darius scarlett (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
onefellswoop) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kingdomsofrain2024-01-24 08:25 pm
onefellswoop) wrote in kingdomsofrain2024-01-24 08:25 pmtexts texts texts
this one is for texts!
onefellswoop) wrote in kingdomsofrain2024-01-24 08:25 pm
no subject
Jack is of the same mind as Benny on this matter; he never could quite figure out why the Rabbit Hole draws early afternoon crowds, even if it is a Friday. (Knowing there's a curse doesn't help matters: he's pretty sure Regina wouldn't have added this to their daily routine.)
Whatever the case may be with the patrons, Benny is ignoring them and Jack doesn't have his phone.
Neither does Jack have half of his clothes, which, in this bar, is no more or less uncommon than the presence of the early patrons. He had planned to make a swift departure after asking Desmond to come get him, but Benny (with some assistance from Margot) conned (yes, conned!) him into doing one set. (Just one!)
Margot, per her brief plea, needed the money, and if she could just get Jack and Ell to stay and each do a set - one teensy, quick set! - they could pool their tips - which is when everyone had loudly objected, and in doing so, Jack and Ell had accidentally agreed to perform.
He figures Desmond won't mind. Much. (He might mind a little, but then again, it won't be Jack with whom he takes issue, so it's not a problem.) Besides, if Desmond strolls in, liberated from Sonny, then he'll get a nice preview of his Puppy.
The Rabbit Hole is a decent-sized bar, and Benny had it expanded somewhat to accommodate the modest stage. Small bands can play, Margot can do her bubble bath routine (but not her aerial hoops), karaoke night could happen if Benny could tolerate karaoke, and Jack has a little room to maneuver when people get too grabby. The music's decent, as well: not overpoweringly loud, but still "professional" acoustics, and the current bass beat is -
Not something Jack chose, and if he hears Toxic one more goddamn time, he's going to scream. (He didn't glare at Benny for that one, but he did make eye contact with the bartender's book, which was conveniently covering his face.) Sure. Sure, the women love this one, and sure, he does get more tips out of it, but he got more tips out of the bunny costume, too, and you don't see him out here wiggling the ears every Friday night. Benny.
His smile remains firmly in place as hands slide over his exposed chest. Whoever she is - the spotlight illuminates him but throws his audience in contrast shadow - she squeals when he rolls his hips, abdominals rippling under her palm. A moment ago, he'd tipped a finger under her friend's chin and came close enough to tease at contact (and get a face-full of her breath, Jesus Christ-) He moves away before she can claw at him, shirt peeling away, shirt whipped over his head in a graceful spin (Why do they love that move? He never figured it out.) Shirt looped around the neck of someone whose lap he straddles without touching, and hey!
Hey!
There's Daddy!
His smile turns genuine, then falters into bemusement when he feels a hand trying to take a chunk out of his ass.
Shit.
He got distracted. Never get distracted. First rule of the game. (But the thing is, Desmond is wonderfully distracting.) ]
no subject
A tension through his shoulders; a pressure as his hand grips firmer at his cane.
(He shouldn’t be here.)
((There’s something here he wasn’t meant to see, and briefly, briefly pain flecks insistent, aching.))
Discomfort, wariness dissipates as soon as light and darkness settle into place, as soon as vision settles and he finds the blessed, the only man he’d wish to see.
Oh, Puppy.
Oh… Puppy?
A recognition striking for the hundredth time: Jack is a terribly, terribly striking man. Whose beauty in body and in energy, and vibrancy alike shines with enhanced impact beneath brilliant-thrown lighting.
He could tear this crowd apart, and they’d never sigh objection.
Who could run this place with blood, and still they’d coo, they’d cry for more.
They don’t know what they witness. No one here - woman, man, anyone at all - can grasp the fury or the heart within this being. What runs beneath admittedly, admittedly adroitly-tailored abs and coils of muscle.
Desmond hadn’t expected to walk in on this… This performance. What might feel like something that could veer toward exploitation, if his Puppy weren’t so certain in his motions. If he didn’t know the gleam in Puppy’s eyes, and the strength he draws from dancing.
