[ Ian knows exactly one name out of any of the ones Nate just mentioned, and there's a kind of amused expression on his face that suggests as much. He can't make fun, though, he honestly can't. Nate's too sweetly enthusiastic about it for Ian to tease just yet. ]
So... you're a scuba-diving gun-toting bartending archeologist pirate magician.
[ It's a statement and a question at once, correct him if he's wrong. Otherwise, with completely good humor and some kind of creeping fondness in his tone: ]
[ It's a laundry list of professions and activities, all of which are valid but all of which are nothing but parts. There's more to the whole picture, but if it helps - like fitting out the edges of a jigsaw puzzle - then Nate lets him have it. Some people prefer labels, catalogues, and highly-organized filing cabinets for their context. Some people like the clarity of definitions, and it probably doesn't help that Nate makes himself as difficult to define as humanly possible.
Having heard so much worse than you're the weirdest person I've ever met it genuinely tickles him and it shows. Nate feels that bashful grin crawling up again, over his chest and onto his face like a flush as he presses his smile into his fist, elbow propped on the back of the sofa.
Sincerely, he extends his gratitude and lifts his glass of the poor man's SunnyD. ]
[ For what it's worth, Ian's evolved past thinking of Nate in the simplest terms and clearest definitions (thank you, Breakfast Club). It's just amusing as hell to try and voice the array of adjectives and nouns that are applicable and bask in how ridiculously non-cohesive it all sounds when you say it out loud.
Plus, it earns that bashful look that's-- frankly, it's fucking adorable. He bites his lip to keep his own expression mostly under control, and whether or not Nate intended it to be a cheers situation, he raises his glass to gently clink it anyway. Just because. ]
You're welcome.
[ And hey, speaking of glasses-- He tips his head at Nate's. ]
[ Cheers. He's mid-sip when the next question hits him and Nate gives it the consideration it deserves, with a pleasant bob of his head while he contemplates the contents of his glass. ]
Yeah, SunnyD. The "not really orange juice" juice.
[ Most of what he'd been drinking were South American equivalents, however many different flavors of jugo with way too much sugar in them for a growing boy. This doesn't taste quite the way he remembers it tasting, but he's sure that's because this is batch forty-something in Ian's quest, and perfection takes time.
He purses his lips and mulls over the tart and sweet wrestling for dominance. ]
[ He laments emphatically, staring at the glass of betrayal. It's good, sure. The thing about juice is it's really, really hard to go wrong no matter how many different citrus flavors you blend together.
After a beat, his head falls back hopelessly against the cushion behind him. ]
I've tried fucking everything. Had to swap out the high fructose corn syrup for agave nectar, but that shouldn't really affect the taste all that much. Like, the orange juice part is obvious, lemon, lime, sure. I'm thinking apple juice, maybe that's what's throwing it off. I keep... fucking with the ratios but no matter how I cut it, it's just...
[ Frustrated gesture at the air. ]
Mango, pineapple, cherry, I've even tried fucking prune juice.
[ Okay, so this is in fact a much bigger deal than he thought, and he wasn't all that off-base about finding an obsessive project to act as a convenient distraction from other emotional ailments. Reassuring to understand how thorough Ian has gotten, slightly concerning nonetheless. How long has he been experimenting? Nate never rifled through the contents of his fridge to check all the dates on the different batches.
Furrowing his brow while Ian waxes on about failed juice additives Nate purses his lips against his knuckles, mentally checking off the options. It would be sort of nice, he thinks, to help him out, even if it's just offering a new avenue of tests.
Which is right about the time that Nate's chest starts to glow, blue peeking over the rolled hem of his shirt, and he asks: ]
[ In his defense, he started Operation SunnyD almost immediately after his safehouse home was demolished. It's not just a post-Kyna coping mechanism, this is a long time in the making.
A long, frustrating time of working his ass off.
A long time of wracking his brain.
All of that contributes to the weary resignation in his posture when he puts his glass down.
