#hankolsonappreciationweek

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“You can say you were worried about me Barko. In fact I’m flattered you—“

“Jesus christ, just fucking take this and shut the fuck up already!”

Hank doesn’t want to shut the fuck up. In fact he’s thinking 10 more different things to say to fluster Gary further. It’s way too fucking easy to do and—

“Wait. What is this?” Hank whispers, all mirth gone from his voice and soon anymore words are gone too, effectively giving Gary what he wants. Hank shutting the fuck up.

But of course, pleasing the fake blond is never easy. “Wh-what? Did you go fucking blind too?” Gary stutters out, that familiar edge coming out of him, but Hank can only focus on the picture in his hands.

Hank knows he should say something. Gary is never good when people don’t fall for his bait, but how can he when he’s holding a photo of—

“I swear to god if you go silent again. It’s just a goddamn photo of you and your best fucking friends. The muskaqueers or whatever you assholes call yourselves.”

It’s the Musketeers, you dick. Hank wants to say, but he doesn’t. After all, in his hand is a photo of him and the Musketeers. Pete has Hank in a sort of chokehold and his fellow brother in arms, Ray, is ruffling Hank’s hair. Art was no help back then and instead laughed at Hank’s plight so he was left alone to deal with his friends and get them off him.

They’re all smiling brightly. A shine in their eyes.

“…I took it at the party. You guys were being noisy ass shit and— uh—“ Gary’s rambling knocks Hank back into his senses as he continues talking, “I had my camera and—“

“Yeah, well it’s a good fucking photo. Man…” Hank interrupts him causing both of them to fall silent. Words somehow gone been two fuckers who have too much shit too say, yet the air remains thick. “Thank you, Gary.” Hank finally says, looking up at Gary who turns his head away immediately, cheeks flushed red.

“Yeah, well— Never say I didn’t do nothing for ya’.” Gary pauses, “But you’re welcome...” It’ s quick and rushed out and Gary looks like he wants to leave, but even so, Hank can’t help but feel as if we can still hear the laughter just by looking at this photo. As if somehow Barkovitch has managed to capture the joy of him and his best-fucking-friends in one photo.

"Think they'll let us back into the reception?" It's an honest question, really. Harkness punctuates it with a vulgar sound as he tilts his head and spits out a mouthful of blood on the concrete by his shoes. It splatters on the scuffed soles of his sneakers. He ignores it, looking instead toward the watch on his wrist. The crystal is cracked, but he can make out the time between shards of glass if he squints. It's not as busted as his glasses anyway. "It's not even ten yet. I mean, they're probably gonna be going all night."

"After that shit? No shot." Olson scoffs, picking at the gauze wrapped tight around his skinned knuckles. It's already starting to come apart at the edges. "Not a fuckin' snowball's chance in hell. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's common fuckin' practice to have your invitation revoked after you ruin someone's wedding."

"Me?" The indignation pitches Harkness' retort up until it sounds almost shrill. Or maybe that's just Olson's ears still ringing. Who knew the nerd could pack a punch? "You're the one who started it! I wasn't even talking to you when you decided to—"

Olson cuts him off. "You really trying to do this shit again right now? Round two right outside of the ER? Be so fuckin' serious right now, Harkness."

"No," Harkness huffs, scowling as he settles quickly at the threat. He might've gotten in a few good hits, too, but it's clear who won this fight. He's not looking to get back into it. He can't even see. "No, I'm not. All I was saying is—"

"And all I'm saying is, sometimes you need to learn to shut your fuckin' mouth," Olson interjects before Harkness can even start finish his thought. He hesitates then, if only for a second, and for once, Harkness doesn't try to fill the silence. "Take it from someone who knows, alright? You gotta learn to have some fuckin' tact."

"Says the guy who took a swing at me in the middle of a wedding."

He has a point. Good lesson, bad location. At least it was outside and not in the middle of the fuckin' reception, right? Only a couple of people saw it. Olson's pretty sure he'll be forgiven. He doesn't want to admit Harkness has a point, so he won't.

"Jesus Christ, shut up," Olson says instead, pulling out his phone and unlocking the screen. "You should be taking me seriously, asshole. I'm tryin' to give you good life advice here, alright? Talk shit, get hit. You wanna learn it from me or some fuck twice your size?"

"I don't want to learn it from any—" Harkness begins.

"It was rhetorical, fuck's sake," Olson groans, finally looking up from his phone. "Now are you gonna shut the fuck up or am I taking this Uber to Denny's by myself? To be clear, I'm gettin' a fuckin' Grand Slam with or without you."

Harkness blinks. "Wait, we're going to Denny's?"

"If a punch won't shut you up, maybe pancakes will," Olson deadpans. "And if they don't, I'll just kick your ass in the parking lot after. That's what it was built for."

There's a laugh as Harkness rises to his feet. Olson wants to be bothered by it.

He's not.

"You'll read the menu for me, right?" Harkness asks, squinting across the lot as headlights turn toward them. "You did break my glasses."

If Olson wants to protest, he manages to bite his tongue. Practice what you preach, right? Instead, he reaches out to give Harkness a shove—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to throw him off balance.

"Yeah, I'll read you the fuckin' menu, four-eyes. But you're paying."