Chapter Text
Lesson One: Avoid a False Start
Frantically, the shadowed figure tears through the dimly lit apartment, shoving various items into a dark bag. It appears completely haphazard; there’s no rhyme or reason to it. The panic is palpable.
Altair crouches on the rooftop opposite, tracking his golden target through the window. Malik is beside him, scoping out possible entry points. Whilst thankful for his presence and aid in this mission, Altair could do without the consistent, pointed side-eyes. They prickle at his skin, contributing to the current itch that’s spreading rapidly across his body. He knows he’s acting recklessly. Malik is right to be concerned – it’s as if Altair has been thrust bodily back to his youth. All his training though is simply no match for the instinct that is kicking into high gear.
He needs to be in that apartment. His heart pounds, his body is taut, muscles locked.
A glance at Malik – and they move.
A gaggle of screaming women ride into the bar, sparkly headdresses and sashes declaring their intentions to be absolutely plastered and to possibly leer at some naked people, from a distance, of course, Susan! What do you think your fiancé’s doing right now, huh?
Desmond swiftly pulls some more shot glasses from behind the bar. He steals a glance of solidarity with his fellow bartender for the night, Darcy, a weathered woman who never hesitates to have a shot with Desmond post-shift. She’s developed an acute sense for customers over time, and Desmond is more than happy to follow her learned lead. As expected, Darcy starts pulling together ingredients for what looks like wet pussy shots, eye-balling the bride-to-be with a look that parses into her soul. The bachelorette party hit the bar with the force of at least a magnitude six earthquake, in Desmond’s humble opinion, and immediately shout out an order – twelve wet pussy shots. He definitely owes Darcy a drink after this.
Desmond prepares his most blinding customer-service smile and is granted several blushes and giggles in response. Lightly flirting with the group, he grabs their cards deftly from waving hands and puts through their orders with a practiced speed. Bad Weather isn’t the worst job. He’s glad he even has one to begin with, all things considering. Talking to customers is fun. Without work, he'd just mope around his apartment, a dingy little place with a tiny kitchenette, barely any lighting, and a sad single bed for him (and his many cockroaches).
Desmond’s fine. He’s happy. He’s got enough wages and tips from customers for the basics: a roof over his head, food, and his suppressants. Tick, tick, tick. He doesn’t think about his family, his old life – and it’s all fine and dandy.
Another group of customers flag him down, and Desmond shuffles over to take their order. As he approaches though, there’s a glint of something in the corner of his eye. Desmond glances over: two men have just walked into the bar. Bad Weather’s shitty lighting makes it difficult to tell, and it doesn’t help that both their faces are shrouded under hoodies, but they seem to be scanning the room pointedly.
Goosebumps trail down his arms. There’s something about these men that grabs at him and refuses to let go – it’s especially hard to tear his eyes off the one on the right. It’s like… Desmond swears he spots a glimmer of gold around him, a line leading to his equally bright eyes. Goldy, he thinks he’ll call him, with a mildly delirious giggle. Why he feels the sudden need to name him he decidedly chooses not to think about.
Alarms blare in his head as he realises he’s made eye contact with the man. It’s too far away to tell with certainty, but they must be alphas. Some other patrons are shifting as they walk past, eyeing the men before turning back to their drinks. Though his body lacks the usual cues while on suppressants, there’s nothing else he can think of that would prompt this strange reaction. His stupid, off-brand suppressants aren’t as high quality as they should be, so Desmond can still smell people if they’re close enough. Sadly, this goes both ways. Alcohol is good at covering his scent, to the point that he’s been told he smells more like an alpha or a particularly drunk beta. But there have been some tenacious, sharp alphas that have followed their nose to where it didn’t belong. Desmond’s grateful for his past for one thing only and that’s for being able to get the drop on unsuspecting dickheads.
Darcy nudges past him with a look of mild worry which snaps Desmond right out of his weird staring contest with Goldy. Fucking alphas, he thinks, aiming a smile at the bored businessman in front of him who wants, you guessed it, a beer. You’ve handled worse, Desmond. Get it the fuck together.
The men approach the bar and Darcy promptly takes their order. Desmond can feel eyes on him. The paranoia never truly leaves – he can thank his dad for that one. He can thank William Miles for a lot of things, actually. Shockingly, ruminating about his father at least cuts through that strange undercurrent of tension that’s been building since those men walked in. If it works, it works, Desmond supposes. Anything to take his mind off… whatever this is. He places two beers on the counter for the businessman and grabs another few for a couple at the end of the bar. Slowly, he settles back into his normal rhythm – customers ebb and flow, drinking and bantering. He does keep track of the men in his periphery as they settle into a booth near the other end of the bar. Just in case.
It's towards the end of his shift when Darcy heads out the back for a quick stocktake. They do the closing shift together, but they each have their preferred tasks. It’s a tried-and-true system at this point. Which means Desmond is unfortunately left to face Goldy again, alone.
He’s leaning over the bar, golden eyes unblinking. His friend’s waiting in the booth for what Desmond assumes is their final round, since the bar’s near closing time. Mustering up what little energy and confidence he has left, Desmond approaches. That strange gold tint prods at Desmond’s mind again. It’s mingling with Goldy’s body language, with his neutral yet tight facial expressions, with the way he sits – primed and ready for movement. There’s a shine to his wrist that Desmond notes before he forcibly moves his eyes back to Goldy’s face. The familiarity is beyond confusing.
