[ 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?
Besides have some goons drag me into a back room to beat the crap out of me?
[ Nate quips blithely, as though it were a hypothetical and not, in fact, the reality of the situation. He scratches idly at a cheekbone, the bruise only recently faded out into something that’s not noticeable. Nate also has no idea what was him and what was the power, because he’s generally very good at counting cards. ]
They want the notoriety, I think. Or...or the power. Or both. They got shafted when big companies cut them out of business deals. [ He wheedles around the subject before really getting to the point. ] They offered me a job.
[ Ian does not, in fact, take it as a hypothetical. He's learning from his mistakes and he's assuming the most dangerous eventuality is in fact the truest account of Nathan's history. He's leveled with an flat, patient stare throughout his circle-talking — right up until that big delivery, at which point his features shift into something more resembling distress. ]
A job? They- meaning, the owners of a casino, people who have goons, people who are interested in paying other people to magically cheat at high-stakes gambling — are they the fucking mafia? The mafia offered you a job?
[ But wait! There's more! The conclusions don't end there — ]
I didn’t think it would be a really great idea to refuse when they were holding me and my brother in a windowless room!
[ He could have taken them, he knows this. Could have easily twisted out of their grip, decked a couple, done a few easy take-downs with Sam there, and they could have left the casino relatively unscathed.
Except for the inevitable blowback when the fucking mob would undoubtedly put a hit out on them, endangering not only the people who came with them - Midge, Lance, Wade, Garak - but the Displaced as a whole. People who had never set foot in the casino and probably never would. People like- ]
Ian. There wasn’t a choice. [ Nate’s pleasant buzz is starting to feel compromised and he doesn’t shy away from eye contact now. ] And I figured the least I could do is make it useful, I’m- I can keep tabs on their issues with the corporations. Try and figure out if they know which mercenary groups work for which companies, narrow down the options on which one sent them to kidnap us a few months ago.
[ Does all of that make complete and total sense? Yes. Is he happy about any of it regardless? Resounding no.
His lips press together in a gentle unhappy line, though the soft cloud of pot in his mind keeps him from dipping to outright upset. His fingers card through his hair, catch about midway through as some of the curls lock together. He abandons the motion, and the tendrils sort of flop dejectedly over onto one side.
Nate doesn't shy from the eye contact, but Ian does a little - it's just a slight dip and sideways look wherein his eyes land on his glass as he settles heavily back into the couch. ]
I just don't want you to get hurt, man. It sounds fucking dangerous.
[ Nate watches the aborted gesture, the way Ian's hand loses interest halfway through and his hair falls over his face again. Loose, almost leisurely, tinged with the anxiety of someone who is feeling the sentiment through the thick curtain of recreational influence. It isn't a pleasant sensation to know that you're a problem, but neither is Nate unfamiliar with the expression, the concern, and though it would be easy to give the carefree and rote response Ian probably deserves something a little more sincere. ]
I know.
[ It's fine, I'll be okay, there's nothing to worry about, I've done stuff like this a thousand times.
Hollow, empty words. Things he can say, but won't. No matter how confident he is the stakes are still high. ]
I'm gonna be as careful as I can be, which...I know probably doesn't mean a lot to you, but. I mean it.
[ There's quiet for a second, words in his head that he turns over a few times to weigh them against the sober part of his brain and determine if it's a good idea to actually say them. Weed makes his filter drop a little, he forgets for a few seconds at a time to actually think before he speaks.
What he's thinking about saying feels a little too real-sounding, though, and responding to doesn't mean a lot to you the way he almost does... Yeah, he'd replay it later on without being stoned and probably agonize over it. Kick himself like a moron.
In the end, the sand sifts under the surface and it's smoothed back into glass with the absent motion of his tongue passing over his lips. ]
Alright, man, but if you get into trouble...
[ You have his number. Does it come across as that, or does it come across as if you get into trouble keep it away from me? Can't be sure it comes across the way it means it to, he's second guessing himself a little with that pot-based paranoia.
Just to be sure, he follows it up with a blithe, self-deprecating offer. ]
I can make some neat fucking... walls, or something.
