Archive of Our Own

Day One: Thursday

From the outside at least, the apartment looks pretty average to Bobby. Not the most luxurious place he's ever been too, but not the most run-down, either, especially not taking into account all of the hotel and motel rooms he's seen. Plain, marble floors, dark wooden door, and a doorbell with just a surname on it. "Beaubier". The name sounds familiar, but he can't quite place it right now.

The doorbell also just rings, which is another good sign. The last time he's been called to someone's apartment, the doorbell played some Top 40 song, and the guy turned out to have a Justin Timberlake ... thing. Not that Bobby has objections against role playing and other kinky stuff, but even he has his limits.

When the door opens, Bobby manages to catch a glimpse of the apartment, enough to decide that the inside matches the outside, and that the man standing in the doorway matches both. Elegant, all planes and sharp angles, expensive without embroidery. Bobby briefly wonders what his kink is — probably something involving bondage — and flashes his best smile. "Hi."

"Good evening," and the guy steps aside to let Bobby into the apartment, and closes the door behind him. "May I get you something to drink?"

"Whiskey, please," he says, taking off his jacket and carefully hanging it on the coat rack. When he walks into the living room, there's already a glass waiting from him. He sips it, humming appreciatively. Quality, not just expensive.

He sprawls on the sofa next to the other man, and gets down to business. "Just so we're clear on the rules," he says, "You pay full price whether I stay for an hour or for the night. Anything kinky — dressing up, spanking, that sort of thing — won't cost extra, but you ask first. No guarantee I'll say yes, and if it involves me being tied up, that's an automatic no. Any questions?"

The guy doesn't seem to be offended by Bobby's businesslike approach, so he's probable an old hand at this. Newbies usually want to pretend it's a date, or at least a one-night-stand, so Bobby's learned to get the shop talk over with first thing. Less miscommunication that way. This guy just nods, a faintly amused smile on his lips, and says, "Just two. Do you kiss?" Bobby shrugs.

"Sure, if you want to. And the second question?"

"What should I call you?"

"Bobby's fine," he says, and finishes his drink. "And you?"

"I suppose under the circumstances, you should call me Jean-Paul," and there's that strange almost-smile again. "Out of curiosity, is that your real name?"

Bobby nods. "I know, I'm supposed to pick a pseudonym, but I never could get the hang of the whole two separate identities thing. And hey, if you prefer I call you 'monsieur Beaubier'," taking care to pronounce the French correctly, "I don't mind."

"No, Jean-Paul is fine." He holds out a hand to help Bobby up. "Shall we?"

The sex is surprisingly good. Jean-Paul is focused, but makes sure Bobby comes, too, and he really seems to like kissing. Bobby isn't complaining, though; the guy is hot. He closes his eyes and tries to catch his breath, and feels Jean-Paul stretch beside him. "You can stay the night, if you'd like," he says, and Bobby nods. He's actually tired, and resting his eyes for a few hours at least sounds great right now.

He wakes up alone the next morning, even though the sun's only just coming up. There's a note on the nightstand in predictably even, precise handwriting, asking him to just let himself out when he's ready, and informing him there's coffee in the Thermos on the kitchen table. He slips into his underwear and shirt and goes to help himself to the coffee. Like last night's whiskey, it's quality. Bobby is starting to appreciate Jean-Paul's taste for the better things in life.

An hour later, he's on his way out. He doesn't bother to reply to the note, but remembers to rinse his coffee mug.

Day Nine: Friday

It's a week and a half later before he hears from Jean-Paul again, and he almost turns him down. It's Friday night, he's had a busy week, and he's dragged himself home at three in the morning for the last four nights in a row. He's tired, and he wants a good night's sleep for once.

But Jean-Paul asked him to come around dinnertime, so he'll probably be home before midnight, and truth be told, he's curious about Jean-Paul's cooking skills. Or his caterer, as the case may be.

Jean-Paul doesn't bother coming to the door this time, just buzzes the door open from the kitchen, which is where Bobby finds him. "Hey good lookin'," he grins. "What'cha got cookin'?" Jean-Paul groans.

"I buy you food and you repay me with that?" He waves a take-out box at Bobby in admonishment.

"Sorry," Bobby grins. "Ooh, Thai." He takes the box from Jean-Paul's hands.

"I wasn't sure what you liked, so I ordered a bunch," Jean Paul says, gesturing to the boxes on the table.

"Oh, I'll eat anything," Bobby reassures him, grabbing a fork to dig in. The food is great, probably from one of the more expensive take-out places in the city, and Bobby scarfs down nearly a third of the box before he even sits down. Jean-Paul shakes his head at him, but says nothing.

Once the edge is off his hunger, Bobby takes the time to look around the kitchen. He didn't spend much time in here last time, and hadn't really had the time, nor the inclination, at that time of the morning, to look at the photos on the wall. It's a series of black and white photos of skiing events, and, upon further examination, Bobby notices the same person is present in all of the photos.

"Is that you?" He asks Jean-Paul around a mouthful of food. Jean-Paul nods, and Bobby gets up, still eating, to take a closer look at the photos.

Now that he knows it's Jean-Paul, Bobby can see the resemblance between the young man in the photos, barely out of his teens, and smiling in most of the photos, and the serious man sitting at the kitchen table. "Wow," Bobby whispers. "I totally wouldn't have have recognised you." He doesn't realise how that sounds until he hears Jean-Paul snort.

"Are you saying I'm old?" Which is totally not what Bobby meant, and he turns around quickly to apologise.

"No, I just ... you've changed a lot, is all. You looked really young. Now you just look ... normal. And hey, look on the bright side: with your hair you won't be able to tell when you start going grey!" He paused as Jean-Paul ran a hand through his own hair and tugged a black-and-silver lock down, looking at it in bemusement, as if he'd never seen his own hair quite like that before. "I'm not helping, am I?" Bobby gave up, but Jean-Paul's lips were twitching, he saw, so presumably he hadn't actually insulted the man.

"There's no need to try and feed my ego, Bobby," he almost whispers. "I know exactly how old I am; my body does not let me forget it in the morning." He stands up and comes over to stand beside Bobby, looking at the photos.

"Were you any good?" Bobby asks, indicating the photos.

"At one time, I was the best," Jean-Paul smiles. "Olympic gold, world championships, ... as you Americans put it, 'the works'."

"What happened?" Bobby asks. "Why'd you stop?"

There's a long pause before Jean-Paul finally answers, "I got old. My body could not keep up with my mind any more, and after one nasty spill too many, I was strongly advised to retire from skiing before my knee gave out in the middle of a dangerous slope and I broke my neck." He turns to Bobby almost abruptly. "If you're done with that," pointing at the take-out box Bobby almost forgot he's holding, "There is dessert."

Interlude: Saturday

[rings]

"'lo?"

"Robert Louis Drake, are you avoiding me again?"

"Hey, Jubes. Sup?"

"You tell me, Bobby. You're the one who promised to drop by the bar yesterday and then didn't."

"Aw, fuck, was that this week?"

"Funny, you sounded just like my ex just there."

"I'm sorry, babe. I got a call."

"Huh. Must've been a helluva job, if you forgot me for it."

"Eh, 's not bad. Guy pays well, and he bought me dinner."

"Oh, I see how it is, you snubbed me for food. Well, that's all right then, as long as I'm not being stood up for some guy. So is he cute?"

"Jubilation ..."

"Oh, come on, Bobby, if you're gonna insist on being gay, you can at least give me some nice mental images to ge me over the disappointment that you're never gonna have sex with me."

"He's an ex-pro, apparently. Skiing. Definitely keeps in shape. Seems like a workaholic, though."

"Aren't they all, honey?"

"Uh-huh. That's why they come to me, I guess. So."

"So?"

"So what can I do to make up for standing you up yesterday?"

"Oooh, I like it when you're apologetic. Can we go dancing? You haven't taken me dancing in ages. I wanna go dancing."

"Fine, fine. We'll go dancing. But you don't get to try and make me pick up guys."

"Spoilsport. All right, it's a date. Pick me up at the bar at nine."

"Deal. See you there."

"See ya!"