“What can I get you?” Desmond’s not sure what his face was doing in the lead up to this interaction, but he hopes Goldy didn’t notice. He seems to be the observant type, judging by the relentless unbroken staring. Or just socially awkward, Desmond thinks as Goldy makes no move to order.
Desmond’s sweating. A drop twists down his back. He knows his smile is strained, but Goldy’s staring is making him feel small, trapped. No, even worse – it’s making him feel seen.
“Two beers. Tap is fine,” Goldy utters after what feels like a veritable century. This is good. Desmond can do beer. Desmond can do the shit out of beer.
“You got it,” Desmond states, moving over the bar to grab Goldy’s card.
That’s his mistake. Goldy is perched half across the bar and Desmond, for some stupid reason, compelled by some unknown force, moves ever closer to him to grab his stupid card. He’s definitely an alpha, is his first thought as the scent hits him. His second thought is, Oh fuck –
The card drops to the counter as his hand is caught in a tight grip. Goldy’s smelt him too.
This is exactly what he wanted to avoid. His fucking true mate, oh, Jesus Christ. He can’t. He can’t, not him, his past, he can’t be – fuck. Panic must bleed across his face and scent because his alpha starts drawing soothing circles into his wrist. Goldy’s scent exudes comfort and Desmond is beyond irritated that it works, his traitorous body calming down immediately. Daring a look across to his alpha’s friend, he can see the stoic man watching this interaction intently, though he stays in his seat. Is that dude glowing blue? Desmond notes, a bit hysterically.
“What’s your name?” Goldy murmurs. Desmond thanks every known entity he can think of that he’s been using fake names since he ran. “Shaun” is on the tip of his tongue –
“Desmond,” he whispers instead. Hold on, what. What.
His alpha gives him the slightest smile in response, a tiny twitch of the lips that somehow conveys more warmth than should be possible. Desmond is annoyingly charmed. This is a distraction though; he can’t afford to be drawn in by his – this ridiculous golden man. Alphas don’t take well to rejection, especially not by their omegas, so he needs to be subtle. His suppressants kindly block out the full brunt of the pheromones lingering around which gives him an opportunity to break away, gently removing his hand.
“Listen,” he starts before the alpha can interject, “I – it’s nice to meet you, obviously. But I am working – my shift ends, I don’t know, in an hour or so? Could you maybe wait for me? We can chat then, I promise.” He’s lying through his fucking teeth.
Desmond has the vague sense that his alpha is suspicious, but he has no reason to distrust him… yet. Somewhat brutishly, Desmond pulls together what feelings of happy, excited he can and pushes them at Goldy. He can’t take any chances here.
Goldy doesn’t outwardly react to Desmond’s scent changing, but he inclines his head in agreement. Letting out a breath, Desmond excuses himself, and turns around, almost smacking into Darcy.
She startles. “You alright, Shaun?”
“Yeah, fine, thanks Darcy,” he fashions a grimace. He quickly lowers his voice, “Actually, I’m going to head off early, sorry. Think I’m coming down with something. Mind grabbing that guy a drink for me?”
“Alright, honey. You owe me though,” she tuts. She hip-checks him on his way out the back, though, so he knows he’s already forgiven. Still, Desmond feels terrible leaving her with the closing shift. And I’m never coming back, he realises. She’s going to be worried about him, wondering what’s happened and where he’s gone. They’ve been working together at Bad Weather since Desmond made it to New York. The thought is pushed back as soon as it materialises. He can’t process this right now.
Desmond hurries through to the back entrance of the bar and slips out into the night. It’s truly more early morning at this point, but the sun rises late enough that he has the shadows for coverage all the way back to his apartment. He sticks to them like glue, glancing behind him repeatedly until he makes it home. Pushing inside roughly, his heart pounding in his throat, he tries to take stock of what he needs. Running away is natural, Desmond knows the process intimately. There’s a worn backpack near the front that is stocked with certain supplies – just in case. He grabs it, moving through the apartment to pack anything else that may be useful. An aged toothbrush, bristles dying. A surprisingly sturdy knife – a great find from his dumpster-diving days.
He’s frantic, he knows he needs to calm down, ease his racing heart, but his body is rebelling. It’s taxing enough for most people to simply process meeting their mate – then to immediately run from them? People don’t do that, and for good reason. It takes a few days for all the chemicals in the body to calm the fuck down and accept the new development. Alphas can be particularly ornery in this period, while omegas can experience increased anxiety. Most new pairs will take leave from work to enjoy a holiday and get to know each other – and to bond, obviously.
He’s already experiencing the anxiety of separation. Desmond’s torn, caught between the need to be safe and the fact that “safety” is now some complete stranger. Everything he was taught to avoid, to be wary of. As much as Desmond tries to ignore all his father’s teachings, he’s worked so hard to avoid them. A stranger could be working with them – with his father. There was that inkling, that familiarity about his alpha. Desmond’s stuck in his kitchen, bag loosely hanging in his hand. He was so familiar. His brain is drudging up old memories, though nothing is lining up. It’s all “training” and his family and –
There’s a soft noise in his living room. There’s gold shifting in the corner of his eye.
He turns. The one window in his apartment is open, soft light streaming into his lounge and highlighting the face of his gold-tinged alpha.