[ Yes of course Desmond’s fuming, of course his jaw’s gone clenched and his grip on the glass of whiskey’s over-tight. Of course he’s winding up—
Though here, it’s less about the way this man speaks of Jack. Desmond feels no rise of anger, no irritation when the bartender speaks of Jack. Any aspersion in his tone seems pointed toward the gossips of this town, the people who shout gleeful at the sight of (they don’t deserve the sight of) Jack’s performance, his being half-bared before them. (He plays his prey so well. He toys with them, glinting fangs they fail to see.) Which speaks, perhaps, a point of two in the barman’s favor. If nothing else, he scents some measure of where the town’s rot lies, and sees who doesn’t carry its infliction, and is far above its blame.
What irks Desmond is (his own actions) (that woman) (Regina’s fuck-minded interference) (how close he came to losing his love) the fact of the scandal, and the fact that it never should have been. That Lacey never ought to have existed, and that in Storybrooke’s eyes, Desmond was and remains legally attached to the woman. That for all of this town’s recurrent forgetting, they’ll continue to know Desmond as her husband, or once-husband; that until the curse is broken, there’s no way of freeing himself from the association. Which isn’t the point now. Which isn’t worth letting himself tangle into a fit over, and he pries his mind away. Finds instead that he’s caught upon that mention of Jack’s love, and can’t quite curb a crooked smile at the words. (Yes, yes his Puppy loves him. And Desmond knows his fortune, knows the glory he’s been given.)
Curbs himself back toward this conversation, and yes he’s listening, yes the man’s effusive (how long would this barman prattle on, left to his own devices? (given any chance to think his words might be received)). Still, there’s a suspended moment before Desmond recognizes the strangeness of Benny’s words. The improbability (impossibility) of the knowledge they suggest.
That Jack’s been through this before, where ‘this’ means being caught up with a married man. (A twinge of guilt at that, but it’s brushed aside, it isn’t salient just now and there’s no good getting bogged down in self-declamation.) That Jack has been stamped a ‘homewrecker’ (odious and mis-pointed fucking term) before Lacey ever stepped into the scene. That there were ever any (other) married men who could have left their wives for Jack, but didn’t.
Knowledge that ought to have been wiped away when Jack’s memory, his existence (there, another twinge; Desmond needs to take care with how he tries to aid his mate; there will be no more erasing) was reset.
Benny shouldn’t know any of this.
(Who. The fuck. Is Benny?)
(A thought. A recognition. If Desmond looks around, he knows both ‘Gene’ and ‘Theresa’; who they are here and now, and who they were in the Forest. He can identify the women crowding the stage, the scattering of men who lurk along the room’s edges. Everyone here he can identify, with one notable, effusive exception.)
One query, one fracture revealed suggests another: This barman recalls Jack before the reset, and this same barman speaks of the town’s capacity for forgetting, speaks of how rare variety is found.
It might mean nothing. After all, small towns are full of repetitions, cycles of the same old stories told, the same faces seen, the same schedules followed with near-religious (deeply desperate) assertion. But as well—
But as well, don’t small towns, any small and gathered community of beings, hold fast to memory, to making life-long lore from minor disputes? It shouldn’t seem natural, that gossip will pass into smoke. It shouldn’t register as given, that rumor won’t take root.
There’s something out of place in Benny.
(Does he know what this town is? Does Benny know what he himself is? How deep does the disconnection go. How far is he akin to Rowan, who holds vague memories they take as passing fancy, or to Corbin, who keeps and who is plagued by memories in overlay? )
When Desmond speaks at last, he finds the words aren’t what he might have meant to voice - finds he speaks ahead of intention, speaks on impulse and what needs voicing - though his tone keeps even, just loud enough to be heard above the music. ]
I ought to have left long ago.
[ A tick of Desmond’s lip; a sneer aimed only at himself, and he takes a drink to steal a moment’s pause. Then shakes his head, speaks— ]
Perhaps I was waiting for a cause worth its while— And far, far better than.
