Chapter Text
Normally Philip would use a proxy to do this. Ray had been good for that, never asked too many questions, discounting the blackmail and occasional threats – nothing Philip couldn't handle. Ray hadn't been the one to look the gift horse in the mouth… but Ray is no longer a safe option to use, and though Philip could keep on sending Marcy and Carly out there to win miraculous amounts of money… it's better to keep their records as unsuspicious as possible.
So, figuring that it's been long enough since his last lottery win, Philip goes out himself, winning numbers in hand. He'd get 6 out of 7, of course – though not as statistically unlikely as people might assume, it still tends to look suspicious to people when the same person wins jackpot twice. Better to err on the side of caution… as much as he can, anyway.
To that end he chooses a place with no security cameras and no reputation to speak of. A quiet little bar tucked away from the view, borderline hidden away in a back alley, not that far from the garage. How anyone even knows the place exists, nevermind supports legal gambling, is hard to say, but it does. It seems like a safe bet, so to speak, despite being so close by.
Philip only needs to take one look at the bar he'd chosen to place his bets in to know he's paid either not enough caution or just on the edge of too much. His world tilts in that, by now familiar, mixed timelines way, and he sees himself by the counter, leaning his elbows to the hardwood while talking to the short-haired male bartender on the other side. The bartender grins, shining, and the vision of Philip Pearson laughs into his glass, throwing his head back and then almost choking at something the bartender says. The bartender smiles, incandescent, and Philip knows then that the vision-Philip spends a lot of time here – that here a version of him had found what Marcy had found in David and Carly in Jeffrey Junior.
Philip grinds his teeth until the vision passes and the ethereal glow of the alternate timeline fades – reality settled in dark and concrete with quiet humm of music and chatter of people. There's about six people in the place – five customers and a bartender, talking quietly to a silver-haired man in tan suit. The bartender is the one from the vision – except he's not smiling, he's tense and uncomfortable as the silver-haired man leans in, saying something too quietly for Philip to hear.
Philip blinks slowly. He's just coming in to place his ticket, pretend he's having a drink and go, nothing else. Whatever this is and whoever the bartender is, it had nothing to do with him.
He walks to the counter to order and can tell by the bartender's expression that the distraction is welcome. "Hey there – what can I get you?"
"Desmond, we're not done here," the silver-haired man by the counter snaps at him.
"And I have actual job I need to be minding," the bartender snaps back and smiles at Philip, tense and apologetic.
Philip glances between them and knows nothing about them. Desmond looks a tiny bit like a man from an Interpol wanted poster from 2012, but that's about it, really – obviously neither of these guys is a public figure in any way.
"Beer," he says. "Cheapest on the tab, I'm not picky."
Desmond gives him a look that's not quite sympathetic. "You got it," he says, and ignoring the look the older man across the counter gives him, goes to fill a pint for Philip. Philip looks away, not bothering with shame. He's learned to use his addicted-mess looks – they make him easy to dismiss and easy to pity, both which can be useful. As much as he hates having been dropped in the body in this state… it's useful on occasion.
Desmond hands him his pint and Philip pays with his most crumbled bills before sitting down to look like a guy having the worst year of his life. After a moment he's being ignored, as he usually is, as Desmond gets drawn back into an argument with the man in a tan suit.
"... wasting your time here," the older man says. "When you could be doing so much more with your life –"
"I already told you, I'm not interested –" the bartender answers, irritated.
"You have so much potential, Desmond," the older man insists in frustration. "And you're wasting it all away in this worthless little bar –"
"Hey don't knock the bar, okay, it's my bar, which I own –"
"Which is so far beneath you and you know it –"
Philip watches condensation gather on the surface of the glass pint, trying not to listen. He doesn't like beer, he actually actively dislikes it. One of the few things about the 21st he dislikes really, drugs notwithstanding. Granted, he hasn't tried that many beers yet, but so far he hasn't found a single one that doesn't taste like fermented yeast.
Maintenance of the yeast vats, first and foremost, is your responsibility to the community. Not that he'd never needed to pull yeast duty, being a historian, he was too busy in training, but even he knew the taste of yeast spoiling. And also the taste of yeast, pushed to the point of producing ethanol. The future, sadly, had limited varieties of alcohol and at best they tasted like really really bad beer.
Philip takes a drink of his beer and wishes he'd ordered wine instead or even cider. Neither goes well with the looks of Philip Pearson the drug addict, but neither of them would've made him gag.
Desmond the bartender finally fends off the overly pushy older man with, "Okay, that's enough, I'm done listening to you – get out of my bar or I'll throw you out."
"Desmond –"
"I mean it. You're bothering my customers. Get out."
