Work Text:
The bar was crowded, and the lights were dim. The drink in his hand was half empty, and, looking at it, he gave it a little shake, watching the whiskey slosh against the glass.
The bartender, Brian, watched him with a raised eyebrow.
Brian was in his thirties with stubble on his face, auburn hair sprinkled with grey, an old man in a young body, the wear and tear showing through.
Eames pondered this; the bartender was much like him. He wondered if his heart had been broken, too.
Looking at the man, who was now wiping a glass with a raggedy cloth that appeared to have been used often without any form of cleaning, Eames leaned toward him with half a mind to ask him if a broken heart was indeed what had made the grey hairs spurt out in a stressed pattern, if he had, quite helplessly, fallen for an unattainable man named Arthur, too.
Instead, he downed the rest of the golden liquid in one go, prepared for another night of blind drunkenness and another morning with a nasty hangover, then clinked the now empty glass against the table, saying in his accented voice, "Another drink, then, Brian, if you will."
Fin.