A heavy knocking prompted Brian and Cynthia to look up from the kitchen table, where they were quaffing cups of coffee as they reviewed the start-up plans for the advertising agency. Before either of them could get up to answer, the heavy metal door slid to the side, a massive, tattooed figure appearing in the opening, Ted next to him.

"Brian, boyo," the fellow boomed, "your man here" - he slung a brawny arm around the accountant's shoulders and yanked him into the loft - "and I have just combed through every inch of yon bathhouse, together with my foreman, Norma. We got the exact measurements," he chuckled, "so if we take on the remodeling job, there'd better not be any requests for us to produce ‘another inch,' you hear?"

Cynthia began giggling uncontrollably, causing Brian to glare at her, although that did nothing to quell her laughter. An affronted expression on his face, the stud asserted, "Since the building is a reflection of me, every half inch counts, DC."

Whilst being dragged willy-nilly over to the table, Ted still managed to quip, "Counting inches is a religious experience for Brian."

"No worries, lad," the bloke opined, clapping the adman on the back and almost sending him flying across the table. "Theodore has explained how you're planning to ‘redeem' that place. We'll be glad to assist you in that worthy endeavour - as long as you keep your micromanaging to no more than," he paused, "one visit a day."

"You'd better specify a duration for those visits," the blonde secretary gasped, "or that eagle's beak of his will be nosing around 24/7."

Turning to his blonde friend, Brian gave her an offended look. "My nose is perfectly nice, thank you," he informed her. "Symmetrical and moderately sized."

The construction worker let out a gust of laughter, gave Brian another buffet across the back, and finally released Ted from the stranglehold he had him in. "Whatever the configuration of your schnozz, it's always looking for inches, boyo," DC claimed. 

Turning to Cynthia, he stuck out a meaty paw, adding, "You've got him bang to rights, lass. You're the one as keeps him in line, aren't you?"

"I try," the blonde woman modestly replied, holding out a hand for a hearty shake. "I don't think we were introduced years ago, when you bearded Brian in his office about his micromanaging habits. I'm Cynthia Moore."

"I don't need a keeper," Brian huffed. Really, he wondered, how had DC come up with such a far-fetched notion?

DC chuckled. "That wasn't what I said, lad, although it's not such a bad interpretation. Is it, Cynthia?" he asked of the adman's secretary. "You don't mind if I use your first name, do you, lass?"

"Not at all," the blonde choked out between giggles. "Is it okay if I call you DC?"

"Enough with the pointless introductions," Brian barked irritably. "We aren't lesbians."

The builder guffawed, his short, orangey-red curls bouncing. "You wouldn't be saying that if Norma was around, boyo. As I recall, she outpointed you handily with her tool."

Shit, the brunet stud thought, taking note of the avid interest on Ted and Cynthia's faces. He really didn't want his employees to hear how he'd come up short against the bulldyke foreman. "Dykes are only sort of lesbians," he muttered feebly.

"What kind of tool?" Cynthia eagerly inquired at the same time a stupefied Ted stammered, "C- came up short?"

"Given that pulsing vein in Brian's forehead," DC posited, "I'll have to relate that tale some other time, when we're all dead trolleyed."

He'd do his utmost to ensure such a time never arrived, the advertising exec decided. "Speaking of tools," Brian awkwardly redirected the conversation, "how long do you estimate it will take your crew to complete the remodel?"

"Have a seat, DC," Cynthia urged, her eyes twinkling mischievously as she subtly motioned toward Brian's cup, "since our AdStud seems to have forgotten his manners."

"AdStud, hmm?" The carrot-top grinned as he picked up the coffee mug and studied the cartoon image. He then boldly took a sip, before pursing his lips in distaste. "Jaysus, boyo," he gagged, "is there anything in there but sugar?"

It was Brian's turn to laugh, while his assistant hurried over to the kitchen counter. Filling a clean mug with coffee, she carried it back to DC. "Do you take anything in your brew?" she asked.

"A wee bit of cream if you have any," the brawny fellow responded. "No sugar - I think three new cavities just got started."

Brian rolled his eyes at the ridiculous assertion. He didn't put that much sweetener in his coffee. "That cream's worse for you than a tiny bit of sugar," he groused.

"Tiny bit," Ted sniggered, earning himself a scowl from the adman.

"Ah, that's better," DC declared moments later, accepting a refill from Cynthia after downing the first cup. He daintily wiped away a milk moustache with his napkin and added a teaspoon of half-and-half. "Okay, let's get down to brass tacks," he suggested, giving Brian a serious look. "Theodore mentioned that you'd like to open in conjunction with the new year. How set on that are you?"