[ Here, his gaze, his focus drifts. Returns to the sight of his love, and if - yes - he knows a trilled thrilling at the sight of Puppy’s skin set bare (if he knows as well flared ire at the eyes that dare to stray upon, think fantasies upon his love), what he feels most is an embracing rush of warmth, and yes, again he smiles, soft and slight, before returning his attention to the barman. ]
There’s little interest this town holds; that’s true. Little that changes. Little that inspires.
And for credit’s sake, I’ll admit: You certainly brought about a change.
[ Which— The thought brings a queasy roiling with its wake. Because this too is an oddity. Managing to bring permanent alteration to this town. To initiate a change that sticks, and brings with it a permanent fluctuation, an evolution in what this bars holds and how it fosters growth, change, shifts in scenery and clientele.
It’s nothing Regina could or would have planned. It’s more change than anyone in this town should be capable of enacting.
Endemic to the curse is a breed of inertia. A factor that flummoxes memory, keeps knowledge keeps experience from evolving. Those living in the curse’s thrall can - or should be able to - effect nothing with lasting effects.
But this bar didn’t always have its dancers.
(The Troll Bridge wasn’t always labeled as such. Hadn’t Desmond noted it, and hasn’t Rowan spoken of it? That one day, an ‘R’ presented itself upon that sign. That someone must have marked it. The alteration became permanent, and this itself shouldn’t have been possible.)
(Does Regina know what this man has done? Does she know what he is, and who?)
Another sip of whiskey, this time to combat the fresh-bloomed spike of pain within his mind. ]
There aren’t many in this town that could.
[ A pause. A fingertip’s tap against the glass, and a slight canting of his head before he sets eyes unwavering on Benny again. ]
For a man who craves variety, it’s a wonder you’ve not set foot in Null Set.
Though I am given to understand that at present, it’s precisely the place you’re avoiding.
[ He gives a moment to let that land, then breezes on to— ]
no subject
Though here, it’s less about the way this man speaks of Jack. Desmond feels no rise of anger, no irritation when the bartender speaks of Jack. Any aspersion in his tone seems pointed toward the gossips of this town, the people who shout gleeful at the sight of (they don’t deserve the sight of) Jack’s performance, his being half-bared before them. (He plays his prey so well. He toys with them, glinting fangs they fail to see.) Which speaks, perhaps, a point of two in the barman’s favor. If nothing else, he scents some measure of where the town’s rot lies, and sees who doesn’t carry its infliction, and is far above its blame.
What irks Desmond is (his own actions) (that woman) (Regina’s fuck-minded interference) (how close he came to losing his love) the fact of the scandal, and the fact that it never should have been. That Lacey never ought to have existed, and that in Storybrooke’s eyes, Desmond was and remains legally attached to the woman. That for all of this town’s recurrent forgetting, they’ll continue to know Desmond as her husband, or once-husband; that until the curse is broken, there’s no way of freeing himself from the association.
Which isn’t the point now. Which isn’t worth letting himself tangle into a fit over, and he pries his mind away. Finds instead that he’s caught upon that mention of Jack’s love, and can’t quite curb a crooked smile at the words. (Yes, yes his Puppy loves him. And Desmond knows his fortune, knows the glory he’s been given.)
Curbs himself back toward this conversation, and yes he’s listening, yes the man’s effusive (how long would this barman prattle on, left to his own devices? (given any chance to think his words might be received)). Still, there’s a suspended moment before Desmond recognizes the strangeness of Benny’s words. The improbability (impossibility) of the knowledge they suggest.
That Jack’s been through this before, where ‘this’ means being caught up with a married man. (A twinge of guilt at that, but it’s brushed aside, it isn’t salient just now and there’s no good getting bogged down in self-declamation.) That Jack has been stamped a ‘homewrecker’ (odious and mis-pointed fucking term) before Lacey ever stepped into the scene. That there were ever any (other) married men who could have left their wives for Jack, but didn’t.
