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"Hello? Oh, hello, Darla..." Blackwater listened attentively, puttering around the kitchen as he did. They still had a couple of days before they left for an extended length of time, but the less work waiting for them on their return, the more they enjoyed coming home.

"What!?" He stops rearranging the dishrag, closes his eyes, and rubs a damp hand across his forehead. "No, I- Well- But-!" A tiny, resigned sigh slips from him.

"Couldn't I just- Oh. All right. When? Okay... And what's it for, again? Widows and orphans, of course. Hang on a sec, let me find something to write on..." Rummaging in a drawer, he finds an old tablet with 'Quanalact!™' in lime-green letters across the top and the stub of a pencil from some bank or other that desperately needed sharpening. "Go ahead. The Furbish Building, 4-9-7-1 West Freehampton, 6:30, the seventeenth. I got it... And it's black tie, so that I can tell my...escort what to wear?"

He grins at something she says, nodding. "Yeah. That should be written somewhere prominent, in big red letters -- Not Available, Married, Reserved, Happily And Firmly Attached To Someone Else, Has A SO, etc. Whatever it takes..." Beej laughs, then starts doodling on the paper. "Very happy, thanks. Well, I can't say I'm -thrilled- about it, and I'm not too sure Neets will be, either, but we'll live. Yeah. All right, thanks again... Bye." Hanging up, the trader sighs. No, he didn't think Neets'd be too thrilled at -all-.

"...N'why d'I 'afta go?" Neets glowers at his reflection in the mirror. As much as he liked the way the suits looked, particularly the way it fit his lover, he hated the bow ties. Untying the lopsided cravat for the fifth time, he left it and turned around.

"Because I'd feel weird if you -weren't- there, because I told Darla that you were coming with me, and because it's a shame to leave someone that looks so good in a dark and lonely apartment all night." Grinning slyly, he drops his hat and brush on the bed and moves to stand before the younger man. "Hold still."

Lifting his chin, Neets considers the words as sure hands make short work of fixing his tie. Amber eyes retraces the structure of the beloved face above his own, and a few not-so-innocent thoughts cross his mind... Oh, Beej was waiting on an answer, wasn't he? "Eh, awright... 'Sides, y'might git int'tro'ble wit'out me." His fangy smile belies the rather put-upon acceptance of the reasons, and he reaches up to capture the elder man's mouth in a short thank-you kiss.

"There is always that..." Even though they both know it's a highly unlikely event. Stepping back, he breaks the kiss with a grin and retrieves his hat. "There... You look smashing. Good thing, too, it's almost time to go." The trader blinks at the handiest clock, plops his hat on his head, and scoops up the remaining jacket.

"Can't 'ave -th't-..." Smirking, he shrugs into the coat that's considerately held out for him, carefully straightening it a bit once it's on. "Le's go, th'n. Don' wanna be lat'... Wh't's t'is fer, ag'in?" Neets slips his arm through his trader's, so used to doing so that he doesn't even wait for the arm to be offered most of the time.

"I know you'd miss me, eventually, and come bail me out." The thought gets a chuckle, Blackwater lacing his fingers through the paler set. "It's a charity event that I signed up for sometime in the dim past, in a fit of lunacy... Either that, or I -thought- I was agreeing to donate money anonymously, and I signed the 'donate money and get invited to the party' paper, instead. There's going to be an auction, which might be fairly interesting." He hated keeping secrets from the green-haired man, at least when they were fairly innocuous secrets... And part of him wanted to surprise Neets. Another, more base portion of him perversely wanted to see what the younger man would do when presented with the situation, and a fourth part was somewhat concerned that Neets would get upset. He wasn't sure -why-, but... That's the way it was.

"And you are...?" The doorman eyed the pair suspiciously, noting the green hair on the shorter one. He looked like a kid! Well, -maybe- they were brothers, or cousins...

"Misters Jones... I'm here at Darla's request, and this is Neetles, er, Neetlemyre. I have the letter, if that would make a difference."