[click]

Day Twenty-Eight: Wednesday

It's another weekday, and Bobby is seriously starting to wonder if Jean-Paul even exists on Sundays. He knows the man works on Saturdays, because whenever Bobby comes over on Friday, he wakes up to an empty apartment as always. He's never been over on Saturday evenings.

Jean-Paul is sitting on the couch, bent over a stack of paperwork when Bobby comes in. He usually is, though normally he at least looks up when Bobby enters. "Hey," he leans on the back of the couch, peering at the paper over Jean-Paul's shoulder.

"Bonsoir," Jean-Paul turns his head to smile at Bobby distractedly, then turns back to his paperwork. "I am sorry, I should have been done by now, but there is a small error somewhere in here that escapes me, and this must be done by tomorrow."

Bobby hops over the back of the couch and lands with an "Oomph," earning him a half-irritated glare from Jean-Paul. "No worries," he says. "I can wait." And he does.

Thirty minutes later, he's still waiting, now thoroughly bored, but at least he's managed to insinuate himself into Jean-Paul's lap. "Hang on," he says when Jean-Paul, growing more frustrated by the minute, wants to move on to the next page of the spreadsheet. "Those two digits are swapped," he points.

Jean-Paul looks, stares for a moment, then corrects the mistake, mumbling to himself. He smiles. "That's it! Done!" He puts the papers away in their folders — neatly straightened and right side up, of course — and turns to Bobby. "How did you see that?" Bobby shrugs.

"Accountancy degree. I made that mistake hundreds of times, so I learned to look for it," he says, waiting for the inevitable incredulity. Yeah, yeah, hooker with a degree. Fun-nee.

It doesn't come. Instead, there's a raised eyebrow and a vaguely, sardonically amused, "Accountancy?" And Bobby has to laugh, because all right, his choice of degree is ... somewhat at odds with his career, so to speak.

"It's ..." He starts to explain. Falters. Starts again: "Basically, my first accountant screwed me over, stole most of my money, and nearly landed me in jail. I figured if I wanted it done right, I'd have to learn to do it myself. I'm sure you're familiar with that concept?" He nodded towards the mountains of paperwork covering Jean-Paul's coffee table.

"Heh, yes," Jean-Paul smiles. "Though I have to say, you did a very good job catching a mistake that was eluding me. Do I have to pay extra for that, by the way?" Bobby resists the urge to throw a pillow at Jean-Paul's studied and utterly failing innocent face, and instead just pushes himself up and off the couch.

"Come on, Mr Workaholic," he says, pulling Jean-Paul up. "Time for me to do my job and get you to relax already."

Day Thirty-one: Saturday

It feels weird to be here on a Saturday evening, like turning up for school on a holiday. He had plans to go hang out with Jubilee at the bar tonight; vague plans, but plans nonetheless, and this is why he normally doesn't take jobs on such short notice, but Jean-Paul was so apologetic and polite and Canadian that Bobby agreed. Besides, he's curious about what exactly Jean-Paul does on Sundays. Maybe he turns into a pumpkin at midnight on Saturday — and that right there proves Bobby's been working way too hard lately.

So he agreed to come over tonight, and phoned Jubilee to call off their drink, and was actually left off the hook after a promise to tell her everything. Jubilee, Bobby's decided, has developed an entirely untoward obsession with Jean-Paul. He suspects it's the Canadian aspect.

Jean-Paul actually opens the door this time. "Hello," he smiles. "Come in." Bobby stares at him in surprise for a moment before he enters. Jean-Paul is wearing jeans and a t-shirt instead of the slacks and shirt Bobby's used to seeing. That's a first. He steps past Jean-Paul into the apartment, and notices that Jean-Paul's hair is still half wet, as if he just came out of the shower. It looks mussed and tousled. That's a first as well.

As soon as the door is closed, Jean-Paul pushes him against the wall, gently but firmly, and kisses him. That is definitely a first, but Bobby's not complaining. Jean-Paul's hands are sliding under Bobby's shirt, and when the other man's thigh slides between his legs, Bobby is surprised at how hard they both already are. He deepens the kiss, continuing it until he needs to come up for air now or lose vital brain cells.

"Hello to you too," he grins, breathless. "Wanna take this to the bedroom, or are you gonna fuck me right here?"

There's a dangerous glint in Jean-Paul's eyes when he answers, "How about both?" He slides one hand down the front of Bobby's pants, and strokes. Bobby groans.

"Both sounds just fine to me," he manages before Jean-Paul claims his mouth again. Somehow, Bobby still gets himself together enough to start tugging at Jean-Paul's clothes. He gets the t-shirt up as far as he can without breaking the kiss, and tries to get his hands between their bodies to undo the jeans.

"Hold on," Jean-Paul almost growls impatiently. He moves back just enough to pull the t-shirt over his head and quickly takes off Bobby's shirt as well. "Off," he gestures at Bobby's pants, and Bobby quickly obeys. Good thing he's not wearing underwear today, he thinks, and then Jean-Paul is pressing him against the wall again and Bobby can't think at all anymore.

Jean-Paul is surprisingly strong for someone who's several inches shorter than Bobby, and between him and the wall, Bobby's legs are quickly lifted off the ground, and then Jean-Paul is inside him and Bobby loses track of time and place and everything in between until he comes, hard, only seconds before Jean-Paul does.

Still trying to catch his breath, he lowers his legs until he's at least mostly supporting his own weight again. Jean-Paul looks as if he's about to slide to the floor. "You okay?" Bobby asks, and gets a grin in return.

"Fine. Just," he pants. "Just give me a moment."

"Yeah," Bobby breathes. "I'd carry you to the bedroom, but. Not so much, right now." And he's babbling, and making no sense at all, but Jean-Paul doesn't seem to notice.

Day Thirty-two: Sunday

Bobby wakes up well past midday and still doesn't feel entirely rested. He tries to remember when he fell asleep last night, and fails. Late, he thinks. Very late, if his admittedly hazy memories of last night are anything to go by. He smiles. Good thing he doesn't charge per orgasm, although Bobby's sure Jean-Paul could afford him even then. Speaking of Jean-Paul ...

"Hey," he whispers, gently poking the sleeping form beside him. "You awake?" The form groans and rolls over.

"Non," muffled by the pillow. "J'dors," and Bobby has to grin at how much Jean-Paul resembles an eight-year-old on the first day of school.

"Fine," he says, leaning over and brushing a quick kiss over Jean-Paul's cheek. That earns him a smile, at least. "You sleep, then." He stretches, luxuriating for a moment in the feel of the sheets against his skin, and gets up.

He picks up their clothes from the hallway while the coffee's brewing, slipping into Jean-Paul's t-shirt before heading back to the kitchen. The coffee's still as good as always, and he takes two mugs into the bedroom. "Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead," he sing-songs at the lump under the bedsheets. "Coffee's ready."

"Mmm? Ooh, coffee." Jean-Paul runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up even further, and reaches out for a mug. Bobby hands him one and carefully sits down facing him. The bed makes him wobble threateningly, but he manages not to spill anything. "What time is it?"

"Late," Bobby answers. "About mid-afternoon, I think." Jean-Paul winces.

"That is very late. Why didn't you wake me up earlier?"

"I wasn't awake myself," Bobby points out. "I didn't exactly have an early night, yesterday." He thinks he can see Jean-Paul blush just a little.

"Ah, true. I'll take that as a compliment, then?" There's that small smile again, and Bobby thinks he needs to make Jean-Paul smile more often. It looks good on him.

"Definitely a compliment," he says, lifting his coffee mug in an odd salute. "Which reminds me," he says. "Can I ask you a kinda personal question?" Jean-Paul looks at him oddly over the rim of his mug.

"You can ask," he finally says. "But I reserve the right not to answer the question."

"Fair enough," Bobby says. "What I want to know is, why on earth are you single?" When Jean-Paul laughs, Bobby adds: "No, I'm serious, here. Most of the guys who hire me, it's a one-off thing, maybe twice, to tide them over, so to speak. Either that or it's obvious why they can't find someone, but you? You're good-looking, rich, great in bed," and there's that blush again. "You should be beating them off with a stick," he finishes. Jean-Paul shrugs.

"Not enough time, mostly. Not to look, and certainly not to maintain a relationship. Besides, most of the men who express an interest are interested in my money, my fame, or both. I find this solution," gesturing at Bobby, "much more honest on both sides."

