Matt doesn't often pick up men. Women, sure. He comes across as non-threatening (what could a blind guy do to them?). His self-deprecating politeness (and his looks, let's be fair) win them over, and he likes to think he's pretty good in bed too. That always seems to surprise them, and that always disappoints him a little.
Picking up men is a little more dangerous, in several very real ways. Still, Matt's in the mood for it, so he goes to a place he likes. It's low-key, a pretty quiet bar where he can have a drink and maybe find a friend for the evening or for a few minutes. He studiously avoids karaoke night.
Tonight's a slow one, a couple of regulars that Matt recognises by sound and scent. One of them works for Landman and Zack. He settles himself on a stool at the bar and sets his cane next to him.
"Scotch," he requests.
The barman nods and makes his drink. Matt listens. A pair in a corner booth, talking in low voices about things he really shouldn't be listening in on. He tilts his head. An older man sitting at the other end of the bar who seems to be in here every night, always on his own.
In the other corner. Someone quiet, alone. Steady breathing. And something else... an artificial sound. Electronic and metallic. What the hell is that? He frowns and listens. Now that he concentrates, he can smell the faint tinge of ozone. Semi-regular, almost like hydraulics. The quiet tap of the beer bottle on the table. Is it his arm? It doesn't sound like any prosthetic Matt's ever heard.
He eases off the stool, cane in hand, and taps his way across the room to the jukebox. The man in the corner tenses and then relaxes as Matt walks past him. He fishes in his pocket for a quarter and slips it into the machine. He's been here enough times to know the machine's entire repertoire. Two nine zero one.
He taps his way to the bathroom, past the man in the booth, who goes very still. Out again as Mick Jagger asks to introduce himself as a man of wealth and taste. Matt smiles a little to himself and then pretends to trip, just a minor one, but noticeable. The man in the booth doesn't move. He's watching Matt very closely, but he says nothing.
"I, uh, I'd hoped to be a little less clumsy before I approached," he says with a rueful smile. "I'm Matt. Can I buy you a drink?"
The silence is eerie. Even the hydraulics have stilled. The man holds himself very still and watches him. Matt presses his lips together.
"Sorry. I'll uh, leave you alone."
He turns, and the man speaks, almost inaudibly. "Wait."
A beat of silence. "Yuengling?"
Matt smiles. "Sure thing."
He goes to the bar to retrieve his drink and get the beer and then returns, turning on the charm.
"I didn't catch your name," he says.
The man's throat works audibly as he swallows. "Bucky."
Matt tips his head. It must be a nickname. Sounds vaguely familiar, like a friend of a friend of a friend. Doesn't matter. Rustle of denim and the faintest creak of leather glove as Bucky opens the beer with ease. Now the quiet sound of the hydraulics is clearer-- his hand, his arm, all the way up to the shoulder. Decidedly not standard issue.
"Do you come here a lot?" he laughs a little. "I'm sorry, I don't do this much."
Matt sips his drink, Bucky his beer. His interest has gone beyond just trying to get laid. He wants to know the story, but he waits amiably for Bucky to break the silence or to direct him to the back door of the bar. The question, when it comes out, catches him off his guard.
"You're not actually blind, are you."
The tone is weirdly flat, as if Bucky doesn't really care one way or the other. He could be asking about the weather instead of whether Matt is trawling for pity fucks.
"I am, actually. But I come here a lot. You get to know a place."
Matt hears the whir just before Bucky's hand shoots out (god he's fast) and lifts his glass to avoid getting it spilled all over his suit. The two of them sit there for a moment.
"Good reflexes," Bucky murmurs.
"Yeah."
Matt sips his drink. Bucky rubs his face with a rasp of stubble. He's so quiet, Matt can hear the intake of his breath. He smells of beer, new sweat, and soap from a shower earlier in the day. They go on drinking in silence until glass and bottle are empty.
"Another round?" Matt asks.
"No."
He nods. "Okay, I'll just--"
"Stay." Quiet, but sincere. A voice that's been through hell, if Matt's not mistaken.
"Okay."
Slowly, so as not to alarm him, Matt reaches across the table. He presses his fingers to the gloved hand. Hard beneath the leather, not cold but not warm. Strong fingers close around his own with a series of clicks. Matt tilts his head. His fingertips go searching up Bucky's wrist and touch metal. Bucky jerks his arm back, and Matt holds up his hands.
"I'm sorry. I was curious." He half-expects Bucky to get up and leave, to bolt like a hare. "I... know a little of what it's like to conceal things."
"What do you want?"
