Guy in a Bar

How had Harry wound up in this smoky dive bar? Someone or other had said someone else or other recommended it, and he'd had enough tequila by that point to say ok. The lighting was shit — truly abysmal, and he was glad he'd taken to wearing his glasses more often — which meant it was perfect. Liquor and lights could fool even the sharpest eyes, and each new hour of eleven, midnight, and one had his laugh louder and his muscles laxer. The jukebox probably didn't have a song past 1982, and it was the sort of grungy scene he fancied himself feeling at home in.

Intent on the cue ball, his first scratch of the night had absolutely nothing to do with you walking in, friends in tow, chattering and giggling through your attempts to cram your way into spaces at the bar. No, of course not — it was just... his eyes had sort of wandered and done a double-take, and how was he supposed to see looking over the rims of his glasses?

(Of course, focusing on that — you — when he thrust his cue stick forward might've helped....)

The ball spun and bounced off several others without enough force to send them into any pockets, and he straightened up, smiling tight-lipped to snickers, guffaws, and jeers.

Magnetic. Pushing his glasses up his nose, he leaned on his back foot, cue stick in hand. Watching you grin at the bartender, he decided that was how he'd describe you. Magnetic. You'd shed your coat at some point, and now he could see you were wearing black — black on black on black — and his lips rolled between his teeth while he rolled his eyes up and down your body.

Desire ignited and extinguished in the same minute within him, and he smirked, the wistful thought that maybe in a different year, or different city, or different mindset he could and would. Maybe he wasn't inebriated, but he wasn't stone cold sober, either, and far beyond the point of being able to rationally evaluate the situation. Besides, he really didn't do that anymore. Not for a long time by now, and he chalked it up to maturity and a healthy dose of what he liked to call caution.

"Your turn, bud."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he skirted around the table, choosing his shot with his back to you. Fool him once, shame on him, but fool him twice.... Lining it up, he was just about to take it when—

His knuckles tightened around his cue stick and his hair stood on end when that laugh erupted — mischievous, delighted, distracting, and all the paranoia of a nervous teenager that he was the cause.

"Hurry up, Harry."

Shooting a glare, he jabbed the cue ball forward and stood when it ricocheted into a pocket.

"That's what happens when you rush perfection," he said to the merciless ribbings. He moved out of the way and back into the shadows, but when he looked at you again, he froze. Eyes locked on him, you blinked slowly, inquisitively, and he gripped the cue stick he was leaning on harder. Did you recognize him? Did you know him? Did you care? Were you unsettled by the guy in a bar wearing slacks that cost a couple thousand and a t-shirt who couldn't stop looking at you every chance he got?

The slight, sultry smirk over the rim of your glass made the knot in his stomach release and warmth flooded through him. Whatever interest he'd tried to crocodile wrestle back into submission had worked its way out of his hold and was lunging at you, jaws snapping. He lifted his head higher and grinned halfway — a grin he'd seen thousands swoon and stammer over and he knew nine times out of ten could get him whatever way he chose to go.

The drink in your glass disappeared a little more when you tipped it towards your mouth, and you set it on the bar, cocking your head in a silent inquisition of, are you going to or not?