"So, what," Bobby asks. "You're not even looking anymore?" It seems like a waste. There has to be someone out there who'll look beyond the money and the fame and see the man behind all that.

"More or less," Jean-Paul says. "It seems to work so far. And what about you? Surely someone is enjoying your sexual prowess?" Now it's Bobby's turn to blush, and for a moment he tries to disappear into his coffee. He fails.

"Not at the moment," he admits. "Same problem as you, really. I'm a busy guy. My last boyfriend was a diplomat, so between his job and mine, we'd see each other maybe once a month. Not really a good way to keep a relationship going. And I don't really get to meet a lot of people outside of work who don't have a problem with what I do. Hell," he laughs a little bitterly, "A lot of people I do meet through work have a problem with what I do." Jean-Paul shakes his head.

"That seems to be a universal thing in your profession," he says. "And one I find completely baffling."

"Yeah, well, people are hypocrites at heart, I suppose," Bobby says, and empties his mug in three quick mouthfuls. He has to reach across Jean-Paul to put the mug on the nightstand next to Jean-Paul's.

"Hm," Jean-Paul fingers the t-shirt, and Bobby leans in a little further, instead of siting back again. "You seem to be wearing my clothes."

"So I am," Bobby smiles. "I can take it off if you want."

"Oh, I do," Jean-Paul says, but before Bobby can do as he's asked, Jean-Paul leans forward and kisses him, and when Bobby shifts to correct the awkward angle he's in, Jean-Paul's legs slide apart easily, and Bobby forgets what he was supposed to do.

Interlude: Sunday

"Yo."

"Dude, where have you been? I've been trying to reach you all day!"

"I told you I had a job, didn't I?"

"Yeah, yesterday. It's almost ten PM now. Don't tell me you've been with the guy all that time."

"Well — "

"Oh my god, you were! Dude, he must be something else."

"I — "

"Tell me everything! And don't give me that bullshit about confidentiality. I won't tell anyone, and you promised me details! Come on, talk!"

"If I can get a word in edgewise?"

"... Okay, shutting up now."

"Well, what kind of details do you want?"

"How many times?"

"Er ... A lot? Over half a dozen times, though; I can't remember exactly."

"Dude. Does he have a sister or something? Because wow."

"You're such a pervert."

"Hey, whose fault is that, huh? And you're trying to change the subject. Was he good?"

"Uh-huh. Better than Warren was."

"Wow. I mean, wow. And this guy is single, why again?"

"See, that's what I wanted to know. It's the workaholic thing, apparently. Says he doesn't have time to keep a relationship working."

"He manages to see you pretty often, though. I mean, you're over there, what, twice a week, lately? Three times?"

"Something like that, yeah. But that's different. I'll keep going over as long as he pays, which he does. Boyfriends, in my experience, need things like romance and attention."

"Uh-huh? And you two never do anything but have sex every time you're over, the entire time?"

[silence]

"Sorry. I know, no trying to set you up with tricks. But sweetie, you talk about this guy a lot. By which I mean, like, at all. You never talk about tricks unless they're really awful or have, like, weird boyband fetishes, and by the way, never tell me about those again. You've mentioned this Jean-Paul guy to me several times, without me asking. Hell, I don't think you talked about Warren that much, and you dated Warren."

"I don't fall in love on the job, Jubilee. I like the guy, and he seems to like me enough to keep calling me, but that's all."

"I know. I just want you to find someone, you know? I worry about you."

"Thanks, but I already have a mother."

"Okay, and see, now I suddenly feel you don't deserve my friendship, let alone a boyfriend."

"Love you too, babe."

"Yeah, yeah, sure you do. I — Hang on a sec." [muffled voices in the background] "Fuck. I gotta go, some fuckwit's trying to beat up one of the drag queens. I'll call you tomorrow, and you still owe me details!"

[click]

Day Fifty-eight: Friday

Jean-Paul looks distracted and vague when he opens the door. "Oh, hi," he says, sounding sleepy and tired. He waves Bobby in and almost stumbles into the living room and onto the couch where he slumps as if he wants to fall asleep there.

"Hi." Bobby looks at him. "You look aweful." It's almost an understatement, really. There are dark lines under his eyes, and he looks as if he's barely eaten at all in the last week. Bobby hasn't been over since last Sunday, so he can't rule out the possibility.

"I'm sorry," Jean-Paul says quietly. "I called you on short notice and then I — "

"No need to apologise," Bobby interrupts. "I didn't have any plans for this weekend, anyway, so I can stay tomorrow and Sunday as well, if you'd like." Jean-Paul smiles tiredly.

"I'd like that," still in that soft, almost exhausted voice, and Bobby suddenly has the insane urge to tuck him into bed with a teddy bear and a mug of hot chocolate. Instead, he pulls the other man off the couch and leads him to the bedroom.

"Do you have to go to work tomorrow?" He asks as he undresses, taking care to fold his clothes at least semi-neatly and put them on a chair, rather than dropping them on the floor. He's noticed it annoys Jean-Paul when he does that, and tonight of all nights he'd rather avoid annoying him.

"No," Jean-Paul answers after a moment. "I'm taking a day off after this last week."

"Hard week?" Bobby asks sympathetically, and pulls a now mostly naked Jean-Paul into bed with him.

"Mmmm." Jean-Paul wriggles until he's comfortable, Bobby spooned against his back, one arm slung loosely around Jean-Paul's waist. "Budget deadline today. Had to double-check everything. Not much sleep lately." That would explain the lack of calls this week, Bobby thinks, and wonders why Jean-Paul called him tonight, then, considering how exhausted the man is. He mentally shakes his head and pushes the thought to the back of his mind.

"Go to sleep," he tells Jean-Paul. "You'll need your strength tomorrow."

"Promises, promises," Jean-Paul says, then yawns. "Bonne nuit. Et merci." Bobby knows enough French to understand that much, and he smiles to himself before succumbing to sleep as well.

Day Fifty-Nine: Saturday

Bobby wakes up to the smell of coffee and a warm body snuggled against his side. He briefly debates not opening his eyes, just staying like this for the whole day and maybe even the whole week, but the insistent poking in his side makes him give in. Jean-Paul is leaning over him, smiling. "Finally joining me in the land of the conscious?"

"How are you awake before me?" Bobby grunts. "Not fair." He nevertheless pushes himself upright until he's leaning half on the pillows, half on Jean-Paul, and accepts the mug he's offered. "Thank you," he grudgingly allows.

"You're welcome. I thought I should return the favour for once, since you are usually the one to bring me coffee. And I am awake because my body did not realise I don't have to go to work today and woke up at the usual time." He wrinkles his nose, and Bobby gives in to the insane urge to kiss it.

"Well, since we're both awake now, we should make the best of the day, no?" He grins, then adds: "Once I've finished my coffee, I mean." Jean-Paul laughs.

"Why the hurry?" He teases. "I thought you said you could stay the entire weekend?"

"All the more reason to use the time fully," Bobby says, though honestly, he's quite comfortable where he is and wouldn't mind staying like this for a few more hours at least.

"Pushy," Jean-Paul says. He runs a hand through Bobby's hair, making Bobby sigh happily. "Are you sure you didn't have plans for tonight? Not going out or anything?"

"Mmmm? Nah, not really. Jubilee's visiting her parents this weekend, so no one's expecting me at the bar anyway."

"Jubilee?"

"My best friend. She owns a bar on the south side. I usually go there when I go out at all. It's a nice place, really. You should go there sometime. Get out of the house for once." It belatedly occurs to Bobby that inviting a trick to Jubilee's bar is probably against the rules, and at least against etiquette. Then again, Jubilee'd be thrilled to meet Jean-Paul, so.

"Maybe," Jean-Paul says. "I prefer staying in when I can, though. Besides, I'm far too old for that sort of thing."

"Oh, please," Bobby scoffs. "You're not old."

"My knees would beg to differ," Jean-Paul say.

"Your knees seemed to be doing fine last week," Bobby points out, grinning. Jean-Paul blushes, almost predictably by now. "Besides, that's what you get for playing professional sports. Fucks up your body before your time." He pauses. "Do you ever miss it?"

