Donovan slowly enters. His gait is slow and random, as if he were deep in thought and found the entrance by happenstance, as he wandered the hallways.
“Evenin’, Damian. A pleasure, as always. You know what I need.”
The commander slowly scans the bar, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light, and almost doesn’t notice Damian’s deft placement of a small glass, until he hears…
“Here you are Donovan. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No worries, Damian. Just lost in thought here. Have you seen any of Lancer’s crew tonight?”
“You’re the first.”
“If any of them come in tonight, it’s on my tab.”
Donovan reverently takes the drink offered. He looks down, as if gazing at something through the bottom of the glass before he closes his eyes and bows his head. His lips start to move, his words barely audible over the din of the staff preparing for a busy night. With head bowed, he slowly lifts the glass as his cadence continues and pauses at eye level. The last half-spoken words falling hesitantly from his lips, Donovan raises the glass ever so slightly in what appears to be a toast to everyone and no one in the room, at the same time.
“If any of the 4th Light wanders in, I’ll be over at that corner table. It might be ex parte, but I’ll leave that for the JAG to decide.”
Donovan grabs the drink that Damian has knowingly set on the bar without another order being placed. His apology is soft, but still loud enough to be heard by Damian’s trained ear.
“Das, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. This shouldn’t be your burden to shoulder.”