Notes: Sports Night crossover.
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The lights in the bar were dim and Casey almost didn�t notice when the guy sat down next to him.
Almost, but not quite.
He muttered a drink order at the bartender and hunched over the bar, letting his head collapse into his hands. On any other day, Casey might have left him alone, but this wasn�t a day like any other, not by a long shot, and so he had to open his mouth.
As if that hadn�t already caused him enough problems.
�Rough day?� he asked the guy, and when he raised his head wearily from his hands, Casey saw that his eyes were watery, almost as if he�d already been drinking, or maybe crying. He couldn�t tell the difference.
�Rough life,� the guy replied with a grimace, taking the drink that the bartender set in front of him and knocking it back. He gestured at the empty glass, and watched the refill being poured. �I�d ask the same of you, but to be perfectly honest, I couldn�t give two shits.�
Casey shrugged. �Fair enough.� Silence fell between them, but it wasn�t an awkward silence. Casey could tell, because he�d had enough experience with those recently. This was just the companionable silence of two men who were trying to drown their sorrows and failing utterly, knowing that when they woke up tomorrow they�d find that their troubles hadn�t disappeared, they�d just been hidden temporarily within the haze of the mother of all hangovers.
And maybe, just for tomorrow, that would be enough.
�So,� Casey finally said, because there seemed nothing better to do with himself, �love life, job, family, or none of the above?�
There was a long pause, and he began to think that the guy wasn�t going to answer him. When he finally did, there was a defeat to his voice that Casey recognized only too well. �Is �all of the above� an option?� He sighed. �Job is a joke. I had one, and I threw everything away for it�everything. And now�shit, look at me. I�m in New York, don�t know a person in this goddamn city, and it�s all because of the job. Except I wanted it in the beginning, you know? I volunteered. That�s the part of it that really takes the shit out of me, know what I�m saying? I put myself up for all this. So what kind of right have I got to be bitter about any of it?
�Family�who knows anymore? You know, they were always just there, on the sidelines, easy to haul out when I needed them, and easy to stuff back into wherever they came from when I didn�t. And then I hit Vegas, and all of a sudden, they were gone. And not just gone, you know, because if it had just been a distance thing, it wouldn�t have been so bad. But to not be able to even pick up a phone and hear their voices�you know how tough that was? Thing is, I never expected it to be that tough. Not in a million years.
�And love life? Shit. Don�t even get me started on love life. I mean, I guess, yeah, a part of me left because I couldn�t deal with it. I mean, look at me. I�m about as Italian as they come, right? And I�m sure my ma would just about flip if I ever told her�but see the thing is, maybe she wouldn�t have. Maybe none of them would have. They all loved the hell out of him after all. There�s a part of me that thinks that everyone would have just looked at us if anything ever happened and said��shit, you mean it never happened before?� But it was just�I�m a cop, you know? Well hell�no. You don�t know. But that�s the thing, see. I�m a cop. Or I was. In Chicago�before�� he waved a hand as if to encompass everything that existed between this bar and Chicago, in both space and time. �And I don�t know if you�ve ever known any cops, but chances are you probably know that they don�t fall in love with men.�
Casey let out a choked laugh. �Well I don�t know if you�ve ever known any sports anchors, but the same pretty much holds true for them too.�
That seemed to draw the guy out of his reverie a little, and he squinted at Casey in the dim light of the bar. �You�re a sports anchor? No shit.�
�No shit,� Casey said, idly spinning his beer bottle against the bar. �Sports Night on CSC.�
The guy shrugged. �Haven�t had much time to watch TV in the past few years. Mob�s got better things to be doing.�
Casey raised his eyebrows. �Mob?� he repeated. �Thought you were a cop.�
�Nah, that was some other guy,� he said, and instead of bitterness in his voice, there was only sadness. �Me, I�m just what�s left over when everything that made me the guy I was has been stripped away and shoved onto someone else.� Casey didn�t follow, of course, because who could? But it didn�t matter, because the guy wasn�t really talking for his benefit anyway. �In the beginning, it was just my name, you know. He�ll wear my badge, he�ll sit at my desk, and do my job, and that�s all. It�s not like he�ll be me, not really. Just like what I was doing. I was living under a name that wasn�t my own, doing things that the guy I used to be would never do, but it didn�t matter, because somewhere in there, I�d still be me, you know?
