in the course of the last hour or so, a messy little pile of paper scraps has begun to accumulate on the sticky surface of the bar and guy has started to arrange it into different constellations. seperated into many small piles, clumped together into one big one or, currently, arranged in a line next to his drink, seperating him from the rest of the bar, the other patrons nursing their drinks alone next to him. they seem just as lost as he feels, as if they're waiting for someone they know isn't coming. yet their gaze flies to the entrance with every slight noise or movement from that direction - ready to assess whoever is coming in and joining their sad, motley crew; ready to receive a glance that lingers a touch too long, long enough to give them an opening to peel themselves off the bar and join a stranger for some quick, meaningless and decided small talk before taking their leave with them soon after.
business follows a pattern here, one guy notices but is not a part of. lost in his own little world, his thoughts, a bubble around him that muffles the voice of the bartender asking him if he wants another. yes, another would be great, in fact guy needs another if he wants to truly give himself over to intoxication and drown out the incessant, loud thoughts of those around. it's funny, how the places that seem the quietest are often alight with the most obnoxious streams of consciousness. someone in the corner is stressing over their first date, while a man in the opposite side of the room seems to have an internal argument with the jukebox, concluding it with a few good kicks that sends the old machine spurring again, the rattling echoing through the small room. a couple has just disappeared into the bathroom and guy makes a conscious effort to uncouple himself from their thoughts, focusing on the task at hand - ripping up yet another coaster into tiny fragments to add to his pile of scraps. there had been a weak attempt at telling him off from the bartender some half hour ago, but apparently guy's eyes were just wet, wide and defeted enough for him to back off and allow him to continue as he pleased.
his espresso martini has warmed to about room temperature and he quickly swallows the rest of it down with a grimace. he should've ordered a beer, guy thinks to himself, and he does, pointedly ignoring the bartender's internal skepticism, weighing whether or not he should hand guy another drink. he shouldn't have ordered another, beer or else. he shouldn't have started drinking in the first place. it's not like he wasn't aware of the fact that he's shit at the job he was forcibly recruited into, what with the lifelong surveillance yet zero useful training he had received before being shipped off to another continent as bait for some big, bad, evil mastermind. he's a good lawyer, or he would have been, but he's decidely a shit spy. which really wouldn't bother him if it weren't for the fact that, this time around, he's not being used as a pawn in the game of some ancient organisation - this time, he's actually got a personal interest in being decent at his job. god, it feels so stupidly trivial, refering to it as a job. more of a life-sentence. with exhibit a being his own mother.
the thought of her mixed with the aftertaste of a stale cocktail almost makes him retch, and guy quickly remedies the bitter feeling with a sip of whatever the bartender had placed in front of him. not that he particularly cares about what he's being served, so long as the poison does its job of dulling his psychic abilites to a distant pounding.
doubt soon joins his spiral of guilt. should he have stayed with doris? broken with the talamasca once and for all? maybe he should, most definitely actually, yet if he left the talamasca - provided they didn't just kill him on the spot if he voiced such desires - he effectively lost any and all chance to find his mother. or doris, should she need his help. or - guy groans, ashamed to even consider that there's someone else he might go looking for. his mother. doris. and -
"jesus - fuck." there's a loud, sharp and painful screeching as guy stumbles backwards from his his chair, dragging it along the floor. it's enough to sober him up somewhat, if only for a split second, enough to allow a sudden onslaught of thoughts all directed at him, cursing the asshole who had dared to assault their ears. yet guy doesn't stumble far and comes to a halt not five steps away from the stranger whose unsettling gaze was fixed on him. the stranger who, really, isn't a stranger at all. who has been the object of months of research, the protagonist of guy's absent-minded daydreams. who, until now, was the very reason guy had been drowning his disappointments in various liquors. "you're - " armand. unwillingly the talamasca file appears at the forefront of his mind, dates and names and blurry surveillance pictures. evidence of an existence that pieces itself together into the man occupying the seat next to him, naturally, as if he had sat there all evening, as if he had not just given guy the fright of his life.
it takes a few seconds to register that he speaks, addresses him, that this is not simply a figmet of his deluded and disappointed mind. lips still stuck around an inhale, the alarm at armand's presence fades a little as the adrenaline rush fades back into the pleasant, numbing buzz of alcohol and, against his better judgement, guy slides back onto his chair. he gulps, has half a mind to stop himself from apologising for putting a stop to his seemingly pointless search for armand.
"guy", he says a little stupidly, still somewhat dumbfounded. "mister anatole is my father." foster, his mind supplies, but best not to get caught up on the specifics. not when armand is offering up hints of information that guy has spent the last few months chasing after. like he is the guard of a well in the middle of a desert guy has been aimlessly wandering. "sorry, i just - i can't believe you're here." there's a beat, and as armand mentions his search for another his inebriated mind immediately conjures an image of this other. eyes the colour of church glass, hair in varying shades of grey, a clawed finger tracing along his cheek. a jolt goes through him and he sputters a cough, earning him a sharp look from the bartender. "i'm sorry", guy says again, squirming in his seat as he attempts to regain his composure. "i just mean - i was under the impression you ... didn't really want to be found." it's either that or guy is really, really, really shit at his job. "why are you here?"