This fluffy little two-shot is for Cyra Bergen - hope you like it, Sam!

Also, this got so long that I thought it shouldn't be one chapter, but I wasn't really sure how to break it up, so sorry if the chapter break happens in a weird place.

"Toby, this is a bad idea," Happy muttered through the coms.

Toby pressed himself up against the hallway wall; he was standing in what Walter had said would be a security-camera blind spot, but if he so much as twitched in the wrong direction the cameras would pick him up and the building's security guards would come running for him.

He imagined Happy, sitting with the rest of the team in the surveillance van they had borrowed for the mission, grinding her teeth with worry.

"I'm open to alternatives here, Hap, but no one seems ready to offer any."

"Just get out of there and we'll think of another plan."

Toby shook his head even though he knew Happy couldn't see him.

"It'll be fine. Walter, have you cut the camera feed yet?"

"Working on it," Walter muttered. Toby heard what sounded like the muffled clicks of a keyboard coming through his earpiece.

"You're not gonna have enough time to get to the bomb." A hint of panic had come into Happy's voice.

A hissing took over the com line, swallowing Toby's response.

"What's that?" Paige asked, a slight tremor in her voice.

"Toby?" Cabe asked, finger on his earpiece, as if that would help his words get to the psychiatrist, as if he might be able to reach through their radio signal and help him.

Suddenly, a loud roar caused the whole team to jump. They all looked out the van windshield to see a huge crack run along the outside of the building across the street, right between the second- and third-floor windows. The building fell slowly, floor by floor, cement and metal and glass collapsing in on itself like a stack of dominos. Happy screamed Toby's name, but no one could hear her over the sound of the destruction.

Toby half-collapsed on the sofa in the garage, looking much more exhausted than anyone should after a twenty-foot walk in from the car.

"What can I get you?" Paige asked, a competent-mom veneer coming over her. "Water? An ice pack? Are you hungry?"

"I'm fine, thanks," Toby breathed, eyes closed.

"You have to take your antibiotic pill," Sylvester reminded him. "The doctor said three times a day."

"I'll have it with lunch. It needs to be taken with food, anyway."

"It's lunchtime now, kid." Cabe held out his watch, though he was too far for Toby to see its hands.

"So we'll eat," Paige said, smiling. Food was something she could handle. The ability to do something was a warm relief after two days of medical jargon being tossed around by stoic doctors while she sat by helplessly.

Toby sighed, feeling more tired than hungry.

Paige, Cabe, and Happy went into the kitchen, as the only three uninjured people on the team with any hope of making edible food. While they worked, Sylvester and Walter tried to entertain Toby with a deck of cards.

"Poker?" Sylvester asked, riffling the cards deftly.

"Recovering gambling addict here, Sly," Toby replied, eyebrows raised. "Trying to avoid poker. And craps."

"I don't think either of us know how to play craps, anyway," Water said. "What about bridge?"

"Bridge? The game old ladies play while gossiping about their neighbors? How on Earth do you two know how to play bridge?"

Walter shrugged. "It's easy for us." He motioned to himself and then to Sylvester. "It's a game where counting cards is advantageous."

"Newsflash, One-Ninety-Seven: all games are games where counting cards is advantageous."

Walter shrugged. "Regardless, counting cards is helpful in bridge. And geniuses are good at counting cards."

Toby rolled his eyes. "See, you tell yourself that, and then you find yourself thirty-thousand dollars in the hole at a back-alley craps game in Brooklyn, wondering how in God's name your IQ let you get there."

Sylvester looked off-put by the story disguised as a second-person narrative and tried to move the conversation back to the gambling-free present.

"Do you know how to play?"

"What, bridge?" Toby nodded. " 'Course. Learned it at my mother's knee."

"Really?"

"No, Smelly Jim taught me on Christmas when I was ten while my dad was betting on the west-coast races. But I do know how to play."

Sylvester grimaced. Water looked unperturbed.

"Bridge it is."

"Whoa, hold up, we need a fourth player here."

Ralph jumped up from his perch at the kitchen table. "I'll play."

