You think YOU have bad days? (Josef)

[Sam Caraway]

Upon awaking that morning, Sam had sat up in bed and yelled as his skull connected painfully with the headboard.

On the way to the kitchen, he had tripped over a discarded box.

While making his morning coffee, he had tipped a kettle full of boiling water over himself – the skin on his left arm was sore, and a little pink.

He’d fallen down the stairs as he exited his apartment, and his palms were scratched raw.

While lying on the pavement, he’d been hit in the side as a kid on a bicycle failed to notice he was there. The bruise had already started to come up.

It was safe to say that he was not having a good day.

One might have wondered why he would even want to leave the house in the first place, what with all the increased dangers of being outside (cars were, after all, more likely to cause serious injury than, say, an ironing board), but Sam had long made a resolution that Bad Luck Days should be spent in the wide world – if only because there were more people around. If he ended up drowning in the bath, nobody would be able to rescue him. If he got hit by a bus, at least someone would be able to do something about it.

While sitting in the park, he had been the unfortunate recipient of a ‘present’ from a fat pigeon, and had been forced to buy himself a new shirt. He’d been hit in the head by a football sent wildly out of range by an overenthusiastic child. He’d walked into a lamp-post, and sustained a rather impressive black eye. He’d eaten a sandwich which had made him ill for two and a half hours. He’d twisted his left ankle, and had a nosebleed as a delayed response to the football – which, in turn, had ruined his new shirt.

It went without saying that he couldn’t go to the Kafe – he would probably set it on fire, or something. Truth be told, he fully expected to get home and discover that his own apartment had been destroyed in a freak accident involving a falling piano.

So, at 8pm (after eating most of a salad only discover it contained a worm, and managing to lose his new-ish mobile phone down the toilet) Sam decided that there was only one thing left to do until his good luck came back to him: drink.

He was in his third shirt of the day (a rather fetching blue) and a grey jacket he had picked up in a shop rather than go back to his probably nonexistent apartment. He was on his third glass of Scotch. Given the amount of injuries he had sustained during the course of the day, he suspected that he probably shouldn’t be ingesting too much alcohol – but where was the fun in that? Sitting in this quiet bar with his booze and a few newspapers was an excellent situation to be in: there were very limited opportunities for him to hurt himself, or others.

Having said that, it seemed he could always find a chance to do just that. On his way back from the bathroom to his table at the back, Sam accidentally caught someone’s glass with his elbow – the liquid made a graceful arc in the air (almost seeming to hang in slow-motion as he watched the inevitable) before coming to land all over him, and the glass made an impressive smashing noise on the floor at his feet. ‘Aw, hell,’ he shook some droplets from his now-sodden hair, and regarded the sorry state of Shirt #3 for a moment with a crestfallen sigh.

It was then that he remembered that the drink had to belong to someone – he looked up from his clothes and turned to the occupant of the table with contrition written all over his expression. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, blue eyes earnest in his bruised and battered face. With his luck, he had probably managed to piss off someone who could do him a lot of damage. Sam rummaged for his wallet, and finally produced it: ‘Please – let me buy you another.’

[Josef Muller]

Josef was wary of bars. He hadn’t used to be. When he’d lived with William in DC, he’d gone to bars often enough in an attempt to cool his temper down. Or even just to be around people who didn’t see Josef as the easy-going man to be manipulated, but as someone to talk with, laugh with, play games with, and maybe even flirt with, if he got lucky.

Of course, that was in DC. And while the bars here didn’t have the reputation of DC, there was also a higher meta to non-powered ratio. Which meant there were so many different ways for you to get into trouble if you offended the wrong person—he’d learned that from the incident with Stephen. So this was the first time he’d come alone since that incident.

He’d just had a…what did you call it? Awards ceremony? Anyways, it had involved moving some students up to a more advanced class. Which meant that he was dressed up for once, in a pair of black slacks and a white button-down shirt. He’d never thought he’d make it this far. He didn’t think he’d actually succeed at something for once. So why not get a drink to celebrate? And things had gone well. He hadn’t bumped into anyone, caused any fights, upset anyone. By his second glass of beer, he was even beginning to relax.

Of course, nothing stayed that way for long. He’d just ordered his third drink and had set it down when a misplaced elbow sent it flying off the counter. He’d expected it to land on himself and fumbled for it, but instead it went flying and landed with cartoon-like precision on a younger man he hadn’t noticed before. It was…textbook. Josef was hard pressed not to grin outright at how beautiful that arc had been. That wouldn’t have been fair to the man it had landed on. Still, the glass was a problem, and Josef was halfway out of his seat to wave the bartender over for a broom when he realized that the now beer-drenched man was speaking to him, quite earnestly. He turned his attention to him and away from the glass, and his thick brows climbed high on his forehead as he took in the black eye, the scratched palms, the burn on his arm, and perhaps even worse (or at least more) injuries judging by the way the taller man held himself. Josef had seen a lot of injuries. Being on the football team in college had given him an extensive experience with them. But this collection was impressive and disturbing even to an expert. Impressive because there were a lot of them. Disturbing because he could think of only one way they’d gotten there. Sure, he saw this more in women than men, but that didn’t mean it was impossible…hm. He’d have to treat this one carefully.