"This isn't over," the silver-haired man says, putting a wad of bills on the counter.
"Yeah, god forbid I'd ever be so lucky," the bartender mutters and runs a hand over his neck with a groan the older man finally leaves. Philip chances a glance his way as the man stares up at the ceiling for a moment. Then he takes the bills and rings them up, sighing.
Not his business, Philip thinks, and determinedly looks down on his beer.
Desmond the bartender leaves him alone for a moment, going around the bar, collecting empty glasses and orders while Philip chokes through half of his rotten liquid. Then the bartender is back behind the counter, making few drinks and carrying them out. Every so often the man glances his way, but he says nothing.
Philip should buy his lottery ticket and go, but – there's still a part of him that abhors wasting any kind of food, even this rotten liquid bread. 26th century sensibilities are hard to shake, even if each swallow of the cold swill makes him shudder a little.
There's also vision going on not far from him, glowing with that dreamy alternate reality way, and he'd rather not look at it right. He can hear himself in it – he sounds relaxed, almost happy.
There's a clack of glass on wood and suddenly there's a new glass in front of him. It's a stout stemware glass with a handle, filled to the brim with something dark brown capped with whipped cream. There's a dusting of ground chocolate on top of the foam.
It smells amazing.
Philip looks up to find Desmond the bartender watching him. "It's on the house," the man says.
"What is it?" Philip asks, confused.
"Hot chocolate mint toddy," the bartender says. "One ounce of coffee, one ounce of mint liquor, hot water, hot chocolate, whipped cream, and little bit of chocolate on top. All lactose free," he says. "The chocolate might have nuts, though, if you're allergic."
"I'm not," Philip says, confused. "But – why?"
"Honestly?" Desmond asks. "Never seen anyone suffering as much as you seem to be, drinking that beer. And I'm not running this bar as a way to obscurely torture people – I think something sweet might be a bit more up your speed."
He winks and whisks the beer away. Philip doesn't even try to complain, he's just glad to see it go, though this – this is really not what he's here to do.
The hot chocolate looks and smells incredible – and it tastes even better. Philip hasn't been precisely cold before, but the drink warms him all the way through to the core, chasing away the memories of ice on top of the shelter dome and washing away the taste of yeast. Philip is always almost painfully aware of his bodily functions with all its shakes and aches and hot and cold flashes and the never ending nausea – detoxing is a bitch – but for once, he's aware of his internal workings in a nice way. That's… new.
"This is great," Philip says softly, relaxing on the bar stool as Desmond turns back from deposing the offending beer. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," Desmond says, grinning with obvious delight.
"Isn't it usually served with coffee liquor though?" Philip asks, frowning and wondering since when he knew about cocktail recipes.
"Usually, yeah, but the coffee liquor makes it taste a little bitter," Desmond says simply, though Philip doubts that's the only reason.
"You give free drinks to all new customers?" he asks.
Desmond hums and Philip hears several answers before he actually speaks. "Only the cute ones," and, "Is not a bad tactic for getting regulars," and, "Honestly, man, you look shit," and, "Well, the cream was going to go bad in a day, so…"
What Desmond actually says is, "Only the ones who have to listen to some bullshit." The man glances to where the silver-haired man was and shrugs. "Sorry about that."
"From what I heard, it wasn't exactly your fault," Philip says uncomfortably, trying very hard to not draw conclusions because conclusions lead to assumptions and assumptions mean you're personally involved and no matter how happy alternate-Philip sitting in the corner looks, actual-Philip has too much on his plate to get involved with things not Mission Vital.
Judging by what he heard though...
Desmond sighs. "If only," he says and shakes his head. "Well, never mind that, the less I have to think about it the better. What brings you to the Miles to go?"
Philip arches his brows.
"It's the name of the bar," Desmond clarifies.
"Right," Philip says and frowns. "I don't know – I just – saw it and thought why not, you know? Why?"
"Just curious," Desmond says with a shrug. "You're not my usual clientele, is all."
Philip glances around the bar. He really isn't, it turns out – all the other customers are older, from forties up, who are sitting in quiet corners and drinking and taking quietly, reading newspapers and watching the television in the corner. Philip looks from one to the other for a connecting feature other than age and picks up on it pretty fast.
They're almost all of them vets. Some of them look homeless, some are in better state, but there's that quality in them that marks them out as a bit special.
Blinking, Philip takes the bar in with a more thoughtful glance and realises that it's been made, either accidentally or intentionally, very de-stressing. No flashing lights, no thumping music, even the television has a film on it that makes it less bright. All the seats aside from the bar stools are plush couches and armchairs, and there are throws and Afghans everywhere. It looks more like someone's living room than a bar.