The blue catches his attention before Nate's suggestion does, and he freezes like a deer in the fucking headlights.
A long, silent second. ]
Grapefruit?
[ Echoed blankly. Another silent second, and then the earth-shattering revelation: ]
Grapefruit.
[ Followed by grabbing Nate's face and smashing a kiss onto his cheek quickly, and with too much enthusiasm.
Annnd then he's up off the couch and headed to his workspace to swiftly scribble down a note. ]
[ Ian stares at him. It's startled, not pointed, like he's shocked instead of planning to open his mouth to say what a stupid idea that is, Nate, grapefruit, I mean, come on.
But all he does is snap like a dry breadstick before abandoning his own predecessor to SunnyD, grabbing Nate by the sides of his head before dragging him in and laying one on him as though Nate had just uncovered the cure for the common cold. He's left dumbstruck in his own right, watching stupidly as Ian sweeps away to his little desk to write something down in the notebook that Nate had given him weeks ago. ]
Uh.
[ How does he respond to that, besides smiling unsurely and quizzically, rubbing at his cheek. ]
[ By his desk, he plants one hand down flat on the surface and bends a little at the waist to scrawl out a few ideas on ratios. They're just top-of-mind concepts so he doesn't forget later, ultimately what really matters is just the ingredient itself. He can figure it out from there.
Once he's got a few laid out he looks over, flicking his head to send his hair out of his face absently. ]
I seriously can't believe I've been doing this for fucking weeks and you probably just cracked it with a lucky guess.
[ Some people might sound annoyed, maybe he feigns it a little, but really his tone is clearly half amused and half impressed. He underscores it by flopping his notebook closed audibly, but he carries it with him back to the couch on the off chance Nate has any other revolutionary ideas. ]
[ Nate knows the habit of getting absorbed in writing something down, communicating your idea and putting it to paper, so he spends the following seconds examining his glass' contents and wondering if it would taste better with that slightly bitter, slightly sweet hint of grapefruit.
What the fuck does he know? He's not a scientist, just a citrus enthusiast. ]
Yeah, lucky guess.
[ He echoes in agreement, brow still wrinkled in thought, when he suddenly freezes. For God's sake, Nathan, panicked grasping, Blackjack. The casino, his open shirt. It slots together like the teeth of well-oiled gears. ]
[ He noticed it, he remembers, it's just that it came right before the answer to all of life's problems, and... well, he's stoned. It was out of his brain just as quickly as it was in it. ]
So is it-- wait...
[ He starts and stops, befuddled, trying to figure out what in the hell a power like that even is. Not psychic, because that would imply Ian was thinking of it himself.
He definitely doesn't believe this suggestion when he throws it out, it's as wry as it is confused. ]
[ They're both stoned, and therefore the impairment is slowing Nate's tendency to rapid-fire theorize his way through something. The thoughts come slower and heavier, a little less rational and considerably more absurd.
Nate has the context that Ian doesn't and he's already trying to parse out the occurrences that he knows of: a nice drink one night at a nice bar when they should have been out, a twenty-one in Blackjack when he'd been counting cards and the Ace shouldn't have come up, and now this.
His free hand feels over his chest, tapping there with his pointer finger while he mulls it over and ultimately says something so ridiculous it can't possibly be true.
Because it would be the deepest irony thus far. ]
This is gonna sound...really, really stupid, but...I think it's luck?
[ He grouses quietly, pondering over the implications in this world, and how easy it would have been for him to mistake a normal occurrence for whatever this is. It feels the same as home. He might never notice if it weren't for the light show that comes with it.
Which is why Nate gives Ian a long-suffering look when he hides his hands behind the small of his back. He rubs at the corner of one of his eyes. The answer comes without thinking. ]
Four. [ Another flicker in his chest, and Nate looks down at himself for a moment. ] ...Huh.
[ He doesn't even have to pull his hands out for Nate to know he's guessed right — glow aside, it's in Ian's expression.
