He simply— Has to be patient, and this scatter-fucked crowd will turn their focus to the next performer. Be patient, and his Puppy will be beside him.
Be patient, breathe steady, and maybe, maybe he’ll be able to keep himself gathered. Much as his fingers itch for blood. Much as he winces - minutely; a glint through his eyes a subtle flare of nostrils - at each renewed squeal, at each thump and rise of music, does the song have to be so loud, do these humans have to reach with such idle such proprietary desperation, does the air need to be so thick with perfume and with weeks’-old breath do the lights need to flare so bright why on fuck’s earth can’t he be alone with his Puppy and—
What the fuck?
There’s a glass before him. (He didn’t order that!) Where did that come from, and who is it that’s speaking, Desmond didn’t ask for conversation and he doesn’t (no, that’s not quite true) know this voice and—
He squeezes his eyes shut. Listens to the unasked-for voice and takes a breath. Lets his gaze return to Jack - there, there, that’s better, his beautiful vision of a mate; focus on this sight, and this alone - as the speaker’s words prattle their way into comprehension.
’A little grab-ass?’
He jolts, throws a glare at the speaker, who… Adamantly isn’t looking at Desmond. Which doesn’t stop Desmond from scowling. Which also doesn’t stop Desmond from identifying the voice, or from recognizing a bright-flared pain as he watches the man.
((A thought, distant, recurs: It’s possible that the gauze that kept this bar from Desmond’s knowing wasn’t only to keep him distant from his mate. It’s possible that there’s another factor, another figure that’s been hidden here, as well.)
(The face isn’t familiar.) (Looking at this man feels like looking at a tear in time, like something’s been displaced, scrambled out of comprehension.)
(Who was this man in the Forest?) (Who the fuck is Benny?))
This is the enigmatic Benny, then. Jack’s employer. Rowan’s rival, perhaps no-longer-rival. Proprietor of The Rabbit Hole; the voice tirading through Jack’s phone. The one who hurled an ashtray at Desmond’s Puppy without pause or question.
Noodly-looking fuck, isn’t he?
Who has, it seems, reached the end of castigation, his little lesson, whatever. Who continues watching everything apart from Desmond, though Desmond can feel the man’s attention - weighted and cautious, almost too vigilant, almost too prying - fixed his way.
Desmond lets the words settle, gives himself a moment - several long-drawn moments - to return his eyes to Jack. Then returns his eyes to the bartender, brushing back the discomfort the sight brings. What was it he’d said? Apart from the little quip about ‘grab-assing’— Ah. Yes. Brain cells scarce as horses.
He lets his hand settle loose against the glass, speaking evenly— ]
In which case, I see very little argument against beating their insubstantial brains into the pavement.
[ Not entirely true, because he sees the argument in protecting Jack’s relative peace. And in any case, Desmond makes no move toward violence. Settles for tossing his hair with a huffed sigh, then takes up the glass, tasting the whiskey within. (It isn’t the worst he’s tasted.) (It could use a touch of honey.) He taps a finger at the glass - slow and over-sharp - before returning his gaze to the man. ]
They’d do well to keep their claws sheathed and to themselves.
At the least, allow me to profess some joy in their inevitable and oncoming disappointment.
Benny, yes?
[ It isn’t a question.
(Or that isn’t the question he means.) (‘Benny,’ and what else, who else? (Why doesn’t Desmond know?))
Desmond keeps watching, scarcely blinking. Cants his head just slightly. ]
The fliers that plagued my sight for a month’s time: ‘Climb a pole at The Rabbit Hole.’ I understand that was your doing.
no subject
He simply— Has to be patient, and this scatter-fucked crowd will turn their focus to the next performer. Be patient, and his Puppy will be beside him.
Be patient, breathe steady, and maybe, maybe he’ll be able to keep himself gathered. Much as his fingers itch for blood. Much as he winces - minutely; a glint through his eyes a subtle flare of nostrils - at each renewed squeal, at each thump and rise of music, does the song have to be so loud, do these humans have to reach with such idle such proprietary desperation, does the air need to be so thick with perfume and with weeks’-old breath do the lights need to flare so bright why on fuck’s earth can’t he be alone with his Puppy and—
What the fuck?
There’s a glass before him. (He didn’t order that!) Where did that come from, and who is it that’s speaking, Desmond didn’t ask for conversation and he doesn’t (no, that’s not quite true) know this voice and—
He squeezes his eyes shut. Listens to the unasked-for voice and takes a breath. Lets his gaze return to Jack - there, there, that’s better, his beautiful vision of a mate; focus on this sight, and this alone - as the speaker’s words prattle their way into comprehension.
’A little grab-ass?’
He jolts, throws a glare at the speaker, who… Adamantly isn’t looking at Desmond. Which doesn’t stop Desmond from scowling. Which also doesn’t stop Desmond from identifying the voice, or from recognizing a bright-flared pain as he watches the man.
((A thought, distant, recurs: It’s possible that the gauze that kept this bar from Desmond’s knowing wasn’t only to keep him distant from his mate. It’s possible that there’s another factor, another figure that’s been hidden here, as well.)
(The face isn’t familiar.) (Looking at this man feels like looking at a tear in time, like something’s been displaced, scrambled out of comprehension.)
(Who was this man in the Forest?) (Who the fuck is Benny?))
This is the enigmatic Benny, then. Jack’s employer. Rowan’s rival, perhaps no-longer-rival. Proprietor of The Rabbit Hole; the voice tirading through Jack’s phone. The one who hurled an ashtray at Desmond’s Puppy without pause or question.
Noodly-looking fuck, isn’t he?
Who has, it seems, reached the end of castigation, his little lesson, whatever. Who continues watching everything apart from Desmond, though Desmond can feel the man’s attention - weighted and cautious, almost too vigilant, almost too prying - fixed his way.
Desmond lets the words settle, gives himself a moment - several long-drawn moments - to return his eyes to Jack. Then returns his eyes to the bartender, brushing back the discomfort the sight brings. What was it he’d said? Apart from the little quip about ‘grab-assing’— Ah. Yes. Brain cells scarce as horses.
He lets his hand settle loose against the glass, speaking evenly— ]
In which case, I see very little argument against beating their insubstantial brains into the pavement.
[ Not entirely true, because he sees the argument in protecting Jack’s relative peace. And in any case, Desmond makes no move toward violence. Settles for tossing his hair with a huffed sigh, then takes up the glass, tasting the whiskey within. (It isn’t the worst he’s tasted.) (It could use a touch of honey.) He taps a finger at the glass - slow and over-sharp - before returning his gaze to the man. ]
They’d do well to keep their claws sheathed and to themselves.
At the least, allow me to profess some joy in their inevitable and oncoming disappointment.
Benny, yes?
[ It isn’t a question.
(Or that isn’t the question he means.) (‘Benny,’ and what else, who else? (Why doesn’t Desmond know?))
Desmond keeps watching, scarcely blinking. Cants his head just slightly. ]
The fliers that plagued my sight for a month’s time: ‘Climb a pole at The Rabbit Hole.’ I understand that was your doing.
[ A shake of his head; a deep roll of his eyes. ]
Cute.