Chapter Text
Alex may be staring at the bottom of a glass, but he’s only too aware of his surroundings.
Over in the corner? Typical couple, young, pressed tight and eager to show each other off. It would be sweet, but Alex has seen the glances the man sends when his woman looks away, returned by a girl a few tables down who’s showing twice as much skin.
Then there’s the group in the booth a few feet away, laughing uproariously and adding another half-dozen beers to their tabs. Alex has come to recognize their ilk, can see the simmering rage brought to the surface by the alcohol. He gives them twenty more minutes before they’re ripping each other apart, eager for a fight.
Can’t forget the hooded man sitting conspicuously in the only table without a light hanging directly overhead. He twitches nervously and every now and again, someone sits in front of him. Never for long, just enough for a phrase to pass between their lips, then the guest shuffles away, a small baggy full of white powder in their pockets.
Alex is always disgusted by such displays of depravity, but he finds himself wishing he was surprised. Not that such innocence would have suited him in the past.
But still. There are times when it physically pains him to see how consistent humanity can be with their vices, with their selfishness and greed. No matter the city, the state, the continent--humans at their core just prove time and time again they are no different, that they are incapable of change.
It’s as if there’s some...cancer within their very psyches, their souls, something so deep-seated and corrupt no digging could ever remove the ichor of its taint.
Alex feels a spike of black humor at the thought; and he’s supposed to be the virus.
No sooner has Alex pushed aside his empty glass than another slides across the counter to him, coming to a perfect stop right by his hand. He glances across to the bartender and nods in thanks.
That’s been perhaps the one saving grace since his self-appointed pilgrimage; aside from asking if he wanted to open a tab, the bartender has made himself scarce, but ever attentive to Alex’s needs. As soon as his drink is drained, he’s supplied another, no fuss, no questions.
He doesn’t even know why he’s bothering with it, though. It’s not as if he can actually get drunk. The burn’s not so bad, though. And if there’s one place to observe humanity, stripped of its masks and deceit, it’s in their places of indulgence.
“You’re not human, right?”
Alex’s heart trips in his chest and for the first time in a long, long time, he feels fear.
He goes stone-still, fingers tight around his fresh glass. Willing himself not to panic and to contain the virus within his skin, he raises his head.
The bartender’s face is free of righteous anger, of the fear and hatred that anyone who knows the Blacklight’s face regards him with. Instead, there’s a wryness. Mirth, even.
Alex hides his uncertainty behind a swallow of amber.
“What makes you say that?”
The bartender jerks a thumb at his glass.
“That’s your tenth, you know that right? I usually don’t serve past five, but you were handling them so well I got curious.” He leans close, close enough that Alex can see the tiny flecks of gray in his brown eyes, gain a whole new appreciation for the scar bisecting the corner of his mouth.
His dark eyebrows furrow as he searches Alex’s face.
“Damn. You don’t even look a little drunk. Yep. Definitely not human. Or--wait. Russian?”
Alex makes an amused sound, relaxing. He won’t have to make a hasty, possibly messy exit.
“Nope. Born--here, actually.”
“Oh, yeah? Funny enough, that’s probably the weirdest thing about you. I think we get more tourists than natives here.”
Alex can believe that. It isn't far from one of the more popular shopping strips in New York, and it has that--elitism. Line down the street, bouncers flanking the doors, guy with a list manning the velvet rope; there was no way Alex would have been let in under normal circumstances, which is why he snuck in in the first place.
Someone a few seats away flags down the bartender and with a parting smile, he leaves. Alex thinks that’s the end of that, eyes trailing the man as he expertly, and with more than a little finesse, mixes a half-dozen drinks for a group of women who laugh and cheer as he goes.
The man is handsome by human standards. Toned, bronzed skin--maybe Italian? Arresting smile and cropped, roguishly styled dark hair. And a decent conversationalist, if he can coax more than three words from Alex of all people. Definitely the man you wanted behind the bar to attract customers. He seems to fit in perfectly here. He's wearing a pair of black, well-worn gloves. Odd, since it's not exactly cold inside a packed club in New York on a Saturday night. But then again Alex is wearing two jackets, so who is he to judge?
It takes him only five minutes to finish the drinks, serve them with a winning smile, and coax a few generous tips from the girls. They drift away with winks and promises to return, and then, to Alex’s surprise, he hears him call out to another employee that he’s taking break and watches as he grabs a glass, a tall bottle of something brown, and drags a black stool over to sit opposite Alex.
He gets himself settled without a word, scooting his seat closer so he can brace his arms on the bar, pours himself a decent portion, and chugs it in three seconds.