(He doesn’t like to see this crowd of nothings, of base-braying souls fixing eyes desires wishes on his Puppy. On this man who merits far, far better than their passing fantasies and brief amusement. He doesn’t like it—
But what matters here isn’t the irritation he knows toward the crowd. Isn’t the grit of his teeth as he sees this audience wide-eyed and reaching, as if daring, as if daring to think they held some right to this beholding.
What Jack gives them is a gift. These idle-minded shits don’t know it, but what in fuck’s name do they comprehend? Very little, and their presence hardly matters here. Save for what it offers Jack. Save for the way that their presence, their asinine and for the moment set aside judgments allow him to revel, to relish. To find beauty in this body he’s so often ached against.)
In silence - stricken, rooted, his heart tripping and then racing - he watches as his mate performs with graceful abandon. Sees the glint of skin he means to taste; the curve of lips he’ll claim for his own, and give his own up to. He sees as well the way his love takes care. How he slips the reach of a clawed hand. How he steps toward the stage’s extremity, and doesn’t linger.
His Puppy is clever. His Puppy has been given reason to be wary. And Desmond feels his jaw clenching, eyes narrowing, feel as if he might nearly charge in—
But then, the sight of amber eyes arresting and arrested with his own.
Then a smile, angelic, as if struck through to the soul.
Puppy’s eyes find him, find his own eyes, and time shatters in place. So that breathing, so that thought becomes extraneous. So that all else, all bodies fade away, and what Desmond knows is only his love lit in perfect radiance. What Desmond knows is his heart stammered, his heart welcomed, and his own expression tilting toward a fevered half-smile, an invitation and a promise.
’Soon, Puppy.’
’Soon, my Love, I’ll hold you.’
’Always, you, you are my world.’
It’s a staggered moment that melts away all tension, all unease.
It’s a moment that can’t last, doesn’t last, because his Puppy flinches, Jack’s attention drawn by some interceder, some flagrant disruption.
Desmond didn’t see what happened, but he feels his muscles coiling toward intent. Feels his jaw snap - barely, barely, but with a sharp sound - and keeps himself from launching forward only by watching his Puppy, watching the way Jack moves now, evades further infraction.
(Someone dared—
That woman near him. She, dim in shadow but with a particular dip of her head, a particular titter climbing up above the music that sets her into knowing: Mariel Strop. A teacher. A would-be social climber. Embedded with the PTA and not free of her own debts.
He marks her name; he notes her. He’ll find a means of recompense for this disgrace she’s played upon his love.)
He can’t dive in with cane and cuts. He knows this. He reminds himself, breathing, breathing. (Early, early on, Jack told him this could happen, does happen: Viewers reaching for more than a sight, hands reaching and turning into cuts, to grasps.) (Desmond doesn’t fucking care for this.) (And. Desmond knows his Puppy can handle himself. That this is one situation in which Daddy’s aid wouldn’t end well, or aid his Puppy’s interests.) As wild as ire shrieks his blood, he knows that other concerns ought to be given room; that other pieces of this moment matter more than satisfaction of his rage.
So Desmond draws a breath between grit teeth.
So Desmond searches for Jack’s eyes, and if he can find them, he gives a cant of his head, a half-grin flashing teeth, promising that Daddy’s watching; Daddy saw precisely who wronged his Puppy. And Daddy will be patient; Desmond will be waiting, will be admiring and adoring.
And he does watch. Continues to watch, fixated, even as he drifts toward the bar. Where there’s some measure of space between himself and the (offending! overreaching!) squalling (insulting, wretched!) crowd. Where he can feign to be a patron of some manner, perhaps entertaining the notion of a drink from the bartender who ((is difficult to look at)) appears to be doing his level best to ignore everyone and everything occurring on the floor.
He settles an elbow on the counter. He breathes again; lets himself feel the weight of the cane in his grasp and considers the possibility of maybe, maybe permitting himself to order something. If anyone looks his way (anyone who isn’t Jack, which of course means they’re no one at all), he’ll ignore them. If anyone speaks, he’ll feign difficult catching their voice over above the music.