Good news, Sam. The person whose drink you knocked over could beat you up, but won’t. Bad news? He now thinks you’re being physically abused.

“It looks like you’re the one who needs it,” was all that Josef said, with a smile at the other man. “Please, don’t worry about it—oh, thank you.” The bartender had brought over the broom to start sweeping up the glass, and Josef (not one for physical boundaries after a couple of drinks) gently tugged Sam away so he wouldn’t be the way of the glass. He fetched some napkins from the table to offer to him. “Besides, they’d poured me the wrong beer. You really did me a favor. You want some ice for that eye? It looks painful.” The bartender was hovering by his shoulder, and he glanced over at her. “Ah, I think we’ll have a beer and…” He glanced back at Sam. “Want anything? It’s on me.”

[Sam Caraway]

‘What, this?’ Sam gestured to his artistically bruised eye when Josef mentioned ice, offering a cocky smile. ‘It’s fine.’ Keen to demonstrate, he tapped it with one finger to show that it didn’t hurt at all – and gave a yelp of pain when what had been a dull ache magnified into a stabbing sensation. Turning back to Josef, he smiled sheepishly and conceded: ‘OK, maybe ice would be a good idea.’ He usually ended up bruised in a variety of ways when he was having a Bad Luck Day, but that didn’t mean he ever got used to it – and because he was so fair-skinned, it took a long time for marks to disappear. Sam wasn’t meant to be the kind of hard man who could ignore bruises – in fact, for all his posturing, he was a bit of a wimp when it came to pain.

He realised that he had been gently pulled closer to the chair, and so he sat down, looking up when Josef asked about drinks: ‘Scotch on the rocks, please,’ he told the barmaid – a girl who had seen him around in this particular establishment enough to know that when he said ‘Scotch’, he meant: ‘double’. ‘And maybe some ice?’ he asked with a grin, showing her the bruised side of his face. With a card-player’s sleight of hand, he produced a twenty-dollar-bill and pressed it into the bartender’s palm before Josef had a chance to stop him, shooting the older man a look in case he tried to protest: ‘I’m not going to spill a man’s drink and then let him pick up the tab,’ he said firmly, grateful as ever for the Southern accent – it always seemed to add an old-world charm to statements like that.

The barmaid had disappeared, and Sam reached out his right hand for Josef to shake. ‘Sam Caraway,’ he said with a bright smile. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he added, the smile growing mischievous. ‘For what it’s worth, you’re an excellent Good Samaritan.’ A droplet of beer ran down from his hair into his eye, and he made a face. Picking up the paper napkins from the table, he started to rub his hair dry with as much dignity as he could muster – it was probably sticking up comically, but what did he have to lose?

If you were going to look like a crazy, you may as well go the whole hog. Josef probably thought he was a homeless cage fighter, or something.

His brand new coat had absorbed most of the liquid, and when Sam shrugged it off he was gratified to see that his shirt was mostly dry – except for a large patch on the front, but it could be worse. He hung the jacket to dry over the back of his chair (wincing as the battered muscles in his torso complained at the way he was twisting his body). He took it for granted that Josef wouldn’t mind being joined by him – Sam didn’t believe in tiptoeing around strangers, and had an innate confidence: why wouldn’t someone want him to come and sit next to them? But Mrs Caraway didn’t raise him without manners, so he continued: ‘Of course, the best thing about my buying you a drink is that you get my company, as well,’ he informed the other man, face mock-serious but eyes bright with mirth. ‘Let me know if you want me to leave you alone at any point.’

He settled back in his chair, grimacing a little as the movement sent lances of pain through his side. ‘So, do you live in Pilot Ridge, or are you just here to experience the crazy locals?’

[Josef Muller]

Well, this man certainly didn’t act like an abuse victim. Not that Josef had met many. Being both sturdy and male tended to mean the female victims avoided him entirely. He’d met a few after-the-fact, in his self-defense classes, but they had all been very quiet and timid and shy. None of these things seemed to describe the man in front of him. At all. His brows lifted a little higher as he prodded the injury, and then reluctantly curved into a smile at the sheepish look. “I have those sometimes,” he said with a grin of his own, relaxing a little. “But only once in a while.” The whole abuse thing seemed pretty unlikely. Except that there were still all those injuries. Still, the other man didn’t flinch away from his touch and took a seat quite normally, so Josef decided to stop hovering like an anxious mother hen and settled down in the chair. Only to rise up a little when he realized that his “abused” guest had just managed to steal the bill. And in a delightful Southern drawl to boot.