Matter of fact, he seems beyond impressed; he's wildly curious. He snatches up a screw from a disassembled something or another, then plops down on the couch facing Nate. One knee digs into the back cushion, the other stretches out long on the floor for stability. More importantly, he holds the screw out in his palm. It melts itself down to something the approximate shape and size of a quarter, the word heads engraved on one side and, presumably, tails on the other. ]
Call it in the air, you ready?
[ He flips, catches, slaps it down on the back of his opposite hand.
[ Nate calls it before it leaves Ian's hand, no filter between what he thinks and what he says thanks to the weed, the pulse of blue beneath his shirt a dull throbbing. When Ian lifts his palm and the former screw reads TAILS Nate exhales slowly, sitting back a little. ]
...okay. Okay. Um.
[ It hasn't worked like this before. Or rather, he hasn't tested it like this before. ]
I've gotten...unusually lucky a few times. Like I thought of something that would be convenient, or something I wanted, and it happened. But it's never- I'm not willing it to happen.
[ Maybe he wasn't trying hard enough, or concentrating hard enough. He survived Caroline's vampire rampage but at the cost of clocking himself over the head. He managed to both win money and an audience with the mob, but at the cost of taking on a job he hadn't really planned for. Thinking, but not paying attention.
That was always his problem, wasn't it? Distraction. Lack of focus. Flying by the seat of his pants, winging it. He calls it mid-air and wants tails at least three more times, then maybe a heads to spice it up a bit. ]
Tails.
[ Ian lifts his hand and Nate sits up a little straighter, palms out, radiating blue from his center. ]
Okay, indulge me. Five more times. Tails, tails, tails, heads, tails.
[ Maybe it's the weed kicking in, but with every successive correct answer Ian's getting a little bit more giddy. His mouth quirks up on one side, teeth flashing, eyebrows up, and her we go.
Flip. ]
Tails.
[ Flip. ]
Tails.
[ Flip. ]
Tails.
[ Flip. ]
Heads.
[ Flip. Pause. An apologetic click to his teeth as he looks down at the coin concealed behind his hand. ]
Heads.
[ A beat. ]
Just kidding.
[ He holds it out; fucking tails. Congrats, Nate, you have the power of being the best gambler in history. ]
[ Nate watches him attentively, every flip, every gentle slap against the back of his hand, every reveal. It's consistent up until the last one, when he immediately frowns and Ian immediately follows up with a gentle sike. Nate gives him a fond, if exasperated look that very obviously reads as you asshole. ]
Holy crap.
[ Letting out a slow, shaky exhale Nate sags into the sofa, shoulder crammed against the back cushion. He lifts a hand to scrub through his hair messily before it falls into his lap and then gestures futilely at the makeshift coin in Ian's hand. ]
So...this is something, right? We're not just both really high and imagining this?
[ A slightly stunned laugh shakes loose from his chest, and he shakes his head. ]
I'm not that high.
[ That would be a whole new level of stoned for him, and it would take more than three or four hits of unremarkable mids.
Nope, he reaches out for Nate's arm and decisively slaps the coin into his palm. A momentary activation of the empathy bond passes over some keen interest, awe, and no small amount of good humor. It only lasts for a moment or two before he lets go to clap Nate on the shoulder over his shirt instead. ]
Congrats, dude, time to stock up on lottery tickets.
[ Not only has it been a literal decade since Nate got high, he absolutely does not know if this world has anything weird in their weed, so, you know. Better cautious than not.
Either way, he kind of stares down at the coin with a little frown, wondering if personal influence - if intent - is all it takes, and how much he needs to apply to accomplish that. Flying by the seat of his pants is all well and good but probably doesn't jive super well with this kind of thing unless there's a concrete thought, or a concrete goal. Or maybe he has to not care about the outcome and trust it will turn out all right anyway.