Mostly, he observes the shrouded figures in the crowd and takes notice, takes name.
He watches his mate and thrills to the sight of— Ah, there is so much to see, and such worship he means to play on every inch of skin exposed and still-unseen.
If nothing else, it’s a gift to see his love perform.
It’s a pleasure, to know the wolf that waits beneath this human skin, and to think how perfectly, how beautifully his Puppy plays this crowd.
And how thoroughly he and his love will celebrate each other after. ]
no subject
He focuses on finishing the set, which, thankfully, does not involve having some eager woman throw a stack of cash at him and lean forward to rub her face in his crotch. It happens. A lot of things can happen in the five-to-six minute length of time it takes the remix of a given song to play.
Over at the bar, Benny is watching Desmond over his book, his brow slightly furrowed as though he can't quite decide what he's looking at.
He knows -
This is Mr. Gold. And he knows -
Jack is dating Mr. Gold. And he knows -
Mr. Gold is (un)married. And he knows -
(Mr. Gold was not married, was married, is (un)married now. (A very merry unmarried?))
(Makes no sense.) Lacey, that's the one. Accused him of being unfaithful and so he was (to Jack) (to his (un)wife) (no, to Jack-.) (Lacey blames as Lacey does.) Makes no sense at all.
Looking at Mr. Gold makes his head hurt.
He knows the man at the bar looks irate, and that's no good, so he puts his book down and three patrons straighten in their seats, only to slump with dismay when he sets a glass of whiskey on the bar at Desmond's elbow. A moment's pause and, without looking at Desmond, he comments -]
Let them be, won't you? The sort of person who's in here of a midday's miserable enough, and apt to be made more so when off he goes with you instead of one of them. He doesn't need heroics over a little grab-ass.
[ He glances in the direction of the stage where Jack is wrapping things up. In a moment, the younger man will, Benny imagines, pull on some track pants and help Margot with her scenery. He always does. ]
Not as if they'd remember any lesson you did try and teach them come tomorrow. If brain cells were horses, this lot would be walking home.
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.
no subject
Might've lost my mind without a little variety, and what this town lacks for -
[ He begins to say 'culture', then thinks of Rowan's bar, then thinks of Rowan and feels a tight sorrow that works his way up to his throat like a scream. ]
- excitement, I thought I could offset with scandal. Seems I've got a little competition now, but I doubt yours is the kind that lingers.
[ A flap of his hand, not at Jack but at the women loitering near the low stage. ]
They've already forgotten he's a "homewrecker". [ The tone of his voice suggests "homewrecker" is a source of amusement for him. ] Not a new situation for him; he always has chased the barest hint of romance, nevermind the home situation.
And before you start winding up to have a go at me for casting aspersions or slandering your darling Jack: I say it all now only because I know he's told you already. You're not unaware that he's been through this before, nor that the homes are already well wrecked before he ever puts in an appearance.
[ Benny glances down the bar to see one of the men is watching them out of the corner of his eye, clearly listening in. He leans over and speaks in a slow, patronizing sort of tone. ]
Gene. Unless you've got something of value to add to the proceedings, go back to nursing your IPA. Unless you want me telling Theresa you've been here instead of looking for honest labor?
[ The man cringes over his class and stares at his hands, his face gone pale.
Benny tsks, mutters Nosy shite and shakes his head, then continues as though he was never interrupted. ]
You're the first he's loved, though. First to leave the missus for him, as well.
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?
no subject
They are, however, in what Benny calls "bar purgatory" for various crimes against the establishment - or his own sensibilities.)
Rather than answer to the Null Set comment, he thinks Touché and focuses instead on the question that follows. ]
I've known my Jack for some time. Your Jack is new. Refreshing, at that. I'm not the only one to bring about change.
[ He wonders idly whether Jack changed Gold or Gold changed Jack, or if it's a little bit of both.
Before he can expand on his commentary, he sees Jack waved off the stage by Ell. Jack goes up on his toes to catch Benny's eye, mouth get him, point to Desmond, then point towards a staff-only door to his left. Benny points to Gene with a faux-puzzled expression. Him?