Neets catches bits and pieces of the trader's muddied feelings, chalking them up to his usual concern at getting past doormen, bouncers, security guards and corporate secretaries. He passes the time by watching the man with the list, wondering how many times he could catch him staring...

"Jones... B. P. and Date?" Joshua snuck another glance at the kid, who seemed to be studying him intently. Swallowing, he quickly refocused his attention on the man in the astonishingly colored hat.

"That's us. Can we just go on in?" He glances past the man to the doors of the building's largest conference room, where he can see earlier arrivals milling about.

"All right, I know it's -none- of my business, but... He's your date?" The moment the question is out of his mouth, the man can already see pinkslips and lawsuits dancing through the air. He -should- have been a P.I., he was simply too nosy for his own good...

"'M ov'r eight'en, n't th't it's any'a yer bizness." Rolling his eyes, he tugs at Beej's arm, not particularly wanting to go in for fear that everyone would prove to be as concerned as this guy.

"Forgive me, I'm terribly- of course you are, sir... I just... I'm an idiot, I'm-"

Giving the man a wryly sympathetic smile, he holds up a hand and interrupts him. "It's perfectly all right. Happens all the time... We're constantly getting discount offers applying to those under eighteen. Excuse us..." Ignoring the desire to retreat, he gently but firmly latches onto Neets' arm and all but marches across the atrium. Once they near the doors, he slows and leans a little closer. "Sorry, but we have to be here long enough to see Darla and... Oh, what -is- her name... Montaigñan, or something like that."

Pausing on the threshold, wolfen eyes dart over the assemblage. Hmm... It was almost like being at work, except here the variety of people had one thing in common -- Very large sums of money. It was entirely possible that the little boy playing with the fire truck under a nearby table had a trust fund larger than their net worth. A soft whistle later... "Alla t'ese pe'ple 'r a'lot bett'r'off'n us, Beej... You -sur'- we're s'posed t'b'ere?"

"Yeah, well, I've got you and they don't. I'd say I'm better off in the long run." Patting his young man's hand, he nods towards the interior of the room. "Let's find a place to sit that offers the chance at making a hasty exit, just in case..."

Green brows knit at the trader's unusually complimentary attitude. Not that Blackwater -never- said flattering things to him, but to hear so many in such a short span of time was verging on 'cause for concern'. "Y't'ink we'll ne'd't?" He sounds infinitely puzzled... "Y'ok'y? Y'bin actin' funny 'll night." He leads the way into the room, ever-alert for whatever challenges might present themselves. This was strange... Normally, an excuse to dress up and get a free meal was an occasion to be decadent and somewhat frivolous... Tonight, though, there was an undercurrent of tension that kept threatening to drown out the humor.

"Well... Maybe. I'm not sure, yet..." Lasciviousness rears its head for a moment, before the man recalls their surroundings. "Yeah, I'm fine... Just a little nervous. I keep getting the feeling that there's something important that I forgot, and it's bugging me."

He should have known. Smirking, he hooks a thumb in the direction of an unoccupied table bathed in the comforting green glow of an 'Exit' sign. "How's'at? Eh?" A frown replaces Neets' own salacious expression, the younger man giving the gathering another assessing look. "Oh. 'Slong's -yer- ok'y..." Smiling shyly, he squeezes the hand wrapped around his own as they arrive at the table.

"...And now, ladies and gentlemen, submitted for your approval and bids, is number thirty-four. This guy's name really -is- Jones, believe it or not, and- Oh, I've just been handed a note." The M.C. pauses, reading it, before she addresses the note-bearer, as well as the author of the memo. "This says the same thing it says all over my notes here on the podium! Sorry for the interruption, folks. As I was -trying- to say, some lucky duck already has a claim on our Mr. Jones, so he's unavailable for anything beyond friendly conversation." A chorus of disappointed voices rippled through the audience, along with a few cat-calls. Sitting near the back of the room, with an oblique view of the stage, is a lone figure leaning forward in anticipation but rather unwilling to get any closer than he already was. Quite a lot of tension had been dispelled with the 'not available' notice, for which he was quite grateful.