Outclassed and outgunned? Hell yes. Josef was thought he’d need that drink soon, just to process and not get flustered by this treatment.

“Well I thank you for that,” he said, and then added, “But I’m getting the next round if you stay here. For my own dignity, if you need a reason.”

He leaned forward to take Sam’s hand as he offered it, and smiled back. It was nearly impossible not to. And he was thrown off-balance enough to doubt his earlier thoughts on Sam’s injuries. He seemed so personable. Not repressed at all—and to be frank, Josef couldn’t picture anyone disliking the man enough to hit him.

Then again, that could be just him. He had always liked the charming ones.

Down, boy. There’s no luck with men, and then there’s you. He mentally shrugged it off, then laughed at his comment.

“Josef Muller. Nice to meet you too.” He smiled. “But if I made a Good Samaritan,” he added as he leaned back, “I would have gotten the glass before it spilled all over you. Or gotten the bill. As it is, I think I’m just a…fine Samaritan.” Hm. Maybe he’d had one too many drinks, and perhaps now was the time to start with water… Oh well. “Or perhaps I’m just being ridiculous.” He waved it off, and, startled by the man’s joke, was coaxed into another smile.

“Hm,” he said, mock serious as well. “Is that a plus? Covered in beer as you are, I might have to think about it…” But he was never able to hold a straight face for long, and soon laughed it off and shook his head. “I’m just kidding. I’m more than happy to have your company if you’re willing to put up with me. It’s never any fun to drink alone anyways.”

He noticed the grimace, and that brought him back down to earth pretty fast. He thanked the waitress for bringing back their drinks before turning back to Sam.

“Oh, I’m a local for about…six months now,” he said. “And I’m guessing by your tone—but not your accent—that you are too, huh? What brings you here? And if I may…” He waved his beer in his direction. “What’s the story behind your, uh, appearance? I’d imagine it’s a good one.”

Subtle. Ha, not.

“I also have a spare shirt that should fit you, if you wanted to change,” he added, in an attempt at appeasement. He was sure it was only a little better, but a man could try.

[Sam Caraway]

When the waitress returned with their drinks, she placed a bag of ice in Sam’s hand – he accepted it with a grateful smile, and wrapped it in the tea-towel she offered him. As he placed it against his injured cheek, he almost sighed with relief as the cold sank deep into the bruise. ‘Good idea, Josef,’ he told his newfound friend as the ache slowly began to fade. He reached for his Scotch and took a sip, his smile returning as he felt the alcohol in his previous drinks begin to kick in – the pain in his side would hopefully begin to recede soon: and if it didn’t, at least he would notice it less.

‘I’m living here at the moment,’ Sam replied. ‘I’ve lived all over, though. Where are you from, originally?’ Something he spent a lot of time perfecting was his ability to turn questions around – Sam disliked giving away too much about himself on a first meeting, preferring to coax other people into talking about what they did. ‘I’m a professional gambler’ was not something people really wanted to hear – and when they did hear it, he would get one of two reactions: either they would ask him so many questions that he would spend the entire night talking about it, or they would politely try and work out how to find someone else to have a conversation with.

Talking about why he lived in Pilot Ridge was also a tricky one. If he said the word ‘Hammel’, Josef would know he was a meta – and then he would have all the usual questions: what kind of ability did Sam have? And then if there was anyone around who had ever been cheated by Sam, he would be effectively ‘outed’. It wasn’t that he kept his probability manipulation a secret – it was just that he preferred not to talk about it in public. You never knew who was listening, who he might have managed to take some money from under less-than-lawful conditions.

‘My story…?’ Sam grinned, taking another sip of his drink and experimentally removing the ice from his eye. Within a matter of seconds the pain returned, and he sighed before placing it back on his injury. ‘I’ve had the kind of bad day you only get in a movie,’ he told Josef with a chuckle. ‘Bicycle accidents, flying footballs, lamp-posts, birdshit…’ Sam shook his head at his own bad luck, managing to do a pretty good job of pretending that he didn’t know exactly why his day had been so fraught with misery. ‘I even fell down a flight of stairs this morning, if you can believe it,’ he continued. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m pretty much expecting to get home tonight and find that my apartment has been mysteriously obliterated by a bolt of lightning.’ The Scotch was making him verbose, but he wasn’t going to embarrass himself just yet. And all the words would put Josef off of asking too many questions.

Josef’s offer of a spare shirt was unexpected. Sam hesitated for just a moment, before shaking his head with a good-natured grin. ‘Thanks for the offer, but if my hair’s going to smell of beer, I might as well keep the shirt.’ He ran a hand self-consciously through his damp hair. ‘I’ll just call it a new aftershave. Lager: For Men.’ The collar was drying, anyway – he would be fine in a little while.