�Except I wasn�t. Not really, not in the end. All that living trapped in someone else�s life, and eventually you start to forget who you were before all the crap. Then the crap was over, and it was just me�me and the person I�d become. And I thought maybe, if I just got on a plane and went home, it would all make sense again�I could put all the pieces back together and figure out who I had been, who I was supposed to be. But just picture this for me, will you? Because it�s really going to blow your mind.
�You fly home, you get off a plane, and you rent this piece of crap car. Not because you can�t afford anything better, because let�s face it, you got pretty good money for living undercover for a couple years. But because you really couldn�t care less how you get there, just as long as you do. And you drive down to the station house first, because it�s going to be a hell of a lot easier to face those guys than your mother, and the only other place you�d go�well you can�t deal with that just yet either.
�So you go down to the house and you�re just about ready to get out of the car, you�ve just about pulled together the guts that it�s gonna take to walk in there and say �hey fellas, miss me?� and you see him come out the door. Now, know how I told you that cops don�t fall in love with other men? Well that�s other cops, see. That�s not me. Can�t tell you how much I wish it was me sometimes, but it�s just not. So anyways, he comes out the door, and he looks so fucking beautiful�just like he did when you left, except maybe his hair�s a little longer, maybe he�s bulked up a little, but he�s the same guy, and you forget for a minute that you�re not the same guy you were when you knew him, you�re not even close.
�Then you�re reminded. Because right behind him there comes this other guy, and you know even without ever having seen him that he�s the one who�s taken your name, taken your life, and it takes a hell of a lot to remind yourself that you agreed to him doing it in the first place. So you don�t get out of the car, not because you�re scared or because you don�t want to see them, but because you want to give them these last couple of seconds before you walk up and tear apart everything they�ve gotten used to over the last few years.
�Except you can�t do it. Because you see them walking to the car, and your guy�I mean, shit, I don�t think I�ll ever stop thinking about him as my guy�he leans over to say something to the guy who�s pretending to be me, the Ray who�s not Ray at all, not really. And notRay says something back, and then Benny�s face just kinda lights up�like it�s fucking Christmas or something. That�s what killed me, right there. I mean, he looked...shit, he looked happy. I don�t think I ever saw him look like that, not with me. He smiled, sure, when he�d make one of those Canadian jokes that only he got, or when we�d completed some ridiculous mission or duty or whatever the hell he called them�but I never made him look like that.
�I never got out of the car. I watched them drive away, and I turned right back around to the airport and bought a ticket to somewhere, anywhere. And here I am. Sitting at the counter of a dingy little bar in fucking New York City, pouring out my soul to�of all people�a sports anchor.� He lifted his glass, as if in a toast. �Life, my friend, is fucked.�
�That it is,� Casey agreed, raising his beer in commiseration.
�Ok, so I think I�ve had enough to drink now that I do give two shits, so shoot. What�s your story?�
Casey peered at his beer bottle for a few seconds, then shrugged. �Nothing like yours.�
�Yeah, well, I got the monopoly on misery in this corner of the bar,� Ray agreed with an ironic smile. �But guys like you don�t end up in crapholes like this unless they�ve got a reason. Something to be running from.�
Casey almost grinned. �You didn�t seriously just give me a �what�s a guy like you doing in a place like this?� line, did you?�
�I�ve just explained to you in explicit detail exactly how my life has been in the process of falling apart over the past two years. Think you can cut a guy a little slack?�
�Point taken,� Casey conceded. �Mine�s been doing pretty much the same thing, but on a much smaller scale.�
�Love life, job, family, or none of the above?�
Casey smiled. �Is �all of the above� an acceptable answer?�
�Works for me,� Ray said, waving his glass in Casey�s direction as if to prod him on.
