Desmond isn't sure how he does it, but the boy from the street finds him.
"When No One Else Was Looking"
The bar is a calming place. The low murmur of voices, highlighted by the clinking of glass is Desmond's lullaby. Desmond falls into a routine lull each night, listening to the familiar ramblings of the normal occupants.
His work is dull and mind numbing. But it distracts his mind from the darkness hidden under the surface.
(The cynicism and the trauma.)
The patrons don't ask questions about his life and Desmond doesn't ask questions about theirs. The bar is a place where strangers go to hide and be anonymous.
(Desmond can't better think of a place to personify the Assassins. There's an unspoken code and bond shared between everyone here, much like the Brotherhood.)
Nothing happens in the quiet bar, tucked neatly into the crowded streets of the city.
Today is like every other day. It's cool and raining outside. So a few people more that usual are there, to get out of the rain and have a warm drink. People are curled into themselves, retaining heat as best they can. Desmond has to hold back his laughter at their stupidity. He wants to shout that alcohol will not do them any good in the cold weather.
"I'll take a Shirley Templar," a man asks, shuffling up to the counter. "I've heard this is the only place in the city to get one."
A hunched figure a few seats down laughs at that.
"What's so funny?" the man demands as Desmond prepares the drink.
(His hands are on autopilot as he watches the exchange. But that's what happens when you live a repetitive life – nothing needs to be thought about too long anymore.)
"There's a reason only one place sells Shirley 'Templars,'" the hunched one answers.
There is a certain inflection to the word Templars that sends shivers up Desmond's spine. For a moment his flawless hand movements stutter and Desmond curses softly. He frowns and stares at the mixture intensely for a fraction of a second, to double check that his method is correct, before returning his gaze upward.
"And why's that?" Desmond asks curiously.
(The first man looks slightly surprised. Desmond's aware that he's made a reputation as a silent, stoic barkeep.)
"The creator of the drink is a fucking idiot," the hunched figure says.
Laughter bubbles up the hunched figure's throat and he tosses his head back. His face is exposed and Desmond suddenly recognizes him as the boy from the street a few weeks back.
"Here's your drink, it's on the house," Desmond murmurs, sliding the drink at the first man before making his way down the bar.
"Fancy meeting you here," the boy greets, with a smile.
"You're not allowed in here," Desmond growls.
The boys eyes are dark, stormy and challenge him to kick him out. Something pings in the back of Desmond's brain as he recognizes the challenging look. He can't quite place it. The words tumble out of Desmond's mouth before he's even aware that he's made the connection.
"Don't look at me like that, Mal!" Desmond snaps angrily, like the young hotheaded apprentice he was only a few years ago.
Suddenly the boy's eyes widen and he caves into himself. He retreats into a shell that Desmond wasn't even aware existed.
(But Desmond doesn't know the boy very well in the first place. How was he to know the boy was anything other than an optimistic ray of sunshine?)
Desmond opens his mouth to say something else. But he can't think of anything. The damage has been done.
The boy stands from the stool – his expression carefully schooled blank – and leaves the bar.
Desmond stands there, his throat dry.
"Kadar-" Desmond murmurs after a few seconds. "Fuck."