‘So, Josef Muller,’ Sam leaned forward a little, an amused smile on his lips. ‘What do you do?’

[Josef Muller]

Josef watched the waitress return with the ice with a deliberately mild expression, even though he wanted to see what her reaction was to the injuries. Or just what Sam’s would be, although why he’d react in any illuminating way to being handed a pack of ice was...okay, a little hard to imagine, but still. But the waitress didn’t seem to notice and Josef gave up help from that quarter. Men could be abused too, but people didn’t think about that.

In Sam’s case, it was probably because he was 6’1” and charming. You could picture him getting into a fight—most likely with some woman’s husband or boyfriend. An abusive relationship was more of a stretch.

He did notice, however, how Sam neatly turned the conversation back to himself. Yup. Outclassed. But as he could hardly turn it back to the other man smoothly, he shrugged it off and answered instead.

“Kansas.” He smiled. “A long time ago. Most recently from D.C. It’s a nice change of pace, coming here. I’ve enjoyed it.” And it was true. He was enjoying it, even after the rough patch that had made him come here. That was heartening. “And how about you?” he asked. “I’m guessing somewhere down south, but I’ve been wrong before.” The issue of why he was there was left alone—he’d gotten that hint. Maybe he was a father to one of the kids in Hammel—or had BEEN to Hammel. Caraway sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

He took another sip of his beer as he listened to Sam’s story to hide his frown. It did sound like it was from a movie, which was part of the reason that he didn’t believe it. C’mon, the odds of all of that happening in one day were…impossible. Or highly unlikely at least. He didn’t know that much about math, but he thought even a simple man could guess that. He obviously wasn’t telling the truth.

Although…the whole birdshit part threw him off. If you were trying to explain injuries, why add that into the mix? He’d have to think about this some more.
“If all that’s really happened, I think your bad luck quota for the year should be evened out enough for your apartment to still be intact when you get home,” he told him instead. “Besides, the sky’s pretty clear. I think you’ll be safe from bolts of lightning.” He grinned. “But don’t quote me on that. Now your neighbor leaving the stove on? That could happen. Maybe you should watch the news before you go.”

The explanation of the refused offer was taken with a nod and another smile, which once again seemed surprised at its own existence. Josef wasn’t used to laughing with people anymore. “It’d probably be pretty popular,” he agreed. “You should bottle it and sell it. You never know these days.”

As to the question of what he did…well, now he had an answer he liked giving. That did help. Plus, maybe it could disguise his offer of assistance with it. “I run a, uh, fitness clinic down the road,” he said. “Well, sort of. It’s mostly karate, kickboxing. Uh, self-defense.” A pause, to wait for a reaction, then another shrug. “That sort of thing. How about you? It must be pretty dangerous, to put you in the line of lamp posts and footballs.”

[Sam Caraway]

Ah, so Josef didn’t believe him! Sam looked sideways at the older man, his mind (as usual) focussing on the ‘if’ in Josef’s sentence. Interesting if this strange new friend thought he was lying – after all, when people didn’t believe something you’d told them, it was usually because they had their own idea of what had transpired. Evidently, Josef had a theory on what Sam had been through, and was assuming that his story was too far-fetched to be the truth. Which begged the question: what was Josef’s version of the story? What did he think Sam had been through?

He couldn’t resist a dry smirk at Josef’s comment on ‘bad luck’ – Sam disguised it with another sip of his drink, resisting the urge to say something along the lines of ‘you have no idea’. Instead, he just gave one of his disarming smiles. ‘I’m not sure my bad luck’s over yet,’ he said, telling only the truth as he saw it. ‘Unless you’re a good luck charm…’ Sam added, mischievous blue gaze darting up to Josef for a moment before looking away. Stop flirting, a little voice said in the back of his head, and he turned his attention to a more pressing issue: Josef’s comments had made him wonder exactly how his luck levels were faring.

Under normal circumstances, Sam would have tossed a coin to determine if his luck was coming back or not, but it would look strange to do something like that in public, with no explanation. No, it had to be something which would look more natural. There was a penny on the table. Acting as if his more blatant flirting had made him a little skittish, Sam turned his attention to it as if trying to make busy-work for his hands: he reached for his power and tried to stand the coin up on one side. He felt something inside him sputter and then die – the coin fell over. Shit. Sam was still unlucky.