Mistrust has crept into his voice. Matt's stepped over the line, and he's not sure how to put Bucky at ease again. If he ever was at ease. He opts for honesty.
FILL - Haunted 1/?
Picking up men is a little more dangerous, in several very real ways. Still, Matt's in the mood for it, so he goes to a place he likes. It's low-key, a pretty quiet bar where he can have a drink and maybe find a friend for the evening or for a few minutes. He studiously avoids karaoke night.
Tonight's a slow one, a couple of regulars that Matt recognises by sound and scent. One of them works for Landman and Zack. He settles himself on a stool at the bar and sets his cane next to him.
"Scotch," he requests.
The barman nods and makes his drink. Matt listens. A pair in a corner booth, talking in low voices about things he really shouldn't be listening in on. He tilts his head. An older man sitting at the other end of the bar who seems to be in here every night, always on his own.
In the other corner. Someone quiet, alone. Steady breathing. And something else... an artificial sound. Electronic and metallic. What the hell is that? He frowns and listens. Now that he concentrates, he can smell the faint tinge of ozone. Semi-regular, almost like hydraulics. The quiet tap of the beer bottle on the table. Is it his arm? It doesn't sound like any prosthetic Matt's ever heard.
He eases off the stool, cane in hand, and taps his way across the room to the jukebox. The man in the corner tenses and then relaxes as Matt walks past him. He fishes in his pocket for a quarter and slips it into the machine. He's been here enough times to know the machine's entire repertoire. Two nine zero one.
He taps his way to the bathroom, past the man in the booth, who goes very still. Out again as Mick Jagger asks to introduce himself as a man of wealth and taste. Matt smiles a little to himself and then pretends to trip, just a minor one, but noticeable. The man in the booth doesn't move. He's watching Matt very closely, but he says nothing.
"I, uh, I'd hoped to be a little less clumsy before I approached," he says with a rueful smile. "I'm Matt. Can I buy you a drink?"
The silence is eerie. Even the hydraulics have stilled. The man holds himself very still and watches him. Matt presses his lips together.
"Sorry. I'll uh, leave you alone."
He turns, and the man speaks, almost inaudibly. "Wait."
A beat of silence. "Yuengling?"
Matt smiles. "Sure thing."
He goes to the bar to retrieve his drink and get the beer and then returns, turning on the charm.
"I didn't catch your name," he says.
The man's throat works audibly as he swallows. "Bucky."
Matt tips his head. It must be a nickname. Sounds vaguely familiar, like a friend of a friend of a friend. Doesn't matter. Rustle of denim and the faintest creak of leather glove as Bucky opens the beer with ease. Now the quiet sound of the hydraulics is clearer-- his hand, his arm, all the way up to the shoulder. Decidedly not standard issue.
"Do you come here a lot?" he laughs a little. "I'm sorry, I don't do this much."
Matt sips his drink, Bucky his beer. His interest has gone beyond just trying to get laid. He wants to know the story, but he waits amiably for Bucky to break the silence or to direct him to the back door of the bar. The question, when it comes out, catches him off his guard.
"You're not actually blind, are you."
The tone is weirdly flat, as if Bucky doesn't really care one way or the other. He could be asking about the weather instead of whether Matt is trawling for pity fucks.
"I am, actually. But I come here a lot. You get to know a place."
Matt hears the whir just before Bucky's hand shoots out (god he's fast) and lifts his glass to avoid getting it spilled all over his suit. The two of them sit there for a moment.
"Good reflexes," Bucky murmurs.
"Yeah."
Matt sips his drink. Bucky rubs his face with a rasp of stubble. He's so quiet, Matt can hear the intake of his breath. He smells of beer, new sweat, and soap from a shower earlier in the day. They go on drinking in silence until glass and bottle are empty.
"Another round?" Matt asks.
"No."
He nods. "Okay, I'll just--"
"Stay." Quiet, but sincere. A voice that's been through hell, if Matt's not mistaken.
"Okay."
Slowly, so as not to alarm him, Matt reaches across the table. He presses his fingers to the gloved hand. Hard beneath the leather, not cold but not warm. Strong fingers close around his own with a series of clicks. Matt tilts his head. His fingertips go searching up Bucky's wrist and touch metal. Bucky jerks his arm back, and Matt holds up his hands.
"I'm sorry. I was curious." He half-expects Bucky to get up and leave, to bolt like a hare. "I... know a little of what it's like to conceal things."
"What do you want?"
Mistrust has crept into his voice. Matt's stepped over the line, and he's not sure how to put Bucky at ease again. If he ever was at ease. He opts for honesty.
"What I want... is for you to come home with me."