"Sometimes," Jean-Paul admits. "Not the fame or the money, just the freedom of it. It almost felt like I was flying, sometimes." He looks lost in thought for a moment, then seems to snap out of it, and shrugs. "No use dwelling on it, though. My life isn't bad now, either," as he smiles down at Bobby.

"I should hope so," Bobby jokes, and kisses his jaw, eliciting a tilt of the head and a small happy noise. He curls in closer to Jean-Paul, coffee still in hand, and decides that staying like this will suit him just fine.

Day Sixty: Sunday

"I'd forgotten just how bad these were," Jean-Paul comments as he hands Bobby a bowl of Frosties. Bobby beams at him.

"Frosties! My favourites!" He immediately shoves a spoonful into his mouth and is on his second spoonful before Jean-Paul even sits down. On the screen, giant cats are doing ... something. Bobby's not sure he remembers enough of the plot to remember what they're supposed to be doing, but at least he remembers who the good guys are, and that's all that matters. "And the cartoons aren't bad, just from the eighties."

"There's a difference?" Jean-Paul quickly dodges the pillow Bobby throws at him. "I can think of better things to do on a Sunday morning, you know."

Bobby waves his spoon at Jean-Paul. "Breakfast first," he says sternly. "Then sex. Otherwise my cornflakes will end up all soggy and ew. Besides," he adds, "I need to rebuild my strength after last night."

"Didn't hear you complain then," Jean-Paul smiles impishly.

"Wasn't complaining now, either, just stating a fact. Now hush and let me eat my cereals and watch my cartoons in peace." Jean-Paul pretends to pout, but settles against Bobby's side anyway.

"Fine. At least explain to me what's going on?"

Interlude: Wednesday

"Jubilee's Place, Hank speaking."

"Hey, Hank."

"Bobby! How wonderful to hear from you again. I thought you'd fallen off the face of the earth again."

"Don't you start, too. I get enough of that from Jubilee."

"Terribly sorry, I shall in the future refrain from worrying about my friends."

"Okay, now you're just guilt-tripping me. Thanks for the concern, but I'm fine, really. Just calling to make sure Jubilee doesn't worry about me when she can't reach me at home."

"You're not at home?"

"Nah, Jean-Paul hired me for the whole week, so."

"Mm-hmmm?"

"Don't you start, too. He's a trick. He's paying me to be here. That's all this is. That's all it's ever gonna be."

"I know, Bobby, I just wish ... Never mind, none of my business, I know."

"'s Okay, I know you and Jubilee just want me happy. And I am, mostly. I mean, hell, I can think of worse people to be hired by than Jean-Paul. He used to be a pro skier, and it shows."

"That was rather more than I — Wait, Jean-Paul? Not Jean-Paul Beaubier, by any chance?"

"Yeah, that's him. You know him?"

"I've heard of him, yes, as has most anyone who actually watches TV for more than cartoons and action movies. Not a bad catch. I believe Emma rather approved of his looks."

"Emma? Why were you discussing him with Emma?"

"He was on TV one night when she was over. She er ... We're sort of ... dating."

"You're kidding! You have a girlfriend and you didn't tell me? Congratulations, man!"

"Thank you. I think."

"Now I have to come over and make sure she's treating you right. You guys gonna be in the bar next week? I'll drop by."

"If you're not busy with Mr Rich Gay Former Skier, you mean? We'll be around, and happy to see you. Although, if you threaten my girlfriend, I may have to have words with you."

"I'll be good. And I have to go now, Jean-Paul's home. See you!"

"Not if I see you first."

[click]

Day Ninety-three: Friday

College education or not, Bobby isn't always the brightest crayon in the box, and sometimes it takes him a long time and the equivalent of a two-by-four to the head to realise some things. Today, that equivalent is: he lounges around in Jean-Paul's bed until noon, wrapped in Jean-Paul's scent, and when he finally gets up, he showers, brushes his teeth with the toothbrush Jean-Paul bought for him after the first month, and when he gets dressed, he puts on his own clothes from the pile of them he's left here over the past weeks. He's been home exactly one night in the last three weeks, and didn't sleep well, at that. He hasn't had a client other than Jean-Paul in well over a month.

He has, he realises, broken one of his firmest rules: never work for any one trick full-time. It's a little scary, because when Jean-Paul tires of him — and he will in end, Bobby knows — Bobby will need to start his client network from almost scratch. Then again, Jean-Paul pays enough that Bobby will have more than enough savings to live on, so he's not all that worried, and well. It's worth it. The sex is good, and Jean-Paul treats him like an actual person when they're not having sex, and without expecting a medal for that.

"Might as well move in properly," he mutters to himself, and the thought is less scary than it should be, which is sort of scary in and of itself.

Jean-Paul comes home early, and he looks like hell. "I'm staying home tomorrow," he announces. "They can fend without me for a day." He sinks down on the couch and leans his head against the back, eyes closed.

"Workaholic," Bobby teases. He kneels on the couch, straddling Jean-Paul, and starts to undo his tie. Jean-Paul opens his eyes a little to shoot Bobby an amused look.

"Look who's talking." Bobby shrugs and resists the urge to stick out his tongue at him. Instead, he softly kisses him, then pulls back a little to look at him.

"You really look like shit," he informs Jean-Paul. "You should relax more."

"Isn't that why you're here?" Jean-Paul smiles a little, and Bobby kisses him again, sliding his hands under Jean-Paul's shirt. This whole introspection gig can wait until tomorrow.

Day Ninety-five: Sunday

It's three in the morning by the time they walk to Jean-Paul's apartment from the underground. "I can't believe we didn't just take a cab," Bobby says, deeply breathing in the night air.

"Taxis are expensive," Jean-Paul says. "And bad for the environment. Besides, I like walking home at night."

"It is nice," Bobby admits. Then, after a pause, "Thanks for coming with me tonight, by the way."

"No problem. It was nice to meet your friends. Even if that Emma woman does scare me senseless." Bobby grins.

"She's not that bad once you get to know her. Besides, she likes you."

"That's what scared me!" But he laughs as soon as he says it, and Bobby can't help but laugh as well, because Emma can be pretty scary. He takes a breath.

"So I was thinking ..."

"Did it hurt?" Bobby swats at him and glares. "Sorry, carry on. You were thinking?"

"Well," he sniffs. "I was going to offer you a one-time chance of a live-in love slave, but if you're going to insult my intelligence, I don't think I will."

"A live-in love slave?" Jean-Paul raises an eyebrow, and Bobby really starts to rethink this whole thing. But then Jean-Paul continues, "I'd like that," and smiles a little smile that makes Bobby want to give him anything he wants, and there's a thought that needs to be pushed into the back of his mind and never see the light of day again.

"Good," he says. "Because you know, I'm pretty much living at your place already, so I might as well rent out my apartment." And that, apparently, is that. By the time they arrive at the apartment, they've agreed on payments and conditions, and Bobby momentarily thinks there really should be more to it than this. But then Jean-Paul slips his hands under Bobby's waistband, and all rational thought goes the way of the dodo for now.

Interlude: Monday

"Beaubier residence."

"My, don't you sound like the proper houseboy?"

"Warren! Hey! I didn't know you were back in the country."

"Just got back last week. I would've called earlier, but you're a hard man to track down these days. I had to dig to find Jubilee's number so I could ask where you are. I take it she wasn't joking when she said you took a live-in job, then?"

"Uh-huh."

"He must be something else."

"Why do people keep saying that?"

"Because you apparently keep doing things for him you always said you'd never do, maybe?"

"Mm-hm."

"All right, changing the subject, then. Can we meet up? I won't be in the country for long, but I'd like to see you if you have time."

"I dunno, Warren ..."

"Look, I know we didn't exactly part on good terms — "

"You can say that again. I seem to remember a huge shouting match ending with you storming out in one of your dramatic exits."

"Yeah, I — I'm sorry about that. So do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Have time this week to meet up?"

"Maybe. What were you thinking of?"

"Dinner at Le Chateau's?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of lunch or coffee. Not dinner at the place you took me for our first date."

"Look, if you don't want to make it a date, I can just pay you."

"Warren ... I'm kind of under an exclusive contract, all right?"

"He wouldn't have to know, would he?"