The woman was speaking again, reading from her notes. "He's six-three, according to this, wears a size twelve-and-a-half shoe, and can't dance the Klinkenbeck. He can, however, do minor odd jobs; bigger, weirder jobs; and drive a mean bargain. The bidding opens at fifty dollars."

Amongst the auctioneer's sing-song patter, there's a muted comment from someone in the front row.

"You look like a strapping young man... How do I know you can carry my azalea pots around?" The tiny woman at the edge of the stage was giving him a skeptical look, even as she waved a hand at the woman running the proceedings. "Let's see a little skin, boy!"

The request took him somewhat by surprise, and he was thoroughly startled when the woman next to her took up the refrain. This was -not- what he had in mind for the evening... Darting a desperate look towards the M.C., then off to where Darla and the co-founder of the organization stood in the wings, the trader tries to figure out what he should do. True, some of the guys that had gone before him had given in, and it didn't help that there were now over a dozen people looking up at him and offering their encouragement.

What was that? He squinted into the wings again as the woman at the lectern called for a small pause in the proceedings so she could make some minor adjustments to her figures. "Remember: It's For A Good Cause!" Blackwater winced at the sign, which Darla then turned over. "Think of the children! (Ha ha)" Ha ha indeed. Fighting the desire to stick his tongue out at the two women (who were by now snickering at him), he takes a deep breath, looks down at Azalea Lady, smiles sweetly, then lifts his eyes to find one particular person in the crowd...

Holding his arms out to the sides, Beej executes a swift pirouette. Facing the audience once again, he quite deliberately unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt, glad for the first time he can remember that he'd lost his cufflinks. The yellow bow at his throat is next, efficiently tugged out of its knot, and he chooses to leave it under the collar as he slips the little jet buttons down the front of his shirt open to some unconsciously-heard tempo... Whether it's in the muzak in the greater room or in the auctioneer's renewed exhortations, he doesn't know.

Once his shirt's undone, the tie is pulled from its home as he steps forward and kneels at the edge of the platform. Fifteen dollars and a set of whispered instructions later, he's back on his feet, standing hipshot in the pool of light from above, hands pulling the fabric back as he rests them on his hips, the shirt nicely framing his middle.

A small sharp movement of something yellow caught Beej's eye, and the embarrassed grin he'd been wearing slipped into something altogether more liscentious. He makes a minor resettling of his shirtcollar, sliding it further back on his shoulders, before making another quick turn. His back to his admirers, counting to five before merely twitching his arms a bit so that the garment falls from him, only to be caught at the last moment. Moving again, he doesn't even bother with anyone directly before him, his eyes drawn to the shady spot occupied by the light of his life. Gently dropping the cloth with nary a wince for the imagined cleaning bill later, his hands rise in a 'well, here I am..' gesture.

"More!" The clamor drifts through the crowd, drawing a puzzled glance from him. It's brief, though, and so are the glances he flicks towards the women offstage, who are also nodding encouragement at him. Reminding himself to think of only one kid in particular (who wasn't much of a kid anyhow), he rummages around for his previous mindset and finds his earlier smile.

He now had a slight problem -- he couldn't see how he could possibly get out of his undershirt without being ungraceful, which wasn't something he wanted to be at this particular moment. Steeling himself while wondering what happened if he got tossed out, Beej toed his shoes off and poked them into the untidy heap made by his shirt, keeping his semi-distant gaze focused in Neets' general direction.

His belt is next, quickly disposed of by years of practice and causing a stir. Unable to quite comprehend that he -is- indeed doing this, he finds himself somewhat astonished to find his fingers unhooking the hook-and-eye before moving on to tug the zipper down... He darts a sudden wicked grin in Darla's direction, having finally figured out just -why- the backstage crew had insisted that everyone wearing them remove their cummerbunds. The wickedness stays, mingling with a bit of strange, giddy delight that he was getting away with this.