‘I’ve never met a fitness instructor before,’ Sam told Josef truthfully, looking at the other man with interest. An interesting person to know: Sam had always vaguely intended getting lessons in self-defence. Nobody had caught up with him yet, but he didn’t doubt that there would probably be a day when he would need to be able to throw a punch. Oh, there had been a few angry boyfriends and fights in clubs over girls, but Sam had cheated people who would be infinitely more capable of inflicting bodily harm than a drunk. ‘When do you teach lessons?’ he asked. They would be affordable (anything was affordable, for Sam) and he had nothing productive to do with his time when he wasn’t helping out in the bar.

Sam’s profession? ‘I’m in investments,’ he told the other man, poker face dead-straight as he fought back a smile. Recently he had been amusing himself by giving a different answer to everyone who asked him that question, and he realised that this one had come the closest to being the truth. Investments, gambling – same thing. Besides, he had given Kali money for the bar, which technically counted. ‘Dangerous, but not in the physical sense.’

And maybe his luck was changing, because he was suddenly prevented from having to talk any more about his career prospects – Sam’s hand slipped, his glass cracked, and the demise of Shirt #3 was complete as a large cut on his palm dripped blood all over the fabric. ‘Stupid, clumsy…’ Sam muttered angrily under his breath, grabbing a stack of napkins from the next table and pressing the wad to his right hand, the ice pack abandoned for the moment. He looked up at Josef, failing to mask his frustration with a smile: ‘See? It’s not my day!’ He shook his head at himself, a chuckle finally escaping at his own ridiculousness. ‘I’m not usually this bad,’ Sam’s smile had finally returned, and he looked at Josef with nothing but rueful amusement in his eyes. ‘I’m usually fantastic company – although I’m usually not bleeding.’

[Josef Muller]

No, it was a fact that Josef didn’t believe him. Now it wasn’t that he thought badly of him either. He just thought he wasn’t telling the truth to cover up for somebody else. He did notice the little sideways glance, and did a mental review to see if what had just come out of his mouth had hinted anything of his real thoughts. And it had. Of course it had—he’d had enough to drink where he was beginning to get that buzz, and all of his careful filters began to come down at that point. Ah well. He met Sam’s look with a quirked eyebrow that seemed to ask ‘What?’ then turned back to his drink.

He would have offered some soothing platitude to Sam’s statement of his luck. Had he had time to think about it, he would have taken it as more proof that he was secretly crying for help. But instead Sam made that statement, and all good intentions went out the window as Josef choked on his beer. He’d really pegged this one as straight. And maybe it was just because his Quixotic impulses had gotten the better of him, but he hadn’t been expecting that.

Sorry, Sam. I don’t think this one is your luck. There’s a reason this boy hasn’t jumped back in the dating pool yet.

Then again, maybe it had just been the alcohol talking. He’d definitely encountered that before. And the way Sam turned his attention away from him—thankfully, in time for Josef to regain his composure—indicated that. But it was funny, the way he did it. Somewhat familiar…but he turned his attention to the conversation at hand.

“No surprise there.” His voice was wry. “We’re not all that interesting.” That was old bitterness talking, and he pushed it aside with a laugh. He liked his career, if one could call it that. And he could hardly say he was “just” a fitness instructor now. He was a small-business owner, and wasn’t that the American dream? “But you do get to hear a lot of interesting stories. I teach lessons from seven in the morning to ten at night.” He rolled his eyes. “Hopefully less, once I get an assistant. Investments, huh?” His brows climbed again. He’d never heard of anyone describing their field as that—except perhaps loan sharks on television. “That is dangerous. What do you invest—”

But then the glass cracked, and Josef was out of his seat and standing next to Sam to see what assistance he could offer. “Not napkins! Let me see…” Maybe that whole thing about his luck wasn’t a lie after all. Strangely, the frustration made him relax a little more—just because he seemed more human.

“I still think you’re fantastic company,” he said. "You're definitely keeping my night interesting.” He cleared his throat. “Let me see, please. Waitress!” He waved her over. “Can I have some bandages and some hydrogen peroxide? Oh, and another broom and…another scotch, I think.” He looked back at Sam. “Are you all right?”

((I am sorry for the lateness and the horribleness.))

[Sam Caraway]

Sam was barely able to contain his delight as Josef choked on his beer. Reactions were what Sam always craved, and they didn’t come much better than that – clearly he had touched some kind of nerve with this man. Now, all he had to do was work out if that was a positive reaction to flirting…or a negative one. At first glance, Sam would say that it was positive. Clearly, he had just taken Josef by surprise.

Mason had once told Sam that if he had telepathy, nobody would be safe. But Sam had never wanted to be able to read thoughts: that would take all the fun out of social situations. What he loved most was guessing, working out the puzzle to see exactly what would make people tick. And it appeared the flirting was defiantly something guaranteed to get some kind of reaction out of Josef Muller.

And to Sam, any reaction was a good reaction.

