Safe and Sane

He waited until the baby and Auri had been released from the hospital to show up at her doorstep. He arrived with flowers and food -- of the take out variety. "Hello," he said, with a surprising amount of warmth. "You look fantastic, point me to your kitchen."

Eva had abandoned Gale to the guardianship of Matilda and Oscar, and escaped the house for a few precious hours. With a selection of property details tucked into her bag, she walked into the common room of the club, heading directly for the coffee machine, and glanced across at the room's only other occupant. "Would you care for coffee?"

Devon stepped into the club, pulled his sunglasses off and tucked them into his front pocket, then tugged his hat off too. He scrubbed a hand over his head and announced, generally, "Denver needs a beach. A nude beach. With a breeze that smells like coconut suntan oil, hard-bodied cabana boys and all the free mai tais you can drink."

And then, because he was intimidated by very little, he invited himself to the couch across from where Chris sat, settled, and asked, "Can I talk you into an investment, Chris?"

Chris was sprawled out in a chair, in the lounge, in the club. One leg on the opposite knee, the leg stretched out in front of him. He was draped back, head tilted all the way toward the ceiling with his arms gracelessly dropped over the arms of the chair. "Never again," he mumbled, then repeated: "Never."

Wednesday again, and a happier Wednesday than the previous one. The weather seemed to have warmed up especially for the inauguration, and the evening was mild enough that the cafe had tables set outside for more than just the smokers. A general air of celebration lingered from the previous day, and the cafe owner had decided to celebrate by offering free upgrades to larger sizes of coffee, or free muffins with the smallest ones.

Sugar and caffeine highs all around.

Without asking, Edmund brought two cups of tea over to Chris, putting one at the elbow of the other man first, then sitting with the other next to him, making himself slightly more comfortable. By which he unbuttoned his jacket, kept on his vest, and crossed one leg over the other at the knee.

He waited silently for Chris to decide if he wanted to talk, comfortable with the silent companionship.

Chris came into the lounge not from the parking lot outside, but from the depths of the club. He was carrying a towel with him, wiping his hands down as he headed around the bar to the kitchen area. There was also a very faint smell following him, of rubbing alcohol and heat.

He turned the sink on with his elbow, tossed the handtowel aside from the moment and got busy washing his hands. As he finished he asked the person nearest him to, "Pass me a clean towel please." He'd get more friendly and conversational as soon as he'd dried his hands off.

Bobby bounced very quietly into the lounge, grabbing a cup of coffee, then bouncing onto a lap, asking, "Congratulate me."

She was reading news sites on her laptop with a more than slightly pained expression on her face until she finally furiously clicked away from CNN. "Do you think the Secret Service would mind if I roundhouse kicked Sarah Palin in the nose? That woman is the anti-Christ. I mean, if I believed in that kind of thing. Do you want some coffee?"

She rose to get herself a cup.

Jason checked the straps on the top of the Explorer again and then hopped down, cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. He'd pulled on his wet suit, but left the top half hanging while he loaded up the kayaks and after putting out his cigarette and making sure he'd packed everything, he pulled it around to Chris' front door and rang the door bell, shivering in the cool morning air as he waited for Chris to answer.

It was a gorgeous day, the promise of sunshine obvious in the blue of the sky.

( He was beginning to think Chris would never leave. )

The invitations had gone out late- only on Monday- but it had come together fairly well. There was rum, fruity drinks, fruit and cheese, and an assortment of shareable costumes all fighting the theme.


Talk like a pirate.

( Jason came back from his run and dove directly into the pool, cooling off.  )

Leaning over the counter, he pulled a nearby pad over and fished a pen out of a drawer.

"Chris."

As if summoned by the name scrawled across the paper and spoken aloud, he heard a footfall and lifted his head, glancing at Chris through his hair and grinned widely, holding up the pad. "Morning, I was just leaving you a note. Want some milk?"

From the private showing for members only to the more freeform wandering of people in and out, the Smith Klein Gallery had been full more often than not. In the end, he'd exhibited a lot more work than he'd planned to when they'd first agreed to the show, but since coming to Boulder, he'd not been able to keep still, nor had he tried.

