Round Robin P 2
(by vicuña)
Shrugging into his trench, Grey entertained a brief notion of inviting
Skye. The Russian blond had already disappeared, predictably enough,
the whispers of his footsteps retreating back down the hallway. But
what if Grey were to knock on his door, suggesting they scope out
their prospects together? Overtures made-- all under the pretense
of friendly competition, of course-- might lead to a few drinks, a
dulling of that edge, as it were. And maybe after such a prelude it
could get really /interesting/ during the second act... Grey smiled
ruefully at himself. A few drinks? Skye? Who did he think he was kidding?
Not because it wasn't bloody likely. Well, not really. But that was
the /extra/ bet. Icing on the cake. No good skipping to dessert first,
like Mum always said. Always save the best for last.
In his mind flashed a series of images, quick and lurid like the
media coverage of those concert interviews-- Twisteaux, pouting at
the camera. Each of his four Bats, in varying poses from the suggestive
to the obscene. Skye, from behind, startled into a smile. Sebastien
and Shima's speechless, disbelieving faces.
He indulged in a bid of wicked laughter. This was really far too
much fun.
With a jaunty mock-salute in the direction of Skye's room, Grey slipped
out the door.
He'd have eaten his koto, hammer and all, before admitting to Shima
and Sebastien that he /was/ a bit out of practice. Truth was, he really
hadn't the foggiest notion how he was going to bed four Bats, much
less Skye... but damn it all, he was going to enjoy every minute of
it. (For that matter, the photograph also posed a bit of a problem.
How on earth would he manage that? But no, that was a bridge he'd
cross when he came to it.) He shrugged happily, rubbing his palms
together.
If I were a Culture Bat, he thought, where would I be? He laughed
into the collar of his coat. Hanging upside down by my jelly shoes
in some cave somewhere, taking a bit of a kip?
Never thought he'd find himself wishing he'd been paying more attention
to all those awful Culture Bats specials on the telly. Interminable
things-- whose favorite color was fuschia, whose preferred cologne
was cKbe, which of them slept in the buff-- but never with the really
/juicy/ information... Like, for example, what little bars did they
frequent in the evenings, after practice, when they wanted a drink,
or a smoke, or a quick shag?
Realizing that he had, in fact, no idea, he decided to start at this
sweet little place he himself had always been fond of. It was more
bar than restaurant, but with some cozy booths for more... intimate
dinners.
He was a regular enough that the chap behind the counter served him
up a whiskey and lime without having to be asked. Grey smiled pleasantly,
taking a seat on a barstool and assessing the room from underneath
carefully lowered eyelashes.
After about half an hour (and about three more whiskeys), he had
to sigh, and admit that perhaps this particular joint might have been
a waste of time. Ah, well, strike one, as they say; the night was
still young.
But wait.
Over in the corner, there, behind the kid with the bright blue hair.
Grey squinted through his glass, pretending to inspect the color of
his whiskey, so it wouldn't be obvious that he was staring. What a
tall, striking fellow. Definitely not Japanese. Pale hair that was
almost white, nice features. Sitting by himself, with a huge glass
of beer at his elbow-- it was no wonder Grey hadn't seen him, so quiet
and in the shadow like that.
And he certainly /looked/ like a Bat. The tall one, what's-his-face,
the one who doubled as their production manager? Grey's lips curled
up in a sneer. Whoever he was, he surely was not /behaving/ like a
Bat, though. Demurely drinking beer, looking studiously at some paperwork
or other? Honestly. Grey had heard stories of the publicity stunts
and attention-seeking things those crazy blokes had done. And this
one was just not quite a Bat out of hell.
Still. It had to be him; Grey could just imagine him standing at
Twisteaux's elbow. The bassist, yeah, that was him all right.
He lowered his glass, stopped trying to be subtle about his appreciation.
If that was really him, this would be a most convenient place to start.
Unconsciously, he licked his lips, thinking with surety that Shima
and Sebastien and Skye could not, at that very moment, be any closer
to attaining the prize than he was.
Savoring his chance, he fully intended to ask one of those lovely
waitresses if they wouldn't pour a drink for that lonely fellow over
there, and put it on his tab. But he never quite managed to catch
their eyes, as he was staring quite openly at the handsome Bat.
Wondering, with no small interest, if he was the one that liked to
sleep undressed.
Mmmm.
Suddenly there was a touch on his shoulder. "...Grey?"
His reverie thus interrupted, he managed not to jump out of his skin,
a fact of which he was very proud. But he couldn't quite keep his
voice normal, when he turned around casually to see a /very/ familiar
face.
"Augustine!" He swallowed. "Fancy running into you here!"
The lead singer of the Wicked Isaacs raised a pale eyebrow, speaking
volumes without saying a word.
Grey coughed. "That is to say, thought you were out of town, old
thing. What a pleasant surprise."
Augustine's eyes narrowed, as if in silent approval. He pulled up
a stool and sat down, almost uncomfortably close in the growing crowd.
"Guten aben to you, too," he said easily, with an intrigued glint
in his eyes. He angled his head imperceptibly nearer to Grey's, that
he might lower his voice and still be heard. "And what brings you
out on a weeknight like this?"
Sheer force of will kept Grey's gaze from flicking guiltily to the
Culture Bat in the opposite corner of the bar. "Boredom," he said
smoothly. "Sebastien and Shima refused to turn off the telly; I needed
a change of scenery." Which, as he was pleased to note, was not entirely
untrue. "...You?" he added, a bit reluctantly.
Augustine said nothing, running a hand through his short silver hair
and looking pointedly across the bar.
Grey shrugged. Fair enough. They were all used to Augustine not answering
their questions. "Shall I... buy you a drink?" he hazarded, out of
a masochistic sense of politeness.
The pause lasted so long that Grey was starting to twitch, his mind
running in circles. The damnable presence of the man was nearly unnerving.
What was Augustine up too? Could Sebastien have tipped him off to
their bet? But why, when they all knew he'd win the pot if he got
his slippery fingers on it?
But he couldn't deny that Augustine certainly looked like he was
scoping out the Bat, too.
Most fascinating, Grey thought, if anxiously.
At last the German smiled fractionally, the set of his shoulders
relaxing. "I really /am/ out of town, I'm afraid, mein freund." He
slid his stool back slowly, his eyes lingering with little pretense
on Grey's face. "Was only stopping by the studio long enough to pick
up a few things."
"Sorry to hear it," Grey said, exhaling with immense relief. Jolly
good thing he'd been raised to lie with a straight face.
As Augustine was leaving, though, he said quietly, over his shoulder,
"Watch yourself."
But Grey had no time to dwell on this puzzling pronouncement, because
at that moment the bell at the door jingled-- and who should waltz
in but Stolichnya Shima. Grey didn't watch long enough to see if Sebastien
came in behind him, setting his back to the door and staring at the
whiskey and lime in his hands like it held all the secrets of the
universe. He knew he didn't really have a chance of escaping notice,
but at least this time nobody was going to sneak up on him and ruin
his casual facade.
Infuriatingly enough, though, from this vantage point he could see
that the Bat was actually looking intently towards the entrance.
Grey swore, laughing, under his breath. /He'd/ been trying to get
the man's attention all evening. Bad bloody luck. But who was he looking
at now?
.//back