"I'd know. And if he did find out, my rep'll be ruined, and besides, you're my fucking ex, I can't work for you, it'd be too weird."

"All right, all right, no need to get worked up about it. Coffee, then? Maybe lunch?"

"I ... Call me later in the week, okay? If you still wanna meet up. I gotta go."

[click]

Day One Hundred and Thirty-Eight: Monday

When Jean-Paul comes home, Bobby is annoyed and almost frantically alphabetising the CDs. "What's wrong?" Jean-Paul asks before he even finishes taking off his coat, and Bobby shrugs.

"Nothing. Why do you think anything's wrong?"

"Because," Jean-Paul patiently explains, and gently takes Bobby's hands, holding them still. "You are ordering my CDs, which you would not normally do. Also, they were already in alphabetical order."

"Oh," Bobby says, and suddenly the fidgety feeling and the anger flood out of him, and he drops onto the couch. "Well, that explains why I was having such an easy time of it, then."

"I think so, yes." Jean-Paul sits down next to him and wraps his arms around Bobby. It's nice, Bobby thinks, and he leans into the embrace. "So, what's wrong?"

"Nothing really, just ..." Bobby shrugs. "Phone call from my ex."

"Ah." A hand tangles in Bobby's hair. "What did he say that upset you, then?"

"It wasn't upsetting so much as. He was being stupid. Asked me out on a date, and then when I said no he offered to pay me for it. And then didn't seem to get why I still refused, and now I keep wondering why I dated him at all."

"I see," Jean-Paul says. He sounds almost amused. "This is the diplomat ex, yes? Because he does not sound as if he has a very firm grasp on interpersonal relations." Bobby laughs and wriggles until he's completely comfortable, lounging almost on top of Jean-Paul.

"Thanks," he says, and in response to Jean-Paul's questioningly arched eyebrow, he adds: "For cheering me up. Venting at you isn't exactly in my job description."

"Neither is helping me find mistakes in my finance papers," Jean-Paul smiles. "Don't mention it."

Day One Hundred and Eighty-three: Thursday

Jean-Paul is already home when Bobby comes back from the gym, and he's pacing around the kitchen, phone in hand. "Oui," he says distractedly, waving at Bobby when he catches sight of him. Bobby, amused, waves back, and briefly considers groping Jean-Paul while he's on the phone, just to see how the other man reacts. He decides against it, mostly because whoever is on the other end of the line seems to be exasperating Jean-Paul more than anyone or anything Bobby can recall.

Five minutes later, Jean-Paul is still on the phone, and Bobby is alost burning up with curiosity by now. Jean-Paul's end of the conversation offers no clues about the identity of whoever he's talking to, as he's been reduced to monosyllabic answers and eyerolls. It's amusing enough that Bobby thinks he could charge admission.

Jean-Paul, finally, hangs up the phone with a heartfelt sigh and a muttered curse, and gives the handset a glare that could set it on fire. "Who was that?" Bobby asks, coming up behind Jean-Paul and wrapping his arms around Jean-Paul's waist.

"My sister," Jean-Paul replies, sighing again and leaning back against Bobby, who almost drops both of them to the floor in surprise.

"I didn't know you had a sister. Older or younger?"

"Older by two minutes, though she holds those over me on a regular basis." Bobby can feel Jean-Paul make a face, and suppresses a snicker. Sometimes Jean-Paul really does act like he's ten. "She's coming to visit next weekend," Jean-Paul continues, and Bobby stills at that.

"Oh. Does she know I'm living here, and why? 'Cause I could stay with Jubes for a while until she's gone, if you want." The prospect of being away from Jean-Paul for days on end doesn't appeal to Bobby, but he's not sure he's looking forward to meeting Jean-Paul's sister, either. Not if he'll have to pretend to be the boyfriend, which would be one thing — he ignores the voice in his head pointing out he'd just have to act like he's been doing since moving in — but there would be potentially awkward questions.

"No, she knows," Jean-Paul reassures him. "I could never keep a secret from her, so I just stopped trying. She says she is looking forward to meeting you."

"I see," Bobby says, frowning a little. He has his doubts about this. "Why do I have this sudden feeling of impending doom?"

"My sister isn't that scary. Besides, you like Emma; you have no right to be afraid of anyone."

"But Emma likes me. What if your sister hates me?"

"Then I will protect you from my scary sister, don't worry."

"Promise?" Bobby pouts, and Jean-Paul laughs and turns in his arms.

"I promise. As long as you promise to protect me from Emma. Deal?" Bobby grins.

"Deal." He pulls Bobby closer by his belt, and kisses him. " Now let's go to bed and seal this deal properly, shall we?"

Interlude: Friday

[doorbell]

[silence]

[doorbell]

"All right, I'm coming, I'm coming, keep your pants on!" [door opens] "Oh! You must be Jean-Paul's sister. Jeanne-Marie, right?"

"Indeed. And you must be Bobby. Nice towel. Is it a uniform, or is this a special welcome for me?"

"Heh. Um, no, I was just in the shower, actually. Come in, I'll just go change."

"Oh, don't just on my account."

[somewhat later]

"Right, so, now that I'm dressed, hi. And welcome. Jean-Paul should be home soon."

"Thank you. That should give us some time to talk, then. I took the liberty of making coffee, do you want some?"

"Yeah, thanks. Talk about what?"

"About my brother, for example?"

"If you're gonna ask me when I'm gonna make an honest man out of him — "

"Oh, no, not at all. It would take more than you can do to make an honest man out of Jean-Paul. And don't look so frightened, I won't eat you, I promise."

"Sorry, I'm just a bit nervous, I guess."

"Well, meeting the in-laws can be quite stressful."

"Something like that, yes. What did you want to talk about, then?"

"Oh, nothing in particular. I just thought, since you're living here now, I should get to know you a little better."

Day One Hundred and Ninety-Two: Saturday

"Your sister is scary," Bobby announces as he comes out of the bathroom. Jean-Paul lifts his head from the pillow with a questioning look.

"You two seemed to get along, I thought? A little too well for my comfort, even."

"Well, yes," Bobby admits. "But that doesn't make her less scary." He flops down on the bed and nudges Jean-Paul until the other man is in a convenient position for Bobby to wrap himself around. "She's really protective of you, isn't she?"

"She is," Jean-Paul says. "I suppose since our parents died, we've both been rather protective of one another. I just hide it better."

"Mmm. You also need the protection more. Your sister's not the one who ended up in hospital with a bleeding ulcer, after all." He emphasises this with a jab to Jean-Paul's side, and a glare, because Bobby's actually kind of startled at how much that revelation frightened him.

"Ow! That was years ago, and I've stopped working that hard." Jean-Paul glares back at him. "Especially lately," he adds, with that half-smile that makes Bobby need to expand his mental Things Not To Be Thought About Cupboard into a full-blown wardrobe.

"Yeah, well, don't do it again," he says half-heartedly. Jean-Paul starts to respond, but whatever he's going to say gets lost in a yawn of epic proportions, and Bobby just laughs. "Go to sleep, you." Jean-Paul grins sleepily, and obeys.

Bobby isn't quite that lucky, and spends the next hour laying awake and looking at the other man. It seems even the mental wardrobe expansion isn't big enough to hold everything in anymore. He gently brushes the hair out of Jean-Paul's face and finally admits to himself that this isn't just a job anymore.

He's in love with Jean-Paul.

The sky fails to fall on his head, there's no omnious thunder and lightning outside, and Jean-Paul doesn't suddenly wake up and kick him out, so Bobby supposes he can breathe, now. He has no idea what to do, how to handle this, though. Every other hooker he's ever talked to said, "Never fall in love with a trick." No one ever told him what to do if he broke that rule. It's not like he meant to, after all.

He sighs. It's gonna be a long night.

Day One Hundred and Nintey-Four: Monday

By the time Jeanne-Marie leaves, Bobby has a lot of new potential blackmail material on Jean-Paul, and a lot to think about. He's spent the last few days afaid that either of them would look at him and, somehow, know what he was thinking. Jeanne-Marie, especially, has cost him several years of his life, casting weirdly knowing glances his way, even though, Bobby keeps telling himself, there's no way she can know. Still, he's not entirely sad to see her go, especially since it means he has the apartment to himself again, and time to properly think things over.