The younger brunet felt his stomach sink. "You can't fix up the bathhouse that fast?" he queried, unable to hide his disappointment.

"I didn't say that." DC rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "That nervous little realtor was telling the truth; the building is in good shape structurally, but" - DC smiled wryly - "there's a lot to be done before all those inches would meet your specifications."

Brian discovered he was holding his breath as he waited for the builder's assessment. He exhaled on a whoosh, causing the papers in front of him to flutter. Cynthia, who was sitting next to DC, appeared to be almost as tense as he was, as evidenced by the way she tightly gripped the handle of her coffee cup. Ted, however, he noted from the corner of his eye, seemed fairly relaxed. Taking that as a good sign that the construction worker hadn't dismissed the new year deadline as unfeasible, Brian quirked an eyebrow at the redhead.

"We're in the middle of a couple of other jobs, though," DC observed, "so it would mean putting in extra hours and doing a good part of the work at night and on weekends. My crew's going to need some kind of incentive to give up their free time, especially with the holidays approaching - Hanukkah, Christmas, Kwanzaa. Heck, Ramadan doesn't end until the twenty-seventh, so that means Sayyid won't be able to help much; he'll be breaking his fast and resting up for the next day come sundown."

Frowning, Brian tilted his hand palm up and then palm down. "Yea or nay?" he asked. "Just spit it out, DC."

"Marvella would boot me out if I started doing that," the builder tsk-tsked, his green eyes dancing.

The adman was ready to slam his hand down on the table in frustration, but fortunately, Cynthia stepped in before he did so. "DC," she queried, batting her eyelashes at the man, "I can't stand the suspense. Can you do it?"

Christ, Brian grouched to himself. The man was a fag with a drag queen partner. Surely he was too experienced to fall for such blatant feminine wiles. 

"Och, lass," the brawny man grinned at the blonde woman, "just for you, I'll put a halt to tormenting yon lad. Aye, we can do it - for a suitable inducement, that is."

DC stared in astonishment as the other three began laughing hysterically. "You know," Cynthia confided once she was able to stop snickering, "an ‘inducement' around here is a box of expensive chocolates."

Whooping in amusement, the builder admitted, "I won't say no to choccies, but I think you'd better pad that box with some green, boyo."

For the next half hour, the four of them pored over the standard contract DC had provided, amending it as they discussed all the changes that would need to be made to the bathhouse. Following that, the adman negotiated salaries and a bonus with the builder, with everyone sitting back in their chairs and smiling in satisfaction at the end. 

"My crew will be happy," DC decreed, "and there will be no grumbling from the union since you're treating everyone fairly."

"So," Ted summed up what they'd agreed to, "a base fee for the project; time and a half for your crew during the week, up to midnight; double pay on Sunday and any work performed after midnight but before six in the morning. A fifteen percent bonus if the remodel is completed by Thursday, December 21st."

"That's the ticket," DC verified. "We can start work as soon as you have title to the property. And the winter solstice will be the perfect day to finish up. Hanukkah begins that evening and will neatly coincide with the week off I like to grant my lads and lasses after they've laboured hard all year."

"Maybe I should jump ship," Cyn joked. "I won't be getting a day off, much less a week, for who knows how long."

"You'd look bonny in a hardhat," DC jested in return. "But I fear you'd be too much of a distraction for my crew."

The blonde tossed her head saucily and grinned impishly. "I'll make sure to stop by the bathhouse occasionally so the men can get an eyeful. I wouldn't be averse to a tussle between the sheets."

"Not unless you want to pay their wages when you distract them," Brian teased as he escorted DC toward the door.

"Ah, well," the adman heard his friend shrug it off, "it's not the right time of year to traipse around in my Louboutins."

"I'll be putting in a bid tomorrow," Brian announced, sticking out his hand for the builder to shake, "and hope to hear by Tuesday, at the latest, whether it's been accepted. In the meantime, we'll finish drafting a contract between my agency and your firm." He made a mental note to run it by Melanie, since he hoped work on the bathhouse would commence in advance of his meeting with the bulldyke attorney.

"Just give me a jingle," DC said. "We'll be ready." With a vigorous shake of Brian's hand, he turned and trotted down the stairs.

"Fuck," the adman groaned, staggering back toward the table as he massaged his hand.

Chuckling, Ted offered, "I'll close the door, Bri. I think I've finally recovered from the crippling strength of that bloke's grip."

"I should've remembered DC's crushing handshake." Brian groaned some more.

"Wimp," Cynthia joshed as she began to rub her boss' hand. "He didn't hurt me at all."

"He took it easy on you," Ted accused. "Mind you, his foreman, Norma, has an even fiercer handclasp."

