Dan is seated in the most secluded part of the bar today, hunched over a table as he writes in his notebook.
His pencil's moving very quickly, pausing only to erase or check something on his calculator - or to glance up at the Window.
Glance. No, glances are supposed to be quick. He's not glancing. He's staring, mesmerized, and when he catches
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When people say things like that, they tend to say it nicely. There's no niceness in the way Ben says it.
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So he doesn't.
He does tense up, though, and his pencil goes still.
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"What do you want?"
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A moment later, music drifts from the instrument, smooth and sliding.
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- when he looks into the rafters and sees the boy sitting there, he blinks.
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And looks down at Dan.
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... he'll go with the latter.
"You play very well," he says quietly, restlessly tapping his pencil against his fingertips.
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He catches a glimpse of the other man while getting a beer from Bar, and approaches to confirm it.
"Faraday?"
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"Desmond?"
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