Knowledge that ought to have been wiped away when Jack’s memory, his existence (there, another twinge; Desmond needs to take care with how he tries to aid his mate; there will be no more erasing) was reset.
Benny shouldn’t know any of this.
(Who. The fuck. Is Benny?)
(A thought. A recognition. If Desmond looks around, he knows both ‘Gene’ and ‘Theresa’; who they are here and now, and who they were in the Forest. He can identify the women crowding the stage, the scattering of men who lurk along the room’s edges. Everyone here he can identify, with one notable, effusive exception.)
One query, one fracture revealed suggests another: This barman recalls Jack before the reset, and this same barman speaks of the town’s capacity for forgetting, speaks of how rare variety is found.
It might mean nothing. After all, small towns are full of repetitions, cycles of the same old stories told, the same faces seen, the same schedules followed with near-religious (deeply desperate) assertion. But as well—
But as well, don’t small towns, any small and gathered community of beings, hold fast to memory, to making life-long lore from minor disputes? It shouldn’t seem natural, that gossip will pass into smoke. It shouldn’t register as given, that rumor won’t take root.
There’s something out of place in Benny.
(Does he know what this town is? Does Benny know what he himself is? How deep does the disconnection go. How far is he akin to Rowan, who holds vague memories they take as passing fancy, or to Corbin, who keeps and who is plagued by memories in overlay? )
When Desmond speaks at last, he finds the words aren’t what he might have meant to voice - finds he speaks ahead of intention, speaks on impulse and what needs voicing - though his tone keeps even, just loud enough to be heard above the music. ]
I ought to have left long ago.
[ A tick of Desmond’s lip; a sneer aimed only at himself, and he takes a drink to steal a moment’s pause. Then shakes his head, speaks— ]
Perhaps I was waiting for a cause worth its while— And far, far better than.
[ Here, his gaze, his focus drifts. Returns to the sight of his love, and if - yes - he knows a trilled thrilling at the sight of Puppy’s skin set bare (if he knows as well flared ire at the eyes that dare to stray upon, think fantasies upon his love), what he feels most is an embracing rush of warmth, and yes, again he smiles, soft and slight, before returning his attention to the barman. ]
There’s little interest this town holds; that’s true. Little that changes. Little that inspires.
And for credit’s sake, I’ll admit: You certainly brought about a change.
[ Which— The thought brings a queasy roiling with its wake. Because this too is an oddity. Managing to bring permanent alteration to this town. To initiate a change that sticks, and brings with it a permanent fluctuation, an evolution in what this bars holds and how it fosters growth, change, shifts in scenery and clientele.
It’s nothing Regina could or would have planned. It’s more change than anyone in this town should be capable of enacting.
Endemic to the curse is a breed of inertia. A factor that flummoxes memory, keeps knowledge keeps experience from evolving. Those living in the curse’s thrall can - or should be able to - effect nothing with lasting effects.
But this bar didn’t always have its dancers.
(The Troll Bridge wasn’t always labeled as such. Hadn’t Desmond noted it, and hasn’t Rowan spoken of it? That one day, an ‘R’ presented itself upon that sign. That someone must have marked it. The alteration became permanent, and this itself shouldn’t have been possible.)
(Does Regina know what this man has done? Does she know what he is, and who?)
Another sip of whiskey, this time to combat the fresh-bloomed spike of pain within his mind. ]
There aren’t many in this town that could.
[ A pause. A fingertip’s tap against the glass, and a slight canting of his head before he sets eyes unwavering on Benny again. ]
For a man who craves variety, it’s a wonder you’ve not set foot in Null Set.
Though I am given to understand that at present, it’s precisely the place you’re avoiding.
[ He gives a moment to let that land, then breezes on to— ]
You’ve known my Jack for some time, yes?