Fusco's Day Was Bad, John's Was Worse
Fusco was not having a good day.
Between the six new cases on his desk, the captain questioning him on the whereabouts of his frequently missing ‘partner’, and finding out about glasses weirdly human all-seeing machine thing, Fusco was about ready for a break.
All he wanted was to sit on his grimy barstool at the dive bar down the street from the precinct and drink his club soda. No one to save, no calls from glasses or mr. tall-dark-and-broody, just him and his club soda. Was that too much to ask?
Apparently that was too much to ask.
John barged into the bar, throwing the door open with such force that it smacked against the wall and drew Fusco out of his thoughts. He watched first in alarm, then in amusement, as John headed straight for the seat next to him, violently wrenching out his earwig and crushing it under his heel as he stormed across the room.
“What’s got your panties in a twist? And where the hell have you been? The captain’s been interrogating me all afternoon.”
John didn’t respond. He just waved the bartender over and ordered a scotch. Fusco stared at the disgusted look on his face as he finished his drink and ordered another.
“One week Lionel. All I wanted was one week of peace. What is so hard about remembering to shut off the comms link?”
“Let me guess, cocoa puffs and miss congeniality are goin’ at it again?”
John rested his head on his hand as Lionel chuckled at his exasperation.
“I knew there was a reason they made you a detective. They were talking bondage, Lionel. Again. I didn’t stay to hear them start, but that makes three times in the last week. I don’t know how they have the energy.”
Lionel frowned, he remembered being on the other end of the comms a week ago, and it was not something he wanted to repeat any time soon. He loved how close their little family of wacko crime fighters had gotten, and he really was happy that Root and Shaw had finally gotten together, but that was not a closeness he needed to be a part of. He sighed and took a large swig of his club soda. Sometimes he really missed the drinking.
“Makes you wish for the times when it was just flirting doesn’t it. And you still never told me where you’ve been. I gotta have something to tell the captain when I head back.”
John looked lost in thought, broody grimace firmly in place. After waiting a few seconds, Lionel was sure he hadn’t heard a word he said.
“Hello? Earth to tall-dark-and-broody! Where the hell have you been?”
“I was just at the subway. I needed to check on Bear and see if Harol-” John's eyes widened as he trailed off.
If Fusco didn’t know any better, he’d say John had just been slapped across the face. He hadn’t looked that surprised and horrified since the first time they walked in on Root pressing Shaw up against the wall at the station.
John’s shock didn’t last long. He downed the rest of his scotch, barstool clattering to the ground as he stood.
“I forgot to warn Harold!”
Fusco just laughed as John bolted for the door.
“Better hurry up! Poor glasses is probably traumatized!”
He turned back to his club soda, “Again.”
Yea, Fusco may not have had the best day, but it was definitely better than John’s.