�Well my problems are about ten times less complicated than yours, and on that note, can I just mention that I still don�t understand about three quarters of what you were saying?�
�Me neither, buddy. Me neither.� He waved his glass again. �Anyway, go on.�
�Well basically, it all boils down to the fact that I�m a relatively successful guy with an amazing job and an amazing kid and an amazing group of coworkers�and an amazing talent for fucking all of that up.�
�And how�d you manage that?�
�Well, it takes an incredible amount of skill and determination, but the bottom line is�I fell in love with my best friend. Who also happens to be my coanchor. And this afternoon, some monumentally idiotic part of my mind temporarily hijacked my senses and�I kissed him. A lot.�
Ray frowned. ��A lot� implies that he wasn�t quite complaining.�
�Well he wasn�t.� Casey paused. �Quite.� He sighed and tapped his almost empty beer bottle restlessly. �It�s complicated.�
�Right. Because I don�t know a thing about complicated situations. Try me.�
�Well the way I see it, we have three options. We can a) ignore it and pretend it never happened, b) let it keep going but try to keep it separate from our professional lives, or c) suddenly announce ourselves as the world�s first openly gay sports broadcasting team, and watch our ratings go sliding very rapidly towards a dark pit of�well, something dark and pitlike. And normally, I�d be all for option b, but, see, I�m not. In very fundamental ways. Because, number one, it�d never work. We see each other all day. The people we hang out with outside of the office are the same people we hang out with inside of it. And number two�Danny deserves better than that. I don�t want him to be�my dirty little secret or something, you know? He�s�he�s more than that.�
�Well, there�s always option d,� Ray said with a shrug.
�What�s option d?�
�Go all the way across town�or halfway across the country if you�re me�to find a bar where no one knows you and no one would think twice about watching you get yourself drunk off your hinges, and spill your life story to some stranger who happens to plunk down next to you. Seemed to work out pretty well for me.�
Casey sighed. �Yeah. Guess there�s always option d.�
�See, from where I�m sitting, it looks like you have exactly the opposite of a problem,� Ray said. �But maybe that�s just me.�
�What do you mean?�
�I mean you�ve got a guy�and probably a pretty damn good looking one, if you�re any indication�waiting across town for you, who didn�t seem to mind when you decided to kiss him�a lot. And he�s probably worried out of his mind that you�re off doing something ridiculous to yourself�which, for all he knows, you are. And you�re here, in this craphole of a bar, getting drunk with me. Seems to me like you�ve got better places to be and people to be doing.�
Casey shook his head. �You don�t get it.�
�Oh I get it,� Ray told him. �You�re the one who doesn�t get it. And if you keep on not getting it, maybe I�ll see you in a bar in Chicago in a few years.� He pulled a wallet from his pocket and unfolded some bills, trapping them under the bowl of peanuts beside him. He picked up his almost empty glass and held it up. �To Danny,� he said and drained it. �And to you getting your head out of your ass.�
Casey waited until Ray was almost to the door before he picked up his own bottle. �To Benny. And to you doing the same.� He wasn�t sure if Ray heard him, but he saw him pause for a moment at the door before letting it slam shut in his wake, and when he hailed a cab, Casey noted that it swerved off in the direction of the airport.
He watched a drop of condensation trickle slowly down the side of his empty bottle for a moment, and contemplated leaving, heading out into the night and making that familiar ride to Dan�s apartment. He knew that Dan would let him in, because that was how he was, how they were. And then�what? The awkward silence of two men who were careening towards a precipice that neither one of them could hope to understand? He couldn�t face that, not tonight. Probably not ever.
So instead he ordered another drink and decided that he had been a fool to think, even for a second, that he had ever possessed the power to change anything for the better.