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[onefellswoop]

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[onefellswoop]

[ 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— ]

You’ve known my Jack for some time, yes?

[honeystuff]

[ He doesn't look directly at Gold - or, at least, not until the mention of Null Set. In his expression, there's a mingling of surprise, reproach, and some more private emotion. Benny very quickly looks away, busying himself with pouring a beer from the tap and sliding it to a newcomer a few seats down. (Again, three patrons straighten hopefully and are left to slump in disappointment.

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. ]

[onefellswoop]

[ Something’s off. Something off (something’s missing) here and with this man, and Desmond’s too focused on the puzzle of it to notice the shift in music, the departure of his Puppy from the stage. So it takes a moment to register what Benny’s indicating. So Desmond’s caught between trying, trying to discern who this man was in another world - receiving for this effort a sharpening pain and an absence of answer - and recalling where he is, what in fuck’s name Benny means by ‘the entertainment.’

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?

[honeystuff]

[ Jack is barefoot and shirtless when the door cracks open; he has a moment when memory overwhelms him and he's turning to face the door, but it's this door, and it's the cabin door, and it's Desmond's front door, and it's somewhere else, somewhen else, and he's taller, stronger, his pants are soft leather or linen, maybe. He remembers because he was alone and it was a moment before he wasn't alone, someone's approaching and he feels a hitch of joy in his chest so pure it's painful.

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.

[onefellswoop]

[ He sees the stammer and the distance. Puppy’s seen something. Puppy knows something. And though Desmond feels a tug of worry, though he hurries even swifter to reach Jack’s side, still he schools himself to breathe even, to not give in to fretting.

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.