Jesus, he just had to take a few hits off a bong before this, didn't he? ]
[ There's a pretty clear air of contemplative energy rolling off of Nate that he can see even through the gentle cloud of being stoned. Aside from that, Ian's own brain starts turning over practical applications for this kind of power - monetary gain aside, Jesus, influencing luck has got to be one of the most insane and abstract ideas he could think of. Something like that could legitimately save your life, it could save other people's lives, and it could do it in a way that was effortless. He'd love to know what in the hell the limits are, what happens if Nate needs luck but doesn't have an intent in mind, the scope of it, the--
Nate yanks him back into the present, and his eyebrows shoot up. ]
...What happened at the casino?
[ Carefully, pointedly, because if movies taught him anything it's that fucked up things happen to people who screw with the house too much. Accidentally winning big consistently enough is bound to attract attention. ]
[ Nate grimaces, slowly slanting his gaze in Ian's direction. It's a valid, normal question that begs an equally valid, normal answer. It's also something he really should have expected given a.) he brought the damn subject up in the first place, thank you, lack of filters, and b.) Ian is about as hellishly curious as Nate is about everything, all the time. ]
I might've...won a significant amount of money. Got too lucky. Started feeling stuffy, undid the top buttons of my suit-
[ He does a little gesture here, at his collar. ]
Guess I was using it the whole time and didn't realize until then. They were not happy.
[ Ian starts groaning at the word undid, because he pieces it together almost instantly. God in heaven, of course he did, and then whoever was running the joint would've seen the glow, figured out he was a displaced, and assumed he was cheating the everloving fuck out of everything.
He scrubs his hand over his face, scratches at his facial hair while his lips twist up into something concerned. ]
Well you're still running around and not, like, in jail or-- I don't know, what in the fuck would a casino owner do to a magically cheating gambler? How'd you get out of it?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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So... you're a scuba-diving gun-toting bartending archeologist pirate magician.
[ It's a statement and a question at once, correct him if he's wrong. Otherwise, with completely good humor and some kind of creeping fondness in his tone: ]
Dude, you're the weirdest person I've ever met.
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Having heard so much worse than you're the weirdest person I've ever met it genuinely tickles him and it shows. Nate feels that bashful grin crawling up again, over his chest and onto his face like a flush as he presses his smile into his fist, elbow propped on the back of the sofa.
Sincerely, he extends his gratitude and lifts his glass of the poor man's SunnyD. ]
Thank you.
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Plus, it earns that bashful look that's-- frankly, it's fucking adorable. He bites his lip to keep his own expression mostly under control, and whether or not Nate intended it to be a cheers situation, he raises his glass to gently clink it anyway. Just because. ]
You're welcome.
[ And hey, speaking of glasses-- He tips his head at Nate's. ]
Hey, did you have that where you're from?
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Yeah, SunnyD. The "not really orange juice" juice.
[ Most of what he'd been drinking were South American equivalents, however many different flavors of jugo with way too much sugar in them for a growing boy. This doesn't taste quite the way he remembers it tasting, but he's sure that's because this is batch forty-something in Ian's quest, and perfection takes time.
He purses his lips and mulls over the tart and sweet wrestling for dominance. ]
...It needs something else.
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[ He laments emphatically, staring at the glass of betrayal. It's good, sure. The thing about juice is it's really, really hard to go wrong no matter how many different citrus flavors you blend together.
After a beat, his head falls back hopelessly against the cushion behind him. ]
I've tried fucking everything. Had to swap out the high fructose corn syrup for agave nectar, but that shouldn't really affect the taste all that much. Like, the orange juice part is obvious, lemon, lime, sure. I'm thinking apple juice, maybe that's what's throwing it off. I keep... fucking with the ratios but no matter how I cut it, it's just...
[ Frustrated gesture at the air. ]
Mango, pineapple, cherry, I've even tried fucking prune juice.