Jack's eyes widen in horror; he points emphatically - panicked, even - at Desmond again and Benny chuckles. ]
The entertainment would like to see you in his dressing room.
[ The dressing room used to be a break room; Benny supplied it with a few mirrors, a table ostensibly for Margot to do her makeup (which is used more often by Ell), a sofa, and some comfortable chairs.
Jack likes it. It's a place where costumes (and masks) come off - somewhere to go and not feel he has to be anything in particular except here. Just now, it's a place where he can quickly stash the stack of singles (and some tens!), peel out of the stage-to-dressing room track pants and pull on his jeans before Desmond arrives. ]
no subject
He understands the meaning, and coils toward snapping that this man has no right to call Jack any such thing.
Almost immediately, his tension disperses, replaced by warmth and certainty: Finally, finally he can be with his mate.
Desmond needs no further impetus. Yes, yes, he’s curious about this barman, but there will be time for questions. For deciding what to make of this Benny: What he remembers, what he knows about Jack. How little he meets Desmond’s eyes, and the tumult flickering at the mention of his was-rival, as well as his silence on Reynolds. How he seems a beat out of step with this world Regina’s chosen, and—
Yes. How he speaks of ‘your Jack’ as if of a transformed being. (And didn’t those words trill pleasantly through Desmond? Doesn’t he glow with the thought that he’s brought something positive to Jack’s existence, just as Jack has done for him? There’s nothing he wants more than Puppy’s happiness.)
Notable as well: How Benny speaks of Jack with casual familiarity and without disdain. This man has been, Desmond thinks, at least some small manner of support to Jack’s existence here. Prone to nattering he may be, but Desmond can’t feel particularly ill toward a man who managed to bring something other than misery into his Puppy’s life.
He taps his finger against the glass, takes another drink and speaks by way of parting— ]
You’d do well to contact them, you know. At the least, you’d have our thanks for sparing us playing audience to their agonies.
[ He doesn’t specify which ‘they’ he means. He suspects he doesn’t need to. And now he acts swiftly. Sets down the glass beside a pair of twenties. Turns his focus to the indicated door, and moves toward it. Gives a soft, staccato pair of knocks before inching the door open and slipping into the room.
Clearing his throat, speaking in a tone faux-aloof, as if oh dear, he’s terribly concerned that he may have interrupted something and of course he doesn’t wish to trouble anyone this room might hold— ]
I’m told somebody here wishes to see me?
[ The feigned aloofness, this brief game, doesn’t last long; as soon as he sets eyes on Jack - as soon as he sees that yes, yes, he’s found his Puppy, here and waiting for Daddy! - his smile goes warmed and giddy, lip caught between his teeth.
Gods, any amount of time away from Jack is harrowing.
Gods, but his love is beautiful, shines in body and soul alike.
Instantly, Desmond’s forgotten any discomfort this bar and it’s odd publican brought him. Instantly, there’s nothing in this bar and nothing in existence beyond himself and the man half-bared before him.
He lets his head cant. Spares himself a moment - perhaps two or three - to take in the sight of Puppy.
Then moves, one hand extended, an invitation to and way of asking for a kiss, just there upon his hand, please! (This will, of course, almost certainly be followed by a shift of his hand to cup his love’s cheek, then a kiss claimed to Puppy’s lips; ah, he won’t be satisfied with one kiss.)
As he moves, he speaks, voice now brimming with pride in his love, with joy at his sight— ]
There’s my Puppy. My skillful, my beautiful wolf.
I’ve missed you so. Forgive my intrusion, won’t you?
no subject
He was in the tower.
He was young, barefoot and shirtless and eager just like this, and he was in the tower.
There's Desmond. There's Desmond, just as it was Desmond at the cabin, it was Desmond at the house, and it was and wasn't Desmond returning to him in the tower.
Before the pain takes him, he slips beneath memory to that place of knowing, keeping ahead of the curse like touching a live wire and letting it go before the shock. (But before it could. Before the memory slipped away, he saw, didn't he? A door cracked open and the light caught on golden scales.) (It's the first time he knows for certain what was taken from them. What he was to the creature in the castle.)
