd expression, one that might have been a glare, but wasn't harsh enough. Curious, maybe. But, most importantly, not homicidal.

As their eyes met and Turk didn't look away, Linus moved the expression more towards the "interested" category. After all, he wasn't that drunk, and there'd been other looks cast his way that he'd caught over the past weeks.

Linus was content to let himself be scrutinized, leaning his elbows on the bar and rolling his glass between his palms. He'd learned how to be patient, and when to let the silence work for him.

Turning away, Turk frowned down at his empty glass. He ordered another Jack and Coke, fingers drumming a staccato rhythm on the bar's surface.

The shrill of Turk's cellphone interrupted their quiet, his ring tone an R&B song Linus vaguely recognized.

Pulling the phone out of his pocket, Turk glared at the caller ID and quickly flipped the phone open then shut again. After a moment's hesitation, Turk shut the phone off.

Linus propped his chin on his fist.

"Harsh."

Turk shrugged and downed his second drink as easily as his first.

Filing the reaction away, Linus continued to nurse his own drink. By all appearances, the Malloy brothers had settled into a détente, most of their aggression an act for the sake of the scam, but Linus knew that the cleft ran deeper than their usual antics. Snippets of furiously whispered arguments and insults thrown at each other, and Linus was pretty sure he knew why, too. Not that he could come right out and ask, though. Flirting or not, he was pretty sure that could get him injured.

Turk was on his third Jack and Coke before he slowed down, let the drink sit in front of him untouched for a few minutes.

"You flyin' out?" He asked Linus suddenly.

Taking it in stride, Linus shrugged. "I have a ticket. You?"

"Drove." Turk clenched his teeth, glaring at his melting ice cubes.

Linus was willing to wait him out.

"We had an agreement," Turk finally said, trying to sound gruff and really just sounding hurt, confused. "We drove in, and we'd go back together. Then he throws a shit fit, and now he's on the first flight out."

"Sounds rough," Linus murmured, finishing off his first drink.

Turk waved a hand, making a self-deprecating noise.

"Naw, I'm just pissed at him. He'd put his wedding on hold to do this, so of course he wants to get back." He lifted his glass, sipping it. "I just hate driving by myself."

Linus had a flash then, of Turk in one of his huge trucks, Linus in the passenger seat, probably surrounded by fast food bags and god knew what else. Arguing politely over the radio station, where to stop for breaks.

He grinned.

"I've always been partial to road trips, myself," he said, wondering if Turk would take the bait.

The elder Malloy gave him an appraising look. A knowing look. Not so much taking the bait as being on the same page.

"Your ticket?"

Linus snorted, motioning to the bartender for another drink.

"Not like I can't afford it."

Later, when he staggered with Turk into his hotel room-- When they struggled to get out of their button-up shirts and ended up ripping half Turk's buttons off-- When Turk wrapped his arms around Linus' shoulders to press drunken kisses along his neck-- Linus wondered if he hadn't found his next thrill after all.