Careful to -only- slide his pants floorward, he's suddenly and inordinately glad that he'd bothered to wear this particular pair of boxers, a bit of color rising on his face. Dearest Deities Above and Beyond... Snickering to himself, he takes the time to fold his slacks somewhat neatly before dropping them atop the rest of his stuff. Standing there, he's aware that they're expecting him to -do- something, now that he's reached this mostly-nude state. Hmm...

So he stalks up to the edge of the stage, makes another of his spins, again pausing with his back to everyone. Here, he rises on tip-toe, showing off the state of his calves and what can be seen of his hamstrings. Facing forward once more, he repeats the exhibit before stretching expansively, the closest -he'll- get to flexing like some muscleman. Having run out of ideas that move him around, he's content to stand between his clothes and the front of the platform, fists on his hips and exuding an attitude of 'you -know- you want me...'

Meanwhile, at table fourteen...

The younger man hadn't heard whatever question that caused the S'Harran to look down, then off to the side, but the was no mistaking the confusion it inspired. There was also no doubting of the brushes of reassurance and flickers of... well, -naughty- was the closest description he could come up with.

Running slender fingers through emerald tresses, he shifts uncomfortably. Why was he doing -that- in front of all these strangers? And -now- what was he up to? Grumbling again at his shortness, he cranes his neck to try to see what Beej is doing as he kneels. When their eyes meet as the trader returns to his place on the 'block', Neets' face warms with a nearly unaccountable blush, the result of -knowing- that the other man's expression is for him alone.

"Um, 'scuse me, are you...? You must be, you got green hair. Here, this is for you, from that guy up there." The boy makes a face at this, holding the tie out with one hand and pointing at Blackwater with the other.

Nodding, Neets smiles carefully, taking the bit of fabric from the bearer. "T'anks." Turning it over a couple of times, the significance of it strikes him suddenly, giving him a quiet fit of giggling.

"You're welcome... That's your real hair?" The giggles cause him to take a step backwards, having been warned against strangers by numerous people. And certainly, -this- guy _was_ strange.

Calming down a bit when the kid backs up, he nods again. "Yeah. S'rry... 'S kind'ovva priv'te joke." He's not paying any attention to the kid anymore, his lover's movements proving far more intriguing.

He was being hauled bodily from the room, which causes soft protests at first, until they're stifled by a decidedly unchaste kiss. Oh, -good-... Sometimes, Blackwater thought, kissing Neets was like drinking water... Necessary to his continued survival. He starts to fold himself down to his knees, but the same insistent hands and quietly ecstatic voice are urging him up, to move further along the corridor... Gods. Shaking his head in an effort to clear it, he makes a note to -eat- something next time, so that the drinks that were inevitably consumed wouldn't go straight to his head. The creak of a door, and suddenly their breathless laughter is echoing off cool tiles...

"Now...?" It's slightly pleading, which is an inexplicable state of things. The affirmative is more felt than heard, the taller man mumbling a bit as his bare knees hit cold tile. Fingers in his hair; fingers, fingers everywhere! The ridiculous little rhyme has him laughing again, muffling it against a not-so-crisp shirt smoothed over a leanly-muscled belly. The aforementioned fingers rake through his hair, tugging at it with as much gentleness as could be mustered.

"C'mon, Beej... If yer gonna- Ah." He gasps as the other man's hands drift across the front of his pants, then fumble at the closures, fight with his shirttail. Doing his best to help, vaguely more nimble fingers unbutton the lower part of his shirt, exposing pale scars and his navel.

The little hollow is too much to resist; Beej's tongue trailing into it, tracing the lattice-work from so long ago around it, his mouth changing tacks and pressing a line of kisses directly downwards. This was to be a form of apology, because he -still- felt a little weird about the whole thing. He couldn't put a finger on the why of it, exactly... It's not like this was something he did for a living. It was also a reassurance, a reminder of the young man's import to him... He didn't know what exactly it was. He wasn't too inclined towards analytical thought, at the moment, anyhow...

And later, at home, cradling the younger man against his chest while drifting along in a sleep-sweetened haze, he laughed quietly at himself.