Then Josef flirted back with him (sure, it was just a comment, but to Sam that was a very promising reaction indeed). ‘Thanks,’ he said dryly in response to Josef mentioning his looks – although secretly, he counted it as a win. It appeared that flirting with Josef was going to elicit more from the older man. He watched with a vaguely impressed expression as Josef gave swift instructions to the waitress (she was probably going to refuse to serve Sam, the next time she saw him. He would have to remember her face – and remember to give her a very large tip at some point in the near future), and it took only a few moments for the requests to be carried out. ’I’m fine. You can’t lose too much blood from a cut on the hand, can you?’ Sam eyed the bottle of disinfectant warily, remembering too late how much of a wuss he was when it came to pain.

At least this time he was going to have to man up and pretend not to be a pansy – he had someone to impress, after all. Sam needed to be liked and approved of, and he was damned if he was going to let Josef think that he was as much of a coward as he really was. Secretly, he was hoping it was like the jerk thing – he had been pretending to be a jerk for several years, and was well on his was to being a genuine git. If he pretended that he had a high pain threshold, maybe it would come true.

Sam was a great believer in the power of Positive Thinking. If he wanted something to happen then, by God, it would.

So he picked up the bottle (after having taken a large sip of Scotch for good measure), hoping that his poker face was well and truly in place as he emptied a few drops on the cotton pads the waitress had also thoughtfully provided, and dabbing it against the wound.

He was in a public place, and Mama Caraway had always told her boys never to swear in public.

So Sam settled for a good old-fashioned incoherent yelp as the cut stung fiercely, dropping the cotton. He looked over at Josef with a wounded expression. ‘Maybe I’ll just let it get infected. That can’t hurt any more, can it?’

[Josef Muller]

All in all, Josef would have probably been glad if he’d known Sam was trying not to show how he liked Josef’s reaction. It was as embarrassing as hell, to react that way to a simple flirtatious comment that might not have really been meant to be taken seriously. But it had been a really, embarrassingly long time. He was still trying to adjust to the fact that he’d taken his wedding ring off his finger, and so was now fair game. Such a simple little signal for so many things to happen…but anyways.

The “thanks” wasn’t exactly a positive reaction, but it hadn’t been a very good flirt as far as they went, so he couldn’t blame him for that. Besides, he was more focused on the cut on his hand.

“Blood flows less to the extremities than the vital areas,” he said automatically, tugging a handkerchief out of his pocket to start dabbing at the blood on his hand—gently, because Josef knew very well that a gentle touch made everything better in situations like this. His eyes flickered up as Sam eyed the disinfectant, and he shook his head. Ah, he could tell that this was going to go well. “So no. But it’s pretty deep, and I’m trying to make sure you don’t need stitches—and napkins? In a bar? Really?”

Josef’s a bit of an injury expert. He also gets chatty when tipsy. He realized, belatedly, that he was hovering and stepped back as Sam reached for the disinfectant. He watched, his own poker face in place as he did so. But he still looked completely unsurprised when he yelped and dropped the cotton.

Actually, he was smiling.

“Sorry,” he apologized, although it wasn’t clear for what. Probably for the amusement still lingering on his features. He shrugged to the rhetorical question and, being Josef, answered it anyways. “Infected will hurt a hell of a lot more. C’mon. Take it slowly. Hydrogen peroxide shouldn’t hurt that bad.”

Mind, Josef was also a believer of Positive Thinking. Only in his case, the positive thinking was “I can outstubborn anything.” One example his family liked was when he went through an entire football game with a torn ligament, just because he was too stubborn to admit that it hurt.

But at least he didn’t call Sam a wuss. Instead, he just shrugged.

“Mind, I can’t comment. I fainted the first time I gave blood. And then just about passed out again from embarrassment.” He picked up the cotton on the ground carefully and dropped it into one of the empty glasses, then turned to him. “May I take care of you, good sir?” He shrugged and smiled. “I’m very good at taking care of people.” But perhaps that was a little too forward, so he changed the subject. “And while we’re at it, you can drink your scotch and tell me if you have these kind of…horrendous luck days very often. Is that all right?”

[Sam Caraway]

Sam gave Josef a mock-angry glare. ‘No laughing,’ he ordered, unable to keep a smile from his own lips – he had to admit, if he was in Josef’s shoes he would be laughing at him, too. Sam could talk the talk, and talk it very well, but it was very rare that he could walk the walk with any real conviction. The older man’s apology made him chuckle. ‘No you’re not,’ he replied, but there was no accusation in his voice – only humour. Sam almost laughed out loud as Josef’s insistence that it couldn’t hurt very badly: ‘Hey, who’s the injured one here?’ he asked, righteous indignation coming to his aid. ‘It hurts, OK?’ but he was incapable of being serious for long, and a smile was fighting its’ way through.