Not that there's really all that much to think about. Somehow, somehwere along the way, he slipped up and fell for Jean-Paul. Stupid, but nothing he can do about it now. He knows better than to try and suppress his feelings — it won't work, and it'll only make him more miserable in the long run. Staying here seems like a recipe for disaster as well, but the only alternative is to leave, which, apart from being a breach of contract, makes Bobby feel as if his innards are being ripped out with a spoon. A dull spoon.

He sighs. Clearly, he's not getting any closer to an answer, not on his own. Hell, he's still not even sure what the question is at this point, and he's been moping around the apartment like a particularly moody teenager for well over an hour now.

"Fuck this," he mutters, and stomps into the bedroom to grab his gym bag. He needs distraction, and maybe in a few days he'll be past this whole brooding stage, and able to just accept things as they are. Hopefully.

Day Two Hundred and Twenty-Four: Wednesday

It takes Bobby another four weeks before he's ready to talk to anyone else about it. Not Jean-Paul, who will ideally never find out, but someone. He's just not sure who. He's idly pondering this dilemma, wandering around the apartment, coffee in hand, straightening things out here and there so Jean-Paul won't get irritated by them (though on occasion Bobby thinks he's rather cute when he's irritated, and if Bobby times it right, he can get fantastic, aggressive sex out of the whole deal), when a loud slam of the front door makes him nearly jump out of his own skin.

"Jesus!" He manages not to spill coffee on the carpet, but to be safe, he puts the mug down before looking up to see why Jean-Paul is home so early, and in such a foul mood.

"You just took ten years off my life," he informs the other man, but his words are ignored as Jean-Paul kicks the door closed again. Something is definitely wrong.

"Idiots," Jean-Paul growls at no one in particular. Then, as if noticing Bobby for the first time, he adds, "You know, I would not be so overworked if I could find competent and trustworthy employees."

Bobby tries to think of a response to that, but fails. Thankfully, Jean-Paul doesn't seem to expect one, because he simply grabs Bobby's waistband and starts pulling him towards the bedroom. Bobby has a feeling he's in for more than just pleasantly agressive sex.

He definitely wouldn't call it "pleasant," though it's definitely pleasurable, and pleasing, and he finds himself whimpering the word "please" over and over again, and even though his entire body aches afterwards, and he just knows he's going to be stiff the next few days, he's not complaining. He is, in fact, wondering how to entice Jean-Paul into a repeat performance some day soon, when he notices Jean-Paul is looking at him with a guilty look on his face.

"What?" He asks, and winces a little at the hoarse sound of his own voice.

"I am sorry," Jean-Paul whispers, and traces a finger over Bobby's wrists. "You will be covered in bruises tomorrow."

"M-hm," Bobby smiles. Jean-Paul moves from Bobby's wrists to his hips, and Bobby can't help but arch into the touch a little. "'s Nice," he says, meaning both the touch and the reason for his inevitable bruises. Jean-Paul looks less convinced, though, so Bobby adds, "It's okay, honest. Definitely worth it."

"Are you sure?" Touching Bobby's wrists again, this time actually stroking. "I recall you saying you did not want to be tied up." It takes Bobby a moment to realise what Jean-Paul is referring to.

"Hm? Oh, that. Well, you weren't tying me up," he points out. "You were holding me down. There's a difference. Besides," he quickly continues before Jean-Paul can point out the flaws in his logic. "That's on first appointments, for people I don't know or just don't trust."

"And you trust me?" Jean-Paul's voice is quiet, and Bobby's sure he's imagining the vulnerability, but it affects him anyway.

"Yes," he says, and he knows he's just broken another Rule, but the way Jean-Paul looks at him, wordlessly smiling and then curling up at his side to fall asleep, makes him not care.

He really needs to talk to someone about this. Hank, he decides. Jubilee would encourage him to do stupid things like tell Jean-Paul, as would Emma, though for more materialistic reasons, and there's really no one else Bobby's close enough to for this kind of talk. And Hank won't say "I told you so." Not more than once, anyway.

Interlude: Thursday

"Hey, big guy."

"Bobby! Long time no see! What's wrong?"

"What, what's wrong? Can't I come see my friends without something being wrong, now?"

"Of course you can, Robert, but when you call me 'big guy', that inevitably means you need help, advice, or both. And I'm afraid Jubilee isn't in yet, if you need the latter."

"Actually, I was hoping to talk to you, if you have time. I mean, if you're busy, I can come back tomorrow, or — "

"Robert."

"... Sorry. I'll try not to babble."

"And I'm sure pigs will try to fly. Of course I have time for you. What's wrong?"

"I — ... Promise you won't say you told me so?"

"This is about Jean-Paul, isn't it?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Well, there aren't a lot of other subjects about which I could tell you I told you so, lately. I suppose that means you're growing up."

"Yeah, except for the part where I'm acting like a teenager again."

"Oh, dear. That bad?"

"I feel like I should buy a binder just to write our names and '4EVAH' on it. In sparkly gel pen! It's fucking ridiculous!"

"Hm. Yes, I can see how that would be a problem. 'Bobby Beaubier' does sound rather silly."

"Smartass."

"I learned from the best. Have you calmed down, now?"

"Yeah. Thanks. I just — I don't know what to do. I tried ignoring it, which didn't work — "

"It hardly ever does."

"Yeah, tell me about it. And before you ask, no. Telling him isn't an option, except maybe as a very last resort."

"That doesn't leave you a lot of choices, does it?"

"Well, ... It leaves me the choice between staying and leaving. And I know I should just leave before I get in even more over my head, but ..."

"It may not necessarily be such a bad idea to stay you know. I mean, I've seen you two; it's not as if he's going to notice much of a difference."

"I'd notice the difference, though. I suppose you're right, though. Might as well take advantage while it lasts, right?"

"That's the spirit! And speaking of spirits ... Jack Daniels and coke, right?"

"Yes, please. And thank you, both for letting me whinge at you and for giving me alcohol."

"That's what friends are for, aren't they?"

Day Two Hundred and Forty-Seven: Friday

The rain is coming down hard outside, and Bobby is very glad he can stay in all day. Jean-Paul, though, won't be so lucky.

"I hope he'll be smart enough to take a cab," he tells the empty apartment. The apartment, predictably, doesn't answer. Bobby's noticed he's talking to himself a lot, lately. Just boredom, probably, but then boredom's been a big part of his days lately. "Maybe I should get a day job," he continues; out loud, of course, because he's already talking to himself, so why not go with it? "Set up an accountancy firm or something."

His train of thought, if it can be called that, is interrupted by a knock at the door. Confused, he goes to open it.

"Jean-Paul? Why didn't you just — Oh." He finally notices the small bundle of fur in Jean-Paul's arms.

"She was sitting on the doorstep downstairs, crying." The kitten manages to peek its head out over Jean-Paul's arms, and gives Bobby a pitiful look. He gives in and scratches between her ears.

"Hello, cutie." He looks up at Jean-Paul and smiles. "Taking in strays, now, are we?"

"Only for a little while," Jean Paul says as he walks towards the kitchen. "Just until she's well enough that I can find a new place for her. Fetch me a towel, would you?"

"You realise, of course, that I'll be the one who has to look after her most of the time, right?" He hands Jean-Paul the towel, which is promptly wrapped around the mewling kitten. "And how do you know it's a she, anyway?"

"All cats are female, Bobby," Jean-Paul says, distracted by the difficult task of drying off a feline. "Even the male ones."

"I'm sure that made sense in Canadian." He tries to distract the kitten by scratching its head, which seems to work. "She needs a name."

"No."

"Why not?" Reluctantly, he stops the petting and goes to fetch some milk, or cream, or something. The poor creature looks hungry, and Bobby's never made a secret of his tendency to take in strays and spoil them rotten, apparently unlike Jean-Paul.

"Because if I name her, I'll have to keep her, and I'm not keeping her." But he's petting her nonetheless, and Bobby grins to himself. Phase one of breakdown completed. Time for phase two.

"How can you not keep her? Look at her!" He picks her up and makes her face Jean-Paul. The kitten cooperates and looks miserable, mewling pathetically, even. Bobby tries to look half as pleading as she does. "How can you kick out someone as adorable as this?"

