something something going to the city, getting a fancy hotel, and doing a bar crawl with your best girls for the weekend, except at bar #2 you pick up followers. there's a table of four guys, all broad-shouldered military dudes, who buy you a few drinks, shoot the shit, and generally are a good hang. there's two johns (one of them just goes by 'soap'), kyle, and... the other one. he doesn't offer his name, doesn't really speak, just sits with his arms crossed over his chest next to a bourbon he doesn't touch. if the rest of his friends weren't so damn charming and companionable, there's no way you or any of your girlfriends would go anywhere near him.
when your group is ready to move to the next bar, soap suggests following along, expanding your group and making it a real party. it's a good time, all told. the guys have some fascinating stories, pay for the occasional rounds of drinks, and aren't bad on the eyes, either.
as the night wears on and the tabs rack up, members of your newly-extended group start slinking off into the night together. soap's the first to disappear with your best friend since childhood, and then the other john leaves half an hour later with your cousin. when you come back from the bar with a fresh pitcher of beer, you see the nameless man in the mask sitting alone at your table right as kyle leaves out the front door with two of your friends in tow, one on each arm.
"oh." is all you can think to say as you set the pitcher down. dark eyes impassively stare at you from under a hoodie as you sit down next to him, feeling more than just a little bit embarrassed. you're the odd one out, the fat friend left out in the cold while the rest of the group hooks up with stone-cold hotties. you push the pitcher towards the masked soldier.
"you can have that, i think i'm just gonna go back to the hotel-"
"you'll be locked out of your room for a while, i'm pretty sure that's where your friends are takin' kyle." the man says, nodding towards the door. ah. yeah, he's got a point- the only thing worse than being left at a bar by your friends is being made to sit in a hotel hallway, listening to the sounds of a threesome while you wait for them to finish so you can brush your teeth, take a shower, and call it a night.
"guess we're the leftovers." you joke awkwardly, pouring yourself a glass of beer.
"no." says the masked man, right before he stretches out his arm across the back of your chair. you blink at him, dumbfounded.
"oh, i'm sorry, i didn't mean to imply-" you blurt out, trying to make amends for your thoughtless insult. a single gloved finger is briefly pressed against your lips, cutting you off and shutting you up before he retracts it.
"what i mean is- you aren't a leftover, i called dibs at the first bar. you were reserved." he says, leaning in so close that you're certain if he was unmasked you'd feel his breath on your face. "now you just finish up 'ere, i'll pay the tab, and then we'll go to mine so i can finally find out if you taste as good as you look."
he gets up without another word, and you'd have had no idea your mouth is hanging wide open in shock if not for the way he shuts it for you with another press of his finger and a low, rumbling chuckle before he leaves to pay the bill and fulfill his promises.