At Josef’s little story, the smile widened. Mentally, Sam stored that little admission away for a later date (being his arrogant self, and Pilot Ridge being so small, he assumed that he would see the other man again at some point), watching as the older man picked up the mess. Capable hands, he thought to himself, biting his lip to stop himself from grinning. Stop it, Sam. You’re not twelve. Was that Kali’s voice, or Mason’s? Either way, it was his only voice of reason.

Turning on the old-fashioned courtesy in response to Josef’s play-acting, Sam gave him a gracious smile and presented his injured hand for inspection. ‘Please do go ahead,’ he replied in the same tone, completely taken by surprise when Josef suddenly made an arch little comment. If Sam had been told that the other meta had been out of the flirting game for a while, he wouldn’t have believed it. ‘Josef Muller, you have hidden depths!’ he chuckled, this time letting his broad grin show just how pleased he was. The change of subject he took as playing hard-to-get, and he lifted his new glass with his good hand to raise it in a toast to Josef.

‘You don’t have to ask me twice, he informed the older man, downing half of the double Scotch smoothly, in one quick, practised motion. Eyes closed, he gave a small smile before setting the glass back on the table: there was nothing quite like the brief burn in the back of his throat. He was starting to feel the buzz now, warm and confident. In Vegas, this would be the point when he’d move onto something a little less legal – but this was Vermont, and he was supposed to be behaving himself.

For just a moment, as he thought about it, his thumb moved in distracted circles on the side of the glass – but then Sam was back in the real world, and he even felt a small spark of something at the back of his mind which may have been his bad luck starting to ease off. ‘Well, my luck’s definitely clearing up now…’ he said innocently, shooting Josef a sly smile which implied that as far as he was concerned, meeting the older man had been very lucky indeed. Question neatly evaded, and he looked up at Josef with bright blue eyes: ‘Do you fix up injured men very often?’ he asked. ‘You make an excellent Florence Nightingale.’ Too much Scotch? Maybe. ‘I’ll have to make sure I run into you the next time I have a bad day.’

[Josef Muller]

“I’m not laughing,” Josef protested, trying to look innocent, although his eyes danced with amusement, and his lips twitched upwards again. No, he really wasn’t sorry, and when Sam made his statement, he shook his head. “No, I’m not. And I’ve been injured before, and I know it hurts. Now hold on and just try to live through it, will you? And stop complaining so much. You’re going to be fine if you just stay still.” And he gave him a mock-serious glare right back, but as he wasn’t really capable of keeping a straight face for a long period, a smile broke through again. He hadn’t joked around with anyone this much in a while. It felt…good. Freeing.

At least Sam seemed to like the story. That was mildly cheering. He hadn’t completely lost his touch. And when Sam grinned at him and said that he had hidden depths, he realized that he was actually succeeding in this—in flirting for the first time since he had gotten divorced. Or Sam seemed to think he was. And at the same time, he also realized that he was blushing.

In over his head? Yeah, he rather thought that he was. Stop it, he told himself firmly. You think he’s abused, remember? You shouldn’t be flirting with him. You should be trying to see if he needs help. Except that the abused idea was weakening every time Sam flirted with him. It just wasn’t a thing that domestic abuse victims did. So he didn’t say anything, but just shrugged and offered a little smile that was blessedly neutral.

He waited until he had downed the Scotch before he pressed the pad with the hydrogen peroxide against the injury, dabbing at it very carefully so he didn’t hurt him more than he had to. That done, he fetched the gauze and bandage and wrapped it around his hand, only pausing when Sam cast him that look. It was a good thing he’d gotten control of his features, or he would have been blushing again. In spite of what Sam said, he didn’t have game. Or didn’t think he did.

“Well I hope it is,” he said instead. “If anyone needed it, then you do. Maybe I’ll make your good luck charm yet, huh?” That was not behaving himself. He returned to his task and, in spite of himself, smiled as Sam said he’d make a good Florence Nightingale. “Thanks,” he said wryly, “I think. But no, I don’t. I used to, but not anymore. So consider yourself lucky for some point in this day—you’re getting a rare treatment.”

Not helping. He finished wrapping the hand up and stepped back. “There you are! All fixed up. And I’d like that.” He cleared his throat. All right. This wasn’t working. Time to try for a different tactic. “I guess I should be forewarned, though—do you have a lot of these bad days?”

That was direct enough. Now to see if the fish took the bait.

[Sam Caraway]

This time, Sam managed to get through the painful hydrogen peroxide ordeal without acting like a twelve-year-old girl – he just gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyelids shut to prevent his expression from showing that he wanted to flinch back and clutch his injured hand to his chest. But he was impressed with himself: he remained silent while Josef tended to his hand, and when it was over he let out a sigh of relief.