"I'm not kicking her out," Jean-Paul rolls his eyes. "I'm finding her a better home. I work late, Bobby, she'd only be lonely during the day."

"She's a cat". She sleeps during the day. And anyway, I'm here during the day, aren't I?" Jean-Paul sighs.

"I'll consider it. After I go take a shower and get dry, myself." And he walks towards the bathroom shaking his head.

"Phase two completed," Bobby tells the kitten, grinning, and gets his face thoroughly licked for his trouble. "Now we just need to find you a name."

Day Two Hundred and Forty-Nine: Sunday

There are few things in life that feel better than walking into the bedroom, coffee in hand, and seeing Jean-Paul curled up with the kitten, Bobby decides. "Hey, gorgeous," he says, and hands Jean-Paul his mug. "And good morning to you too, Jean-Paul."

"Very funny," Jean-Paul says. "Have I been usurped by a cat, now?"

"Well, she is cuter," Bobby points out. "On the other hand, she doesn't give me sex."

"Neither will I if you keep letting her sleep in our bed," Jean-Paul smiles. "Still want to keep her?"

"Yes," Bobby pouts. "Though she does need her own basket or something to sleep in, I agree. I'll get her some things on Monday." Jean-Paul looks like he's about to protest some more, but he's interrupted by a meow, and after another glance at the kitten, he sighs.

"All right, I give in. She can stay."

"I knew you'd cave," Bobby grins. "Now we just need to name her. How about Alice? I think she looks like an Alice, don't you?" Jean-Paul gives him a bemused, indulgent look.

"If you say so. Hello, Alice, pleased to meet you." He holds out a hand, as if expecting her to shake it, but Alice decides this is her cue to start exploring her new home, jumps off the bed, and wobbles off into the living room. Jean-Paul starts to get up after her, but Bobby pushes him back down.

"I think that's her way of giving us some time for me to thank you properly," he grins, and Jean-Paul settles back into the pillows obediently.

It took Bobby some time after his Big Self-Revelation to really relax during sex again, and even now he's afraid he'll say something stupid at the worst possible moment, but this time, he notices he's not the only one who's tense and distracted.

"What's wrong?" He strokes the spot on Jean-Paul's neck he knows never fails to relax the other man, and gets a pillow-muffled groan of appreciation in return. "You've been distracted and tense for a while, now. If you're not careful, I'm gonna start thinking you just don't want me anymore." He's only mostly joking.

"Bobby, if I no longer found you attractive, it would probably be because I was dead." Jean-Paul lifts his face off the pillow a little to smile at Bobby, and Bobby furiously tries not to blush, and to ignore the fluttery feeling in his stomach.

"Thanks," he says when he thinks he has his voice under control again. "Now tell me what's wrong and stop trying to change the subject." That earns him a sigh, which sounds like it's mostly for dramatic effort.

"One of the new bookkeepers came to me a few weeks ago, saying she had found something in the files that was too important to go through the proper channels. It appears someone has been stealing from the company. Not a lot," he continues before Bobby can respond. "At least, not a lot at a time, but it seems this has been happening for years, and in time, whoever this is must have amassed quite a bit of money by doing this."

"Wow," Bobby says. It's not the most intelligent response ever, but it's the best he can do at the moment. "And you don't know who it is?" Jean-Paul shakes his head.

"Not yet. So far, only Ms Pryde and myself know of this — and now you, of course — and until we have a better idea of how and when this happened, I prefer to keep it that way. I don't want them covering up their tracks. But it seems clear that whoever did it has been with the company for quite a long time." He pauses and sighs.

"This is someone I trust, someone I thought I could trust, that's what bothers me. I don't care about the money as such, but this — " He makes a frustrated gesture and falls back onto the pillow. Bobby stays silent, because really, what can he say? He settles for softly stroking Jean-Paul's back and resolving to make sure Jean-Paul relaxes more.

After all, the last thing he wants is to anger Jeanne-Marie by letting Jean-Paul worry himself into the hospital again.

Interlude: Wednesday

"Yes, what is it, Jean? I thought I said to hold my calls?"

"Sorry, Mr Beaubier, but it's your sister."

"Fine, put her through." [beep] "Bonjour, Jeanne-Marie."

"<<Hello, brother dear. Still working too hard, I see?>>"

"<<As always, yes. Is there a particular reason you're calling me at work?>>"

"<<As a matter of fact, yes. I heard you're having trouble at work, so I'm calling to check up on you. Isn't that usually the reason I have to call you?>>"

"<<Who told you I was having problems at work?>>"

"<<A little birdie?>>"

"<<You've turned Bobby against me already? Evil woman.>>"

"<<What can I say, I have my ways. Now be honest with me, are you stressing yourself out again?>>"

"<<I'm okay, Jeanne-Marie. There's some trouble, but I'm handling it. And I'm not stressing out. Much.>>"

"<<M-hm? Promise?>>"

"<<Yes, mother.>>"

"<<Smartass. I see your boy's rubbing off on you already.>>"

"<<You make it sound as if I bought him or something.>>"

"<<Well, he's certainly yours, now.>>"

[silence]

"<<Oh, please tell me you're not still playing charades and pretending he's nothing more than a hired help.>>"

"<<Haven't we had this conversation before?>>"

"<<Sweetheart, he's living with you. I've seen you two, you spent half your time cuddling, for god's sake! Can you honestly tell me you'd be fine with it if he decided to leave tomorrow?>>"

"<<I ... I hate you. I can't be in love with him. It just doesn't work that way!>>"

"<<But it did, didn't it?"

"<<Yes. I — ... What am I supposed to do now?>>"

"<<This may sound like an absurd and radical suggestion, but have you thought of telling him?>>"

"<<I can't. He'll just think I'm trying to get him for free or ... or something.>>"

"<<So you're just going to go on like this?>>"

"<<Do I have much choice?>>"

"<<Well, I think you do. And I'm going to keep nagging you until you do something.>>"

[knock on the door]

"Maudit! <<I'm afraid the nagging will have to wait until later.>>"

"<<All right. But think about it, at least!>>"

"<<I'll think about it. Take care.>>"

"<<You too.>>"

[click]

Day Two Hundred and Sixty-Eight: Friday

Bobby isn't having a good day. He cut himself twice while shaving, nearly slipped in the shower, and he seems to have burnt the coffee, even. Clearly, one or more gods, possibly all of them, are angry at him for some reason.

"What did I do this time?" He demands from the ceiling. "Is it the sex? Because I thought taking in stray kittens made up for the sex! What?" The gods are not communicative today. Bobby sighs. "Fine. Do your fucking worst."

He probably shouldn't have said that, because almost at that moment, the phone rings. Bobby picks up the handset, gives it an apprehensive and annoyed look, and presses the button. "Beaubier residence."

"Hi, Bobby."

"Oh, hi, Jean." Jean-Paul's secretary. This doesn't bode well. As far as Bobby knows, Jean thinks he's Jean-Paul's boyfriend, so if Jean-Paul is making her call him, something must be wrong. 'He's probably in the hospital,' Bobby thinks. His stomach clenches, and he's too busy trying to figure out what he should do to listen to the first part of Jean's sentence.

"... so he's expecting you to be ready at seven, okay?"

"Huh? What?" And he's really not doing much to change Jean's opinion of him as a vapid prettyboy, here. "Sorry, what was that?" He can almost hear her shake her head in frustration.

"You, tonight, Chez Jamie's. A car will be by to pick you up at seven o'clock. Can you remember that, or should I wait until you can write that down?" Bobby rolls his eyes, and sticks out his tongue at the phone.

"No, I can remember that, thanks. Tell him I'll be ready." He hangs up without waiting for an answer. Chez Jamie's is one of the most expensive restaurants in town, with a waiting list of at least six months, usually twelve. Whatever this is about, Jean-Paul has to have pulled a lot of strings to get a table for tonight.

"Shit! What the hell is going on? Oh, fuck, do I even have a fucking suit to wear to that kinda place? Fuck!"

Clearly, this is the ideal time for panic and profanity. A quick scan through his side of the wardrobe reveals that while he does in fact have something to wear, Alice has managed to scratch the pant legs up since the last time he looked. This means that the fanciest outfit he owns is black, but glitters, and he doesn't think there's a maître d' in the city who would view that as acceptable dinner clothes. Time to call for backup.

