Don't look at me like that. Don't look at me with those that ask, and are so casual about it. 'Mate, you wanna go home? Mate, you wanna see my flat? Mate you wanna--'

Course he doesn't wanna, LeBeau. An' you're not gonna charm him into it. All morals aside, gettin' into this with another man ain' the way to go about fixing things in your life. This is just a drinking contest to him. This is just a way to get some manly release. This is just--

Not even finishin' mental sentences? Must be a bad night. Drink your drink, and let's go home. He's not gonna pick you up, and you're not stupid enough to pick him up.

And yet, some time later...

His apartment. His flat. His room. Somewhere, I'm sure, even his bed.

Focus, LeBeau. If you want to find yourself in that same bed, you have to figure out how. He's obviously lonely, you can play on that. He's tired, and drunk, you can play on that more. Hell, *you're* drunk too, or you wouldn't be thinking to yourself about trying to seduce Pete Wisdom.

Saints. Did I really think that?

Oh, yes you did, LeBeau. Just like you thought about tongues when you spied the vanilla ice cream in the freezer, and when you thought about Rogue when he bent down and you almost slid your hand along his spine.

What *are* you thinking, boy? You'd really want to get inside him?

Part of me is whispering, 'Or let him get inside of you?' but I'm going to ignore it for now. The minute I think about that, I'm going to remember that I'm not really cut out for this. I don't go picking up strangers as a rule, and as much as Pete oozes 'take-me' vibes, his flat chest and muscles are unfamiliar territory.

But I can deal with unfamiliar. Unwilling, that's a whole other story.

Is he... would he... yes. He's actually pulling the ice cream out, and two spoons. I thought this was something girls did, Mr. Wisdom. You want to share your secret feminine side with me?

Or do you just want something to wash down the whiskey, and the only other food around -- that jar of pickles -- didn't appeal?

I watch him sprawl onto his bed, and wave a spoon at the sofa. I sit there, obviously banished from his place of slumber and carnal delight. I'm not wanted there.

Not yet, anyway. Just wait, Pete. You'll be moaning come sun-up.

He takes a breath, and I feal the yawn shiver through him, more than hear it. I'm more than a little out of it, and so's he -- his head is seriously canted to one side. It exposes his neck, and oh, what a pasty white guy Pete Wisdom is.

Remy, smile courteously and just eat your damned spoonful of ice cream. Swallow it down your throat, and don't think about eating him. Just concentrate on seeming innocent--

Yeah, right. That I can do.

I take off my shirt, following his lead. He's obviously getting ready to pass out -- it won't be much longer now before I lose the edge. I have to get closer to him, and soon. This is how this game is played out... how games are always played out.

I sigh at that, and don't think about it anymore.

All of a sudden...

"I don't believe y'did that, homme."

I look down at my chest, and the creamy ice cream dripping down it. *COLD*, that's what this is. He snorted, a short breath. HIs eyes are a little bug-eyed with surprise.

"Christ. I don't believe I did, either."

I don't really believe you did that either, homme. But now I know now he's giving me openings, as if he wants them walked through like so many hoops. I have to make this count.

"Are y'gonna do something about it?" Preferably involving a lot of panting and moaning, but I'll take your fingertips, even.

He stares at me, at my face, then at my obviously hard nipples. Now isn't the time to think about what a stupid word 'nipple' is, but I think it anyway. He shrugs, and grabs a shirt to wipe me off with.

Don't I even get one touch, Petey? Christ.

Well then. I'll play it my way. I say, without sympathy, "Kit ever get to eat ice cream off you?"

He drops the shirt, as if burned. Aha, mon ami... hit the nerve to carry me through to you. "I... nah. Kit wasn't one for food."

I stretch out, get more comfortable, and say, "S'a pity for you."

He doesn't nod. I look at him, desperate for another wedge to drive into him, to get past, to let me get closer. Always, I have to be closer. And Pete, I saw that lonely look in his eyes. He needs someone, I know it.

Desperate times call for desperate measures -- I throw ice cream back. He mimicks my stance from before, minus the whorish quality, and says, "You gonna do something about the sticky shite on me?"

I stand up, and bend my head to lick it off.

I wonder what his face looks like right now, but honestly? I'm not going to look. It's enough to feel that chest tighten up beneath my tongue, and have him trying to control his breathing. In, slowly, and then a puff out, so unexpected that I'm sure he didn't mean for it to happen.

The funny thing with men is, they don't like to lose control of themselves. I don't have much experience, but they always want to be on top. It's so nice to be touching someone again -- and her face, Rogue's face, doesn't flash by in my head, really it doesn't. He starts to back away, I draw an arm up to grab his shoulder.

My grip is tight. He can't break away, but by now, he's gasping.

I want a smoke.