“Ahhh,” the bartender sighs with satisfaction, eyes closed and smiling. He opens those dark eyes and leans close, expression open and curious as he reaches for the bottle.
“So, what’s wrong?” he asks calmly, refilling Alex’s glass.
It’s not often that Alex is caught completely off guard, but in this moment, there’s nothing for it. They’d barely had small talk, and definitely nothing that should have invited this sort of...reaching out? Camaraderie?
Alex wants to recoil from the sheer novelty of it. People just don’t act this way around him. The hood and the voice are usually enough to deter most, and anyone else just knows not to get too close.
What is this?
Deciding he’ll humor the human until he decides if he likes him, Alex peers back curiously.
“Something’s wrong?”
The bartender nods sagely. “Doing what I do, you learn to recognize the signs. And you, my friend?” He shakes his head, adopting a pitying, sad expression. “You’ve gone through some shit. Tragic, I can tell.”
“Well, you’re not wrong,” Alex mutters with his usual black humor. He takes the drink, appreciates the burn sliding down his throat.
“I’m never wrong, which is why I’m here to help. As a bartender, my job skills also include confessional and advisor.” He gestures benevolently. “Please, my son, tell me your woes,” he requests, his voice suddenly much more formal and stuffy.
This guy clearly thinks he’s a riot, and Alex hides his smirk behind another sip.
“My problems aren’t the type some lip-service are gonna fix.”
“Hmm,” the bartender contemplates, pursing his lips as he considers Alex’s words. He stares a moment, eyes narrowed, before saying, “Nah,” and waving his hands dismissively.
“That’s actually a bunch of bullshit,” he says matter of factly. “As perhaps the poster-boy for keeping shit bottled up too long because I thought I could deal with it myself, let me just say that talking helps. Even if it’s just to make you feel a little less alone for a while.”
Alex looks up sharply, curses himself the next second for giving himself away so obviously.
It’s just...damn if that doesn't hit a little too close to home. If there’s anything Alex has learned, it’s that he is achingly, frustratingly alone. Sure, he has Dana but...not really. He has memories, impressions, but...the man she called brother...he’s dead, killed himself in Penn station and took more than a few people with him, the selfish fucking bastard.
Alex is just this...thing. This thing that hungers and devours and destroys. This thing that makes people hate him, hunt him, hurt him.
This thing that’s becoming less human with every day that passes.
The bartender, however, is so very human. Attractive, compassionate, completely naive to the wolf in his midst.
At this, Alex is struck with a thought. A thought that only proves how much of a monster he is, a thought that refuses to be ignored and dangles temptingly, insidiously before him.
I want to see him break.
Suddenly, more than anything, Alex wants to see him turn out like everyone else he’s seen. He wants to be disappointed, he wants to see this open, kind man reveal his true colors.
No, he needs it. Because this sudden empathy, this sweet lie that anyone, for even a minute, could see him and want to help, would even understand--he needs to kill this hope before it has time to kill him.
So Alex licks his lips and matches the bartender’s pose, elbows braced on the cool surface, and leans forward.
Softly, he says, “You don’t know shit about me. You need to shut the fuck up about shit you don't understand, because it’s going to get that pretty face of yours smashed in.”
Now comes the vitriol. The open, kind features will twist into something hurt and angry, and he’ll storm off, maybe even throw a drink or a punch.
To his unending confusion, the man does none of these things.
The bartender lets out a bark of laughter, completely unlike what Alex had caught him doing with his customers. It’s rough and unattractive, and clearly self-satisfied, but Alex knows instantly that it’s real.
“Yeah, no, that’s fair,” he says with a genial shrug, that damn stubborn smile still tugging on his lips. He tops off both their glasses, then looks at Alex imploringly. “Help me understand then. Seriously, I want to know.”
Alex moves straight from confused to angry. What game is this?
“Why? What does it matter? You don’t know me.”
“Weeeeeeeeeeell,” the bartender is watching Alex, something startlingly sober in his eyes despite his easy tone. “Let’s just say, I know what it’s like to feel alone with your thoughts when none of those thoughts are good. It’s a real shitty place to be in, and I’d like to help you out of it, if I can.”
Is this guy real? Alex has to resist the urge to look over his shoulder for a hidden camera or a strike team cutting their way towards him through the crowd. But the seconds drag on and he’s forced to admit that this is reality, and miracle of miracles, this guy is sincere.
Unsettled, Alex has to look away.
“You’re weird.”
Another laugh, softer but just as satisfied.
“You have no idea.”