It takes him five minutes to locate his phone book, and by the time the phone rings for the third time on the other end, he's impatiently hopping from foot to foot. "Come on, come on, pick up already." Finally, they do. "I am a failure as a gay man," he announces loudly, and accompanies it with a dramatic gesture that goes unseen through the phone.

"The hell? Who is this? Bobby? What's going on?" And only now does Bobby realise that it's barely past noon, and he probably just woke Emma up.

"Er, sorry for the early call, but I have an emergency here. You know how you're always saying you want to take me shopping for decent clothes?" That seems to perk her up considerably.

"Really? Today? And I get free rein? You're on. I'll meet you at the Starbucks on fifth. You can buy me coffee to apologise for waking me up, and then we'll dress you up nicely." Bobby feels like he's signing his soul away in exchange for a suit, but he agrees nonetheless.

Four hours later, he can't feel his legs below the knees anymore, but Emma claims they've found what they're looking for, and Bobby has never been so happy to see a couch in his life. He briefly considers marrying it, but settles for just stretching out on it.

"Hey, don't fall asleep, we have primping to do." Emma is ridiculously and uncharacteristically perky about this whole thing. Bobby is starting to think she wasn't allowed to have Barbies as a child and is now trying to make up for that. "I'll run you a bath, you can relax in the tub."

"Fine. Just don't make me smell like a flowerbed or something," he shouts in the general direction of the bathroom. Emma doesn't answer.

The bath does take away most of Bobby's aches and pains, and he emerges smelling something other than flower petals, which is at least something. And he has to admit, the suit Emma picked out for him does look sharp. He puts on the finishing touches and eyes himself in the mirror.

"The name is Bond," he grins, unable to resist temptation. "James Bond. Licenced to kill."

"I guess that is a gun in your pocket then, and you're not just happy to see me." Emma looks him over from where she's leaning against the doorframe, and Bobby is relieved to see she approves. "Not bad. Not bad at all. Of course, custom-made would have been better, but under the circumstances, it's the best I could do."

"Do you think Jean-Paul will like it?" Bobby nervously casts a glance at his reflection again, feeling like a teenager on prom night. 'Sparkly gel pens,' he tells himself, and tries to get a grip.

"Honey, if you looked any better, he'd not even bother with dinner." She smirks. "Hell, if you looked any better, I'd want to keep you for myself."

"Does Hank know about that?" He tries not to snicker, because he does appreciate the compliment, but the mental image of himself having sex with Emma is somehow hilarious.

"I'm sure I can convince him to share." She pauses, and smirks again. "You or me." Thankfully, in the few moments it takes for Bobby to grasp what she means, the driver arrives, so he's spared the need for a response, and instead gets a kiss on the cheek from Emma.

"I'll grab a cab home, you go have dinner with your man. Knock 'em dead." She breezes out the door past the stunned driver, and Bobby wonders if this means he doesn't have to tip him. Judging by the look on the guy's face, he's had all the tip he needs.

By the time he walks into the restaurant, Bobby's insides feel like they've been replaced with a bag of butterflies. Very active butterflies, in fact, as if someone has doused them in caffeine. He's not even sure he'll actually be able to eat anything at all tonight.

"May I help you, sir?" The maître d', at least, seems to approve of him, and when Bobby tells him his name, the man leads him to the table where Jean-Paul is already seated. He seems nervous, toying with his napkin, but when he looks up at Bobby, he smiles so brightly that four hours of shopping with Emma suddenly seem worth the reaction.

"Bobby. You look great. I don't think I've seen that outfit before." Bobby flops down in his chair, ignoring the waiter's frown at his undignified behaviour.

"Emma took me shopping," Bobby admits, and since he's pretty much just admitted he can't even dress himself without help, he barely even glances at the menu before handing it back to the waiter. "I'll have what he's having." The waiter just nods and turns to Jean-Paul, who orders something in French and gets a bow from the waiter.

"I think I rather like Emma, now." Jean-Paul grins and pours Bobby a glass of wine. "You look great," he repeats.

"Thanks. So, is there any particular reason why you're suddenly taking me out to dinner in an expensive restaurant like this?" He tries to make a joke of it, but has to conciously stop himself from fidgeting around.

"No reason," Jean-Paul says, but he doesn't quite meet Bobby's eyes, and fidgets some more. Bobby tries not to panic, he really does, but something's wrong, and Jean-Paul's not telling him what it is, and Bobby really hates situations like this.

"Are you going to make me try and force down a meal before you tell me what's going on?" He can see Jean-Paul wince at his bluntness, but if he's going to be sent away — technically he'd get fired, he supposes — he'd rather get it over with quickly. He tries to tell himself he knew this would happen sooner or later, but the sinking feeling in his stomach is still there. Jean-Paul fidgets around some more, then takes a deep breath, and Bobby steels himself for what's about to come.

"I've been thinking," Jean-Paul says, and Bobby has to forcibly stop himself from reflexively making a joke about it hurting. "Well, more like wondering, actually. Have you ever thought about actually putting your degree to actual use? In an accountancy job of sorts, I mean. Or something." He doesn't even meet Bobby's eyes, and Bobby tries to figure out if this is a variation on the "You shouldn't have to do this, I can help you get out of this life of sin" speech. He's heard that one before, though it usually comes a lot earlier on, and he hadn't pegged Jean-Paul as the type.

"I — " He pauses, tries to gather his thoughts, then tries again. "Sure, but you know, I'm not exactly unhappy with my current job. I thought you were happy with the way I'm doing it, too."

"Oh, I am. I was just hoping you might be willing to make it ..." Waving his hand around, at a loss for words for the first time since Bobby met him. "Make it more of a hobby, I suppose." It takes what feels like forever for Bobby to make sense of that, though he really doesn't think that's completely his own fault. When the wheels in his head finally start turning, the butterflies in his stomach return, even though he's sure, he knows he must be wrong.

"Are you asking me to be your boyfriend?" He feels as if, no matter how quietly he said that, the entire restaurant overheard, and everyone is staring at them. He doesn't care. Jean-Paul fidgets some more, and blushes, before finally answering.

"Yes?" He finally looks Bobby in the eyes. The butterflies in Bobby's stomach spread out into his chest and head, and a grin breaks out on his face.

"Yes," he says, and leans over the table to kiss Jean-Paul. Someone at a nearby table drops a glass. Bobby doesn't care. He looks at Jean-Paul's stunned face, grabs the other man's tie, and gently pulls him closer for another kiss. Somehow, he manages not to push anything off the table. "Next time, though," he says, "Ask me questions like this in private, so I don't have to wait until after dinner to fuck you, okay?"

That, at least, brings Jean-Paul back into the here and now, because he grins evilly at Bobby. "But I like shocking people by doing this sort of thing in public," he says. "Now be a good boy, sit down, and eat your dinner." Bobby pouts.

"Meanie." But he obeys anyway, because the waiter picks that exact moment to arrive with their food, and Bobby suddenly feels ravenous. His butterflies must be hungry, he supposes. They'll need the sustenance. After all, he's unemployed now, and he's going to have to re-enter the job market for the first time in a lot of years.

Epilogue: Thursday

"Beaubier residence, Bobby speaking."

"Bonjour, Bobby, how are you?"

"Jeanne-Marie! I'm getting kinda bored with this whole job-seeking thing, actually. Accountancy is a boring field, let me tell you, and I'm used to excitement and glamour and stuff."

"Well, you know, Jean-Paul told me he's looking for a new accountant ..."

"I am not asking my boyfriend for a job. I want to get one on my own merits, thanks."

"I'm not suggesting you ask him. In fact, I don't think he's even involved in the application process, so you could apply and go through interviews and such without him even knowing."

"... Hm."

"I knew you'd see my point. You'd get yourself a semi-glamorous job with a boss you like, and you can keep an eye on my brother and keep him from working too hard. It's a win-win situation!"

"You're talking like I already already got the job, but — "

"Pshh. You'll get it, I know you will. All you have to do is dazzle them with your charm and they'll fall all over themselves to offer it to you."

"All right, I'll apply, but don't get your hopes up too much."

"I guarantee nothing."

end