Desmond wipes the counter clean while Philip turns to look at him, taking him in more closely too. The man has his arms barred, sleeves of his shirt rolled up – on the left arm he has a tattoo, on the right he has an extensive burn.
A veteran too, it looks like. Veteran who maybe due to PTSD made his bar stressor-free, and as such ended up attracting certain clientele.
…. And Philip's here just to place a lottery ticket so that he can start investing – not to get invested.
"I was just walking by and thought I could use a drink, that's all," he says and looks down.
"Nothing wrong with that," Desmond says and makes another wipe over the hardwood before putting the rag away. "We could use some new blood here – though I gotta warn you, if you stick around you stand a good chance of being accosted for a story time. People who come here have a lot to say and like to talk"
"And I'm guessing you're a good listener," Philip says.
Desmond smiles. "I like a good story, yeah," he agrees and looks him over. "You kinda look like you got some stories too."
Databases of them. Philip clasps his hands loosely around the bottom of his glass, warning his fingertips against the still warm surface. He shouldn't. He shouldn't – but he can hear alternate-Philip in the corner, taking about nothing, he sounds so relaxed and comfortable, and Philip – Philip doesn't have that.
Every day Marcy goes home to David and hangs up the burdens of the Mission by the entryway. Carly goes home to her son and becomes a mother for a while. Mac goes home to his wife. Even Trevor has a life outside the mission, which he seems interested enough in to enjoy. Philip…
Philip barely has a Protocol 5. His Protocol 5 is addiction and sessions with anonymous meetings and now he barely has even that – he kind of doubts Ray would keep on accompanying him, with what happened. Which reduces Philip Pearson's social life down to… to nothing.
He doesn't have much else but the Mission. He even lives at their hideout, for a damn good reason, but…
Sometimes he's just so damn lonely he can barely breathe in there. Sometimes he looks at the others, stealing blissful moments in their make-believe domesticity and he's so jealous he can't look any of them in the eye. Even with all the issues, even with all the problems Marcy had and Carly still faces and Mac too… having problems is still more than being alone and having nothing.
Philip presses his lips together, but he can't quite stop the expression from breaking through – the flex of his jaw always gives it away.
"Hey," Desmond says, concerned. "Hey, are you alright?"
"Yeah, yeah – it's nothing –" Philip says and runs his hands over his eyes, trying to stamp it down. His belly is full of warm, slightly alcoholic hot chocolate, and he can't remember when anyone did him an uncomplicated kindness like that, with no strings attached. Trevor does, maybe, yeah, but Trevor cares about everyone, equally. As much as it makes Philip feel selfish, it isn't something that is just his. And these days it feels like everything else comes with a price, with a condition and with a punishment and sometimes he's just –
Desmond looks at him, wary. "Do you need a hug, man?" he asks.
"W-what?" Philip asks with a surprised, incredulous laugh.
"Can't promise to help you with whatever shit you got going on, but I give mean hugs," the bartender says. "And sometimes hugs make things better. So, hug?"
"You hug all your customers?" Philip asks dubiously, running his hand under his nose. His throat aches a little.
"Most of them, yeah," Desmond agrees with a shrug. "I'm a hugger."
Philip looks at him warily and – yeah, the guy is definitely serious. "What the hell," he says. "Yeah, I could use a hug."
Desmond nods and comes around the counter. It should be awkward, but somehow it isn't – Philip turns slightly towards him and then Desmond's arms are around him and Philip's cheek is pressed against the man's chest. The man's hands are wide and warm on his back, his arms a securing weight, and Philip can hear Desmond's heart beating steadily in his chest, strong and calm.
Trevor is something of a hugger too, but Trevor is a sneaky speed hugger who sort of comes out of nowhere, latches on like a vice and then is gone on his merry way. It's nice, but it isn't anything like this. Desmond doesn't just hug – he holds on.
Philip can feel the tension draining from him, and before he even realises what he's doing, he's leaning into the strange bartender, all but slumped against the man's chest. Desmond doesn't say anything, doesn't murmur comforting nonsense, he just runs his palms soothingly over Philip's back and holds him.
It's just – nice. It's endorphins, Philip thinks. Humans are social animals, and physical contact prompts all sorts of chemical reactions. Release of oxytocin and lowering of cortisol and – yeah. He thinks he might've needed this more than he realised.
"Can I have this on the regular?" Philip mumbles against the bartender's chest. "I can pay."
Desmond laughs – it rumbles softly through him and makes his chest vibrate. "It's on the house."
Philip ends up not buying the lottery ticket at Desmond's bar – it's better not to do that sort of thing in places you're planning to visit regularly, after all.