You would think that being the smallest and skinniest of three brothers (and having a sister who was more than capable of besting him in a fight) would make Sam into the kind of man who could deal with a bit of pain. But being the weediest, Sam had become very adept at running away. He was not used to staying put and letting the pain happen to him. Bad luck days were the only days when things like this happened to him, and thankfully they only happened once a month. For a while, Sam had referred to such days as being ‘my time of the month,’ just to freak Mason out with the reference to the menstrual cycle – but Mason had always been quick to point out that no girl made as much fuss over her monthly difficulties as Sam made of his. He was downright irritating.

‘You used to?’ Sam looked over at Josef with fresh interest. If Josef was now a self-defence instructor, Sam could only wonder at what he had previously done which required dealing with still more injured people. Something told him to be on his guard, just in case, and he was reminded again that Josef was a man who could potentially do him a lot of damage. And Sam had a very bad habit of seriously crossing people who could do him a lot of damage.

It may have been one of the reasons he had left Vegas.

But Sam smiled when Josef said he’d like to see him again, and fixed him with a look when the older man fished again for the reason why Sam was having days like these. Not going to give up, are we? Maybe he thought there was some horrible trauma in Sam’s life. ‘You seem a little suspicious of me, Josef Muller.’ Sam grinned at Josef, his expression completely relaxed – he’d had years of long practise at keeping his body language exactly how he wanted it to be, and he hoped that the alcohol hadn’t taken off his edge. ‘Come on, are you telling me you’ve never had a day where nothing you do seems to go right?’ Sam knew people who had days like that all the time. They got out on the wrong side of the bed, and suddenly they were dropping and losing things left, right and centre.

His tone was teasing now – Sam was hoping that Josef would think that his suspicions were unfounded. Still, this was the moment when he should probably seize an opportunity to take his leave. Hopefully he would be able to leave the bar and get back to his apartment without anything too lethal happening to him – that was, if he still had an apartment to go back to. Sam wasn’t convinced that his home would have remained unscathed throughout the day.

He looked down at his bandaged hand, and finished his Scotch in an easy movement. ‘I should get going,’ Sam looked over at Josef with a rueful expression which wasn’t entirely play-acting: he had greatly enjoyed this encounter, and he was sorry to leave it. ‘See if my house is still there. Thank you – for everything.’ Sam gestured with a smirk to the empty glass, injured hand, and spilled liquor on the table – then he reached over to shake Josef’s hand warmly. ‘It was good to meet you, Josef Muller.’

[Josef Muller]

Josef would have asked if that was as bad as all that. But judging by the expression on Sam’s face, it was indeed as bad as all that. So instead of saying anything of that sort, he patted his hand after he’d finished and smiled at the man. “Not bad. I probably would have complained more.” And he would have. Just because he pretended and acted as if he was stoic didn’t mean he actually was. These days he didn’t complain so much, but when he was younger, had there been someone who seemed sturdy (and good-looking) enough around, Josef would have happily whined until he’d gotten the needed attention.

Shy he hadn’t been. But that was just one of many of his “used tos.”

“It wasn’t anything like that,” Josef said hastily. He wondered what that interested look was for. Admittedly, karate and dealing with a lot of injuries could add up to something that didn’t sound good. Whoops. “Football team. And, uh, boxing. I appointed myself the unofficial medic.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t a big school.” There. Uninteresting, dull, and completely unthreatening. All three goals accomplished at once.

And he wasn’t suspicious of him. Just of the stories he was telling. But he seemed relaxed, calm. Josef’s smile faded into a crooked one, and his brow was furrowed. Sam had the upper hand of disguising body language here.

“Oh, I’ve had them,” he agreed with a grin at him. But it seemed slightly feigned. He was trying to seek out some crack in the veneer, some sign that he was lying. And he couldn’t find any. But he’d never been good at reading people. “But when I have them, I don’t end up looking like you. And c’mon, I hit people and get hit for a living. I think that’s an accomplishment” It wasn’t all that simple. But close enough. And he’d definitely ended up with his fair share of black eyes. And broken noses. His hand lifted to rub it in memory. It was only due to vanity that the damn thing was still straight.

But it was interesting that Sam kept avoiding the question. In spite of his easy air, it was that avoidance that kept Josef thinking he was right.

He settled back in his seat again as Sam finished the Scotch, and he smiled a bit at the rueful expression. He couldn’t read the other man, but he had thoughts—and hopes—that it wasn’t entirely feigned. But he reminded himself to lay off the questioning a little more the next time. Maybe then he could get him to stay longer.

For assistance purposes only, of course.

He leaned forward to accept the offered hand justand, in spite of still-lingering concern, smiled back at him and shook his head.

“You have an odd sense of what to thank people for, Sam Caraway.” His lips twitched into a grin. “But it was good to meet you too. I hope your bad luck works itself out.”

((Shall we wrap?))