Toward Home
Written for August Fic Challenge 2023, Prompt: Train Tracks. Set post S1, pre S2, but John and Laszlo are in a happily established relationship. Comments and kudos would be awesome. Enjoy!
John can tell that Laszlo is reaching the end of his patience. It's so easy for him to read the man lately, spending so much time together as they have been. He catches the barely noticeable way his eyes dart away from the trio of scholarly gentleman at their table in the ornate dining car, the impatient tone of his voice when he is forced to respond to some pointless anecdote, the plain irritation that flashes across his face when one of them says something so blatantly incorrect that even John knows it's utter nonsense.
Under the table, John settles a hand on Laszlo's thigh before he can launch into what will surely be a counter-argument that will turn an otherwise civil conversation into a heated debate and draw this out that much longer. Laszlo's eyes dart to meet his own at the contact and he shoots Laszlo a 'trust me' sort of look. Thankfully, the good doctor does, and remains silent.
"Well, gentleman, I'm sorry to interrupt," he says, when he can finally get a word in, "And this has been a truly… enlightening dinner with you all, but I'm afraid Dr. Kreiszler and I have some things to discuss about a case we've been working on back home. You understand, of course," he explains, already getting to his feet. Laszlo is quick to do the same, desperately clinging to whatever excuse will get him away from this monotony the fastest.
"We do, indeed," he agrees.
Their dinner companions accept their departure easily, bidding them a good evening, before they quickly return to their idle prattling.
John herds Laszlo on ahead as they take their leave of the dining car, heading towards the back of the train. It is nearly empty there, and by the time they reach the last car, where the steady click-clack of the train tracks seems more markedly pronounced, it is entirely vacant. Neither of them minds the noise, especially when it grants them the privacy needed for Laszlo to pull John into a kiss.
"Thank you," Laszlo tells him, breathing a sigh of relief that he can finally relax. "I should bring you with me more often," he remarks, "You make an excellent buffer for such… cumbersome exchanges."
"I'm always happy to join you," he answers, arms wrapped around the other man for as long as he dares keep him so close. He'd spent the past few days in Baltimore with the alienist in attendance at a conference at Johns Hopkins. Laszlo had been involved in many talks, presenting new observations based on their recent cases, especially Japeth Dury's fascinating reign of terror, and he'd proposed new ways in which other alienists might work with their own local law enforcement to help solve crimes in their communities (granted, most other alienists probably did not have friends at the level they did, with Teddy Roosevelt helping them along, nor the loyal assistance of the likes of Sara and the Isaacsons).
John had been along allegedly as Laszlo's assistant and partially as a reporter, but mostly he just acted as a shield when it became obvious to him that his friend needed a break. It was easy enough to drag him away from an irritating colleague with a proposal of dinner or beg off from some unwanted invitation with a claim to already made plans for the theater or some other outing.
The fact that the conference allowed them to share a hotel room without raising questions was another bonus that they took full advantage of during their stay.
They shrug out of their dinner jackets and settle in a pair of comfortable chairs, tucked away in a corner. An easy silence falls between them after the long day. Laszlo retrieves some medical text from his bag and sets to reading by the dim candlelight of the nearly vacant car. John does much the same, finding his sketchbook and charcoals within his own luggage. He works absently, drawing whatever comes to mind, the only sounds the scratch of coal on paper and the rhythmic chugging of the train.
Occasionally, John finds his eyes drawn to Laszlo instead of his work, and just as often he feels Laszlo's gaze settle on him. He stretches out one leg, letting it rest against his companions as the train rattles them steadily on toward home.