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Furrowing his brow while Ian waxes on about failed juice additives Nate purses his lips against his knuckles, mentally checking off the options. It would be sort of nice, he thinks, to help him out, even if it's just offering a new avenue of tests.
Which is right about the time that Nate's chest starts to glow, blue peeking over the rolled hem of his shirt, and he asks: ]
What about grapefruit juice?
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A long, frustrating time of working his ass off.
A long time of wracking his brain.
All of that contributes to the weary resignation in his posture when he puts his glass down.
The blue catches his attention before Nate's suggestion does, and he freezes like a deer in the fucking headlights.
A long, silent second. ]
Grapefruit?
[ Echoed blankly. Another silent second, and then the earth-shattering revelation: ]
Grapefruit.
[ Followed by grabbing Nate's face and smashing a kiss onto his cheek quickly, and with too much enthusiasm.
Annnd then he's up off the couch and headed to his workspace to swiftly scribble down a note. ]
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But all he does is snap like a dry breadstick before abandoning his own predecessor to SunnyD, grabbing Nate by the sides of his head before dragging him in and laying one on him as though Nate had just uncovered the cure for the common cold. He's left dumbstruck in his own right, watching stupidly as Ian sweeps away to his little desk to write something down in the notebook that Nate had given him weeks ago. ]
Uh.
[ How does he respond to that, besides smiling unsurely and quizzically, rubbing at his cheek. ]
You're welcome?
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Once he's got a few laid out he looks over, flicking his head to send his hair out of his face absently. ]
I seriously can't believe I've been doing this for fucking weeks and you probably just cracked it with a lucky guess.
[ Some people might sound annoyed, maybe he feigns it a little, but really his tone is clearly half amused and half impressed. He underscores it by flopping his notebook closed audibly, but he carries it with him back to the couch on the off chance Nate has any other revolutionary ideas. ]
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What the fuck does he know? He's not a scientist, just a citrus enthusiast. ]
Yeah, lucky guess.
[ He echoes in agreement, brow still wrinkled in thought, when he suddenly freezes. For God's sake, Nathan, panicked grasping, Blackjack. The casino, his open shirt. It slots together like the teeth of well-oiled gears. ]
Did my chest just glow?
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Yeah, shit, yeah, it did.
[ He noticed it, he remembers, it's just that it came right before the answer to all of life's problems, and... well, he's stoned. It was out of his brain just as quickly as it was in it. ]
So is it-- wait...
[ He starts and stops, befuddled, trying to figure out what in the hell a power like that even is. Not psychic, because that would imply Ian was thinking of it himself.
He definitely doesn't believe this suggestion when he throws it out, it's as wry as it is confused. ]
Is your power actually bartending?
[ Since apparently you can perfect drinks. ]
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Nate has the context that Ian doesn't and he's already trying to parse out the occurrences that he knows of: a nice drink one night at a nice bar when they should have been out, a twenty-one in Blackjack when he'd been counting cards and the Ace shouldn't have come up, and now this.
His free hand feels over his chest, tapping there with his pointer finger while he mulls it over and ultimately says something so ridiculous it can't possibly be true.
Because it would be the deepest irony thus far. ]
This is gonna sound...really, really stupid, but...I think it's luck?
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[ Slow, and boundlessly amused. ]
Sure, that tracks.
[ It's light, he's joking, but like-- actually, he's considering it beneath the humor. How do you even test something like that?
Well, maybe just... games of chance or something?
He sticks his hands behind his back, index and middle fingers sticking up. ]
How many fingers am I holding up?
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[ He grouses quietly, pondering over the implications in this world, and how easy it would have been for him to mistake a normal occurrence for whatever this is. It feels the same as home. He might never notice if it weren't for the light show that comes with it.
Which is why Nate gives Ian a long-suffering look when he hides his hands behind the small of his back. He rubs at the corner of one of his eyes. The answer comes without thinking. ]
Four. [ Another flicker in his chest, and Nate looks down at himself for a moment. ] ...Huh.