It takes another moment for him to return to the present, only to find Desmond is close - a lapse, just a small lapse in awareness on Jack's part, Jack gone distant and sorting through his memories, it's been happening and Desmond knows he can't help it.
It doesn't keep him from kissing his mate's hand, then once, and again, on the lips. Once more on his cheek, and he's here again, grounded in the present - where Desmond just saw him peeling his clothes off for a semi-rowdy crowd of women.
Ah, well. ]
What intrusion? I don't think there's anything to forgive.
[ Lazily, he loops his arms around Desmond's waist and cants his head inquisitively, his smile full of mischief and pleasure.
Nothing outside the dressing room door can compete with this man, he thinks. (And isn't he lucky they found one another again? That no matter the barrier, it can't keep them apart?
It's nice to have faith in something. Finally.) ]
What'd you think? Did I live up to the hype, or did Benny keep you distracted the whole time?
[ A faint look of amusement passes his features. ]
I hope not, because you can't be at my shows anymore. Or - [ Immediately, he relents. ] Not if I know you're there, anyway; you almost caused a situation for me.
no subject
It happens, this shivering of memory. His mate knows how to bear through it and how to duck away (his mate has an aegis within; an artifact not lost, only nested precisely where it belongs) (this, this at least is a relief to know and trust to), and if need be, Desmond will draw him back, speak soothing until Jack’s present slips back into place.
It doesn’t come to that. In an instant, Puppy’s back with him, wrapping an embrace around him, and time loses itself in a rush of welcome and kisses. Where Desmond caresses Jack’s cheek, then draws a bracing hand to the back of his neck. Where a kiss to his cheek is met with a kiss to Puppy’s own, and a twining closer to his love, wrapping as near as he can.
It’s something wondrous, something unforeseen, the way he feels so perfectly at ease, so right with Puppy’s arm around his waist, Puppy’s kiss upon his brow. It’s nothing he could have anticipated before that first encounter: How natural it is to melt into this man’s touch. How much he thrills, feels alight in Jack’s presence, when prior to this man, Desmond can recall only ever shying from contact. When he can recall taking joy in no other’s nearness.
He lifts onto the toes of his undamaged foot, the better to set a kiss to Puppy’s cheekbone, laughing soft delight. Then offering a slivered smile, a glint of teeth as he run his finger downward from Puppy’s sternum, admiring, savoring each brush of skin.
Yes, he understands the meaning in Jack’s words. The almost-situation he may have caused.
He can’t bring himself to regret the near-precarity, nor does he think Jack would wish it. ]
Is that an invitation?
To let myself in unannounced, while my Love burns bright upon the stage, and melt into the shadows.
To watch, unsuspected. The only signal of my presence a shiver of suspicion through your spine; who can say for what cause? Who can say if it’s Daddy you see, or only a shift beyond the lights’ glare?
My Puppy performs, my Puppy dances such vicious grace, and I drink in his sight. Reveling in witness as my wolf toys with his prey.
[ His smile’s crept to a further show of appreciation, a further glint of teeth. And Desmond, eyes locked with Jack’s, snaps his teeth. ]
Would you like that, Puppy?
I’d like it very, very much.
[ A moment more to watch with sharp, with hungry eyes, and Desmond melts to laughter once again, gifts another kiss to Puppy’s lips. ]
You surpassed all reach of ‘hype,’ my Darling. You stole my breath; you stole my sight, my mind entirely.
I would have been lost, gazing helpless, had I not moved to the bar, hm?
I confess I didn’t see nearly as much as I would have liked. Your barman— This Benny—
[ There’s a pause in which he hovers, might nearly speak the questions drawn up by that man, but there’s no need to jar this moment. He gets to focus on Puppy right now; they’ll have time for discussing the rest. God knows this town isn’t going anywhere. ]
He has a way with ceaseless chatter.
In future, I’ll need to keep deeper in the shadows. Far from his reach and restless words, the better to enjoy my Puppy’s show.
But yes, Love: Rest assured, I relished what I saw. The man and wolf in you, enthralling all who dared to gaze upon you, claiming the world as your own.