"You know how to play bridge?"

Ralph nodded. "My grandma likes it."

Toby looked at Sylvester triumphantly. "See? It's a grandma game." He turned back to Ralph. "Alright, bud, you can be my partner."

Ralph pursed his lips. "You're on oxycodone, right? I think I might rather be Sylvester's partner."

Toby laughed. "You think the painkillers are gonna stop me from winning? Look at these goons, kid." He pointed with his left thumb at Walter and Sylvester. "I could beat 'em with one hand tied behind my back. Which is good, because this arm" - he shrugged his bad shoulder, wincing with the effort - "is busted, anyway."

Walter frowned, looking like he might protest Toby's insult, but he held his tongue. Ralph nodded and pulled a chair over to sit across from Toby as Sylvester dealt. Before long, the four men were all hunched over, staring at their cards intently.

They only got through two tricks - Ralph and Toby took both, despite the fact that half of their team could barely hold his cards without dropping them - before Paige announced that lunch was ready.

"Mac and cheese," she said, bringing a big bowl out and setting it on the coffee table in between the men, careful not to disrupt the cards set out there. "I would've like there to be a little more protein with this meal, or at least a vegetable, but we didn't have much in the fridge."

Happy and Cabe followed her, carrying spoons and smaller bowls.

"This looks perfect," Sylvester said. "Thanks, guys."

"No problem at all," Paige replied. Happy and Cabe nodded beside her.

Walter scooped some pasta into a bowl and then placed it carefully on Toby's lap. Happy held up an amoxicillin tablet, which Toby accepted and put beside his leg before starting to eat.

Thanks to an exceptionally-heavy support beam's collapsing on top of him, Toby's right arm was in a sling by his side. But having to eat with his left hand didn't really bother him; he had developed decent ambidexterity during his surgery internship.

A bigger issue was trying to swallow the mouthfuls of pasta. He knew he should be hungry - he'd had nothing but minuscule portions of hospital food for the past two days - but the painkillers had chased away his appetite and he had to force eat bite.

The rest of the team started filling their own bowls. Soon, everyone was seated around the makeshift card table, eating quietly.

Paige looked around. Her geniuses often took meals as a time to each lose themselves in their own mental rabbit holes, and that seemed to be happening now. She had decided it was her job, as self-asserted team mom, to force them to interact in the rare instances that they were all together and not trying to save the world.

She ran through the few conversation starters that might elicit response, and landed on, "Toby, how's the pain?"

Toby welcomed the excuse to put down his food for a minute. "Good, good. That oxycodone Dr. Benson gave me was super effective. I barely remember I have a broken arm."

"And a broken rib. And a pulmonary contusion. And a torn MCL," Sylvester reminded him. "And a lesion on your forehead. And-"

"We get it, Sly. Thanks," Happy interrupted. Over the past two days, she'd had enough of people going over all of Toby's injuries, all the ways the building collapse might have killed him.

"And you all were playing bridge?" Paige asked.

"Like Meemaw likes," Ralph answered between bites.

"Yeah, we were in the middle of crushing Walt and Sly when you guys came in with lunch." Toby stuck his fist out and Ralph bumped it with his own.

Walter rolled his eyes. "You took two tricks. Don't let it go to your head. And besides, you were the declaring side; you had the upper hand going in."

Toby rolled his eyes. "Excuses, excuses. I bet you we'll win this hand and three of the next four, at least." Seeing Happy's glare, he added, "I mean 'bet' figuratively, of course."

"Impossible." Sylvester pushed his glasses further up his nose. "It depends too much on the cards you get dealt."

Toby raised his eyebrows. "I think we could do it."

Walter put down his bowl and crossed his arm. "Alright, then. Finish eating so I can prove you're too big for your britches."

"Too big for my britches? Who are you, Davy Crockett?"

"It's an exceptionally useful phrase, especially for anyone who's friends with someone as cocky as you."

Happy rolled her eyes. "Alright, calm down, guys. At least let us finish lunch before you start grunting and beating your chests."