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Matter of fact, he seems beyond impressed; he's wildly curious. He snatches up a screw from a disassembled something or another, then plops down on the couch facing Nate. One knee digs into the back cushion, the other stretches out long on the floor for stability. More importantly, he holds the screw out in his palm. It melts itself down to something the approximate shape and size of a quarter, the word heads engraved on one side and, presumably, tails on the other. ]
Call it in the air, you ready?
[ He flips, catches, slaps it down on the back of his opposite hand.
Tails. ]
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[ Nate calls it before it leaves Ian's hand, no filter between what he thinks and what he says thanks to the weed, the pulse of blue beneath his shirt a dull throbbing. When Ian lifts his palm and the former screw reads TAILS Nate exhales slowly, sitting back a little. ]
...okay. Okay. Um.
[ It hasn't worked like this before. Or rather, he hasn't tested it like this before. ]
I've gotten...unusually lucky a few times. Like I thought of something that would be convenient, or something I wanted, and it happened. But it's never- I'm not willing it to happen.
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Alright-- so maybe, like, before I even flip it this time, think about what you want it to be.
[ Lucky guessing versus influencing fate? Maybe?
Alright, here we go--
Flip. Slap. Tails. ]
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That was always his problem, wasn't it? Distraction. Lack of focus. Flying by the seat of his pants, winging it. He calls it mid-air and wants tails at least three more times, then maybe a heads to spice it up a bit. ]
Tails.
[ Ian lifts his hand and Nate sits up a little straighter, palms out, radiating blue from his center. ]
Okay, indulge me. Five more times. Tails, tails, tails, heads, tails.
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Flip. ]
Tails.
[ Flip. ]
Tails.
[ Flip. ]
Tails.
[ Flip. ]
Heads.
[ Flip. Pause. An apologetic click to his teeth as he looks down at the coin concealed behind his hand. ]
Heads.
[ A beat. ]
Just kidding.
[ He holds it out; fucking tails. Congrats, Nate, you have the power of being the best gambler in history. ]
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Holy crap.
[ Letting out a slow, shaky exhale Nate sags into the sofa, shoulder crammed against the back cushion. He lifts a hand to scrub through his hair messily before it falls into his lap and then gestures futilely at the makeshift coin in Ian's hand. ]
So...this is something, right? We're not just both really high and imagining this?
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I'm not that high.
[ That would be a whole new level of stoned for him, and it would take more than three or four hits of unremarkable mids.
Nope, he reaches out for Nate's arm and decisively slaps the coin into his palm. A momentary activation of the empathy bond passes over some keen interest, awe, and no small amount of good humor. It only lasts for a moment or two before he lets go to clap Nate on the shoulder over his shirt instead. ]
Congrats, dude, time to stock up on lottery tickets.
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Either way, he kind of stares down at the coin with a little frown, wondering if personal influence - if intent - is all it takes, and how much he needs to apply to accomplish that. Flying by the seat of his pants is all well and good but probably doesn't jive super well with this kind of thing unless there's a concrete thought, or a concrete goal. Or maybe he has to not care about the outcome and trust it will turn out all right anyway.
Jesus, he just had to take a few hits off a bong before this, didn't he? ]
Well. That explains the casino.
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Nate yanks him back into the present, and his eyebrows shoot up. ]
...What happened at the casino?
[ Carefully, pointedly, because if movies taught him anything it's that fucked up things happen to people who screw with the house too much. Accidentally winning big consistently enough is bound to attract attention. ]
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I might've...won a significant amount of money. Got too lucky. Started feeling stuffy, undid the top buttons of my suit-
[ He does a little gesture here, at his collar. ]
Guess I was using it the whole time and didn't realize until then. They were not happy.
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He scrubs his hand over his face, scratches at his facial hair while his lips twist up into something concerned. ]
Well you're still running around and not, like, in jail or-- I don't know, what in the fuck would a casino owner do to a magically cheating gambler? How'd you get out of it?
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