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"H'lo," Higgins swallowed the bite he'd just taken and waved Conlon towards the other side of the booth. Tibby's had changed hands a dozen times since they'd first eaten there, and it was 'Finnigan's' now. But they kept coming back. God knew why, the food had never gotten any better.
Conlon just nodded at him and glanced at a waitress, who instantly scurried over. That might have been one reason to come back, Conlon hated training new restaurants, much preferring to eat where he was already feared. After he'd ordered their gazes locked for a second, and Conlon gave him a slow once-over, before his coffee arrived and he slumped over it like usual.
"Who's it this time, the janitors? Or is that new plumber's union up to no good again?" Higgins had never lost the habit of talking with his hands; his sandwich wandered over half the table and neatly missed the end of Conlon's nose twice as he went into his own tirade against the evils of management, with occasional forays into incompetent typists and other women.
Conlon nodded at the right times, his eyes occasionally following Higgins' hands when he wasn't focused on his coffee. Must have had an exhausting morning with those WPA guys again, he barely blinked when Higgins related his latest date's concept of punctuality.
"Oh, I got a letter from David yesterday." Conlon actually looked up at that, a ghost of a smirk on his face.
"And how are old Jacky-boy and his candlestick?"
Higgins rolled his eyes. "Good. You'd know that if you ever bothered to write them yourself."
"And deny you the pleasure? Ain't like you've got something better to do with your time." Conlon smirked, and Higgins let it go.
"The ranch is really starting to pay for itself, finally. They picked a hell of a time to start it up, of course. Next time he wants to send pictures." He fiddled a bit with what was left of his sandwich. "Shame we can't visit." He let the silence stretch out. Conlon wasn't looking at him. "You ever think we...."
And he stopped dead, right there, because there was a distinct difference between Conlon tired and quiet, and Conlon dead motionless, and that difference was right in front of him. Higgins ducked his head and took another bite, and a few moments passed.
"Mary left."
Higgins' head snapped right back up, to find Conlon staring blankly into his soup bowl. "When?"
"Tuesday."
"Tuesday?" Higgins reeled. Twenty-five years, and she'd just left on a Tuesday?
"Yeah." Conlon poked at an unidentifiable piece of vegetable in his soup. "Said she might as well. Andy's dead. Becky's married." He paused, and Higgins filled in a silent, "and God knows where Mike is," on his own. "No reason for her to stay."
"You said that?"
Conlon looked up. "No, she did," he said forcefully, with a face completely devoid of emotion.
"I- I'm sorry." Which was bull, Mary'd been making him miserable for years and he was well rid of her. But Conlon had his own special brand of guilt, and he was probably in actual pain over this.
Conlon nodded, and looked back down. Higgins carefully let his right hand creep towards Conlon's side of the table, only to have Conlon jerk away hard and glare at him, before scanning the room. "The fuck's wrong with you, Higgins?" he hissed.
"Sorry." They sat in silence again, and Conlon's shoulders slowly lost a little tension. "Say, Al's moved the poker game to Saturdays. It's at Ben's this week. You maybe want to join us?"
"No." Conlon slurped the last of his soup. "Yeah, all right. Why not?" He checked that his coffee was gone and reached for his wallet. "My week, right?" Higgins nodded, and Conlon dropped some bills on the table.
"See you around, Conlon." Higgins moved to stand up, and Conlon looked him square in the eye.
"You'll be there? Saturday?" His face was completely blank, and his eyebrows didn't so much as twitch, but Higgins didn't need them to. He'd never needed more than Conlon would give.
"Yeah, of course."