Toby ignored his girlfriend. "You finished eating, O'Brien? Because I'm ready to take some more tricks from you."

"Let's go."

Paige and Happy looked at each other and sighed, and then began cleaning up from lunch.

After they finished cleaning up from lunch, Happy got absorbed in her latest project - deconstructing an old Chevy engine her father had given her - and Paige started working on case reports. Cabe watched the bridge game for a while, but he got tired after about thirty minutes and left for home, saying he'd call if they got another case. Occasionally, the bridge trash talking got loud enough to make Paige look up from her computer, but normally Happy would then yell from across the garage and get the players to quiet down. Paige managed to get through the first twenty of the thirty-seven forms she had to fill out relating to destruction of public property, destruction of private property, on-the-job injury, and a whole manner of other things she wasn't really sure Scorpion had even actually done, before the bridge game ended.

"That was the final trick," Sylvester said, cutting through the silence that had engulfed the garage since the start of the last of the fifth and final hand.

"Did Toby and Ralph do it?" Paige asked.

Walter's glare answered her question before Toby got out his snarky, "Of course we did."

Walter rubbed his temple. "I don't believe it."

Sylvester started rounding up the cards. "The odds of being able to win four hands of bridge out of five, even for adept bridge players-"

"Which we are," Toby cut in, smiling knowingly at Ralph.

"-are astronomically low," Sylvester continued.

Walter shook his head. "You two must have cheated."

"Really, Walter?" Toby looked theatrically offended. "You can't accept defeat, so you just assume two of your closest friends were cheating?"

"How else could you have done it?"

Toby held up his good hand and counted off. "One: we can count cards just as well as you. Two: I'm a gambling addict and a Harvard-trained psychiatrist; I know what cards people have and when they have them. Three: Ralph's smarter than you, so I'm pretty sure he brings our team's average IQ up past yours and Sylvester's. Need I go on?"

"I have to object to the third point. Ralph's IQ might be higher than mine, but yours-"

"Okay, okay, calm down, boys," Paige called across the garage. "Why don't you just start playing a different game?"

Walter stood up. "I think I'm done with games, thanks though."

Toby rolled his eyes and then looked at Ralph. "Hey, bud, just remember: no matter how Walter acts, a wicked-high IQ doesn't actually have to correspond to an astronomically-huge-and-easily-wounded ego, okay?"

"I heard that," Walter grumped, sitting down at his desk.

"I purposefully didn't whisper, thank you very much." Toby wrinkled his nose at Walter, an only-slightly-more-grown-up version of sticking out his tongue. "Alright, Ralph and Sly, what games can we play with three people?"

"Actually," Ralph said, "I have to do my English homework."

"Oh? What's your homework?"

"I'm supposed to read two chapters of Pride and Prejudice."

"Pride and Prejudice?" Toby straightened up in his seat. "Let's read it together."

Ralph raised his eyebrows. "You want to read my book?"

"Pride and Prejudice is the original chick flick. Or, well, chick lit technically, I guess, but still. It's the granddaddy of all my favorite movies."

"You like romance movies?" Sylvester looked at Toby dubiously.

"Oh, Sly, buddy, I eat, sleep, and breathe romance movies. Tell him, Happy."

Happy didn't look up from her work while responding, "We've watched The Notebook, like, seven times."

"Please, Ralph. Read it to me. I'd be forever grateful."

Ralph held up his hands. "Okay. Let me just go get it from my backpack."

"Wait," Paige said while Ralph went to get his bag from the kitchen. "Is anyone hungry for dinner yet?"

"Not with Pride and Prejudice on the horizon, that's for sure."

Paige rolled her eyes. "Seriously."

"I think we're good, Paige, thanks." Sylvester smiled at her.

"Okay, but just let me know when you get hungry and we can run over to Kovalsky's to pick something up."

Ralph returned, holding a worn paperback book in his hand. "Found it."

Toby grinned excitedly. "Alright, where are you in the story?"

"Charlotte just married Mr. Collins."

"Oh-ho-ho, some really exciting stuff is about to happen. Come on, let's get started."