His photography filled one room, mostly black and white, some sepia tones hung in rows that were sparked with color randomly, photographs he'd hand-tinted and tweaked during the developing process. Paintings and sketches were hung throughout, both large works and small, and his sculpture was set at intervals that seemed random, but made sense in his mind.

Jason had managed to find time to have his suit tailored, but hadn't bothered cutting his hair and his cheeks hurt from smiling, but it was a good kind of hurt.

He circulated and tried to explain the unexplanable repeatedly, and tried to avoid the bejeweled octagenarian who wanted him to paint her nude and surrounded by her beloved pugs, because. Well. She kept putting her hand on his ass and he suspected she was capable of sucking his soul out of his body through sustained eye contact.

There was good food, music that grew louder as the night wore on and a deck out back where people could smoke and relax, and alcohol. Open bar and no end in sight. It was a good night.

The phone behind the bar was ringing. Chris waited a second to make sure Ian and Helen weren't going to show up and take it, then hauled out of his chair to answer it. "This is the Power Company." He paused. "No, not the electric company, the power." He was clearly cut off, and he stopped with a bemused expression. "No ma'am, I'm sure we're not responsible for your." He was cut off again, sighed heavily and said, "This is a *sex* club. Unless you're interested in being beaten and fucked, I don't need your home address." The click of her hanging up was audible from several feet away from the phone.

To: "Chris Wayne"
From: "Beth Reynolds" <reynoldse12@boulder.edu>
Subject: Scheduling

Good morning, Chris, I hope you've had a good couple of weeks?

Just to let you know that I'm back in Boulder, and more importantly, almost completely free of jet-lag. Are you still interested in scheduling something with me in early August? At the moment, I'm completely free - well, within the constraints of work and so forth - but I'd appreciate knowing either way. You do, of course, have priority since we discussed in advance.

England is still terribly grey, and still terribly wonderful, but it's good to be back here.

regards
Beth

"If I wanted to have sex," Chris said, clearly into his mobile phone, "I wouldn't want to have sex with you, and I most certainly wouldn't need to pay for it." He paused, briefly. "Where did you get this number? No, never mind. I don't want to know. Don't call again." Another brief pause. "I will. Thank you." Then he hung up and looked over his shoulder, to whoever was standing there.

"What?"

( Jason had been up since just past dawn. He'd taken a run and then swam laps before taking a shower and then it had been late enough for him to head to the Smith Klein Gallery, the pieces brought to replace those sold wrapped carefully and slipped into the trunk.  )

He stopped for a half dozen freshly glazed donuts and coffee so sweetened it was practically glazed as well, and then he'd headed back home, pulling around to the carriage house and going inside long enough to dig up his checkbook and tuck it into his pocket next to the check from the gallery.

When he was getting milk and leaving the occasional note, he used the back door, but this was business, and so he walked around the house and rang the doorbell.

The house was too quiet and he'd done as much to prepare the space as possible. And himself. He wore nothing but a pair of loose fitting sweats and wandered around the yard with a bright green plastic bucket picking up Oscar's toys.

The brace was covered in a thick cuff of leather with rings at various intervals to take any pressure off his hand, and the packed dirt area in the barn was cleared, enough room for pretty much anything. Anything he'd been able to come up with anyway. He'd hauled a chair out of his office for Chris, and a small table had enough room for him to spread out his stuff and there was plenty of water. And a bowl of fruit.

Yeah, he was Martha-fucking-Stewart.

He stared out over the lake, breeze ruffling his hair and bucket dangling from his hand. Didn't turn around at the sound of tires on gravel, but he did turn when they stopped and set the bucket down to walk over to where Chris was waiting.

Chris was sitting in an overstuffed arm chair in one of the main lounges. He was very methodically braiding a, red and blue, horsehair flogger. When someone paused near him he looked up and lifted his eyebrow a bit. "Seat?" he offered, bemused.