Usually the implication is don't bring it back to my doorstep but the hesitation makes him feel like the meaning isn't the same. Like Ian is trying to choose his words deliberately, so as to not be misunderstood - or maybe that's wishful thinking, that Nate's poor decision making won't drive someone away. The follow-up summarily clears him of doubts but it's also such a devastatingly funny addendum that Nate snorts into his Sunny D. ]
Well, Hell. [ He says with a distinctive air of teasing, smile wry over the lip of his glass, brightened by the levity. ] I could go for some neat walls.
[ It drives a soft, amused scoff out of him. Yeah, yeah, shut up, maybe he's not the best at delivering the appropriate amount (but not too much) of sincerity while stoned.
Good to have the lightness back, and it's written in his expression somewhere even as he lifts his eyes to shoot Nate a look.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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?
no subject
[ 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?
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
[ Nate quips blithely, as though it were a hypothetical and not, in fact, the reality of the situation. He scratches idly at a cheekbone, the bruise only recently faded out into something that’s not noticeable. Nate also has no idea what was him and what was the power, because he’s generally very good at counting cards. ]
They want the notoriety, I think. Or...or the power. Or both. They got shafted when big companies cut them out of business deals. [ He wheedles around the subject before really getting to the point. ] They offered me a job.
no subject
A job? They- meaning, the owners of a casino, people who have goons, people who are interested in paying other people to magically cheat at high-stakes gambling — are they the fucking mafia? The mafia offered you a job?
[ But wait! There's more! The conclusions don't end there — ]
Oh fuck, you took it, didn't you?
no subject
[ He could have taken them, he knows this. Could have easily twisted out of their grip, decked a couple, done a few easy take-downs with Sam there, and they could have left the casino relatively unscathed.
Except for the inevitable blowback when the fucking mob would undoubtedly put a hit out on them, endangering not only the people who came with them - Midge, Lance, Wade, Garak - but the Displaced as a whole. People who had never set foot in the casino and probably never would. People like- ]
Ian. There wasn’t a choice. [ Nate’s pleasant buzz is starting to feel compromised and he doesn’t shy away from eye contact now. ] And I figured the least I could do is make it useful, I’m- I can keep tabs on their issues with the corporations. Try and figure out if they know which mercenary groups work for which companies, narrow down the options on which one sent them to kidnap us a few months ago.
no subject
His lips press together in a gentle unhappy line, though the soft cloud of pot in his mind keeps him from dipping to outright upset. His fingers card through his hair, catch about midway through as some of the curls lock together. He abandons the motion, and the tendrils sort of flop dejectedly over onto one side.
Nate doesn't shy from the eye contact, but Ian does a little - it's just a slight dip and sideways look wherein his eyes land on his glass as he settles heavily back into the couch. ]
I just don't want you to get hurt, man. It sounds fucking dangerous.
no subject
I know.
[ It's fine, I'll be okay, there's nothing to worry about, I've done stuff like this a thousand times.
Hollow, empty words. Things he can say, but won't. No matter how confident he is the stakes are still high. ]
I'm gonna be as careful as I can be, which...I know probably doesn't mean a lot to you, but. I mean it.
no subject
What he's thinking about saying feels a little too real-sounding, though, and responding to doesn't mean a lot to you the way he almost does... Yeah, he'd replay it later on without being stoned and probably agonize over it. Kick himself like a moron.
In the end, the sand sifts under the surface and it's smoothed back into glass with the absent motion of his tongue passing over his lips. ]
Alright, man, but if you get into trouble...
[ You have his number. Does it come across as that, or does it come across as if you get into trouble keep it away from me? Can't be sure it comes across the way it means it to, he's second guessing himself a little with that pot-based paranoia.
Just to be sure, he follows it up with a blithe, self-deprecating offer. ]
I can make some neat fucking... walls, or something.
no subject
Usually the implication is don't bring it back to my doorstep but the hesitation makes him feel like the meaning isn't the same. Like Ian is trying to choose his words deliberately, so as to not be misunderstood - or maybe that's wishful thinking, that Nate's poor decision making won't drive someone away. The follow-up summarily clears him of doubts but it's also such a devastatingly funny addendum that Nate snorts into his Sunny D. ]
Well, Hell. [ He says with a distinctive air of teasing, smile wry over the lip of his glass, brightened by the levity. ] I could go for some neat walls.
no subject
Good to have the lightness back, and it's written in his expression somewhere even as he lifts his eyes to shoot Nate a look.
Half-mutters: ]
Better than your walls anyway, Winnesota.