"Christ, don't remind me," the younger man groaned again, his hand tingling as the feeling finally began to return. "I'll have to make sure the bulldyke isn't there before I visit the site."

"So, what happened between you and Norma?" the blonde asked with an eager inquisitiveness.

Brian feigned not to hear her, instead directing, "Fax the contract for the remodel to Melanie, with a note from me asking her to look it over, would you?" There was no way he'd divulge the details of that pissing contest unless, as DC had intimated, he was nine sheets to the wind.

"Right now?" Cyn smirked, pretending to drop his hand.

"I've got it," Ted interjected from over by the landline, which doubled as a fax machine. "You'd better keep massaging," he then quipped. "Unlike a certain blond teenager, I doubt Brian's ambidextrous. He'll need his right hand to, uh, take care of things."

"Do you mean to rub one-" the woman riposted, before Brian cut her off.

"I want you to arrange for a reputable cleaning crew to go through the bathhouse from top to bottom" - he ignored Ted's snicker - "as soon as DC's crew is done. Set it up for the twenty-second of December."

"Okay," Cynthia agreed, jotting notes in her electronic calendar. "Once we've decided on the furniture and equipment, I'll arrange for it to be delivered and installed on Saturday the twenty-third and Boxing Day, insofar as possible."

Consulting his own calendar, Brian silently acknowledged no one was going to work on Christmas Eve Sunday, religious observances or not. The other two days were already enough of a stretch.

The CFO returned to the table. "The fax went through successfully," he reported, "and I left a message about the contract on Mel's direct line."

"Good," Brian acknowledged. "Now we need to start aggressively pursuing clients, especially those accounts I garnered for Ryder and whose contracts will be expiring in the next six months. We can sound out the ones whose contracts will expire after that, but they aren't as urgent. We also want to drum up new clients."

"Provided the lowballed bid for the bathhouse is accepted," Ted observed, "and if we can land a few big accounts along with some smaller ones, you'll be able to more quickly amortise your mortgage, Bri."

"Ideally," the ad exec mused, "I'd already have an account or two on the books before I approach PNC Bank. Then I'd be able to establish more favourable terms for the loan."

"According to Bethany," Cynthia related, "that Iams account might be ripe for the plucking. She's pretty sure they had a get-out clause built in, that if they weren't happy with any of the ads presented to them within a ninety-day period, they were no longer bound by their contract."

Brow furrowing, Brian queried sharply, "Didn't Marty immediately assign that account to one of the other senior advertising execs? A couple of them are fairly capable, although nowhere near as good as I am."

"Apparently, it's still sitting on your old desk, boss." Cynthia chuckled. "And Mr Prescott is understandably livid that no one has been in touch with him. It sounds like he might walk, even if he does have to pay a fee for terminating the contract."

"Christ," the adman breathed out. "I need a reason to contact Prescott."

"Ehm," the blonde secretary coughed, "Bethany may have dropped one of your old business cards - on which she'd printed and underscored your mobile number - on the floor when Mr Prescott visited Ryder's a couple days ago. When the Iams guy picked it up and tried to hand it to her, she told him he could toss it. Prescott glanced at it quickly as he went to drop it into the wastebasket and then - probably realising it had your contact number - pocketed it rather than binning it."

"All that for a box of Godiva chocolates?" Theodore quipped. "That girl sounds like she's worth her weight in the sweet stuff."

"Fuck, yes," Brian concurred. "I take it she's interested in working for me. When can she start?"

"Bethany thinks it might be more beneficial for her to stay at Ryder a little longer," Cynthia disclosed, "to try and let more of your former clients know you've gone into business for yourself."

"Tell her to hand in her notice now," Brian ordered. "I don't want her to expose herself to a lawsuit for unethical behaviour."

"Yeah," Ted immediately seconded the younger man's advice. "We don't want to get a reputation for gaining clients through underhanded means."

Cynthia exhaled a relieved sigh. "She knows she's skating on thin ice with this cloak and dagger stuff. Now that the excitement has worn off a little, I think Bethany's ready to hand in her resignation. I'll update you after I talk to her tonight."

"By the way," Ted divulged, "I'm a free agent. Wertshafter accepted my resignation yesterday afternoon. He was curious about what I'll be doing, so I explained that I'm in on the ground floor, helping set up a new, innovative advertising agency."

"Will you have to work during your notice period?" Cynthia questioned.

Ted shook his head in the negative. "Old Man Wertshafter was actually really cool about the whole thing," the accountant expounded. "He doesn't see any need for me to hang around, so the firm will pay me out for my accumulated vacation leave. I was stunned when he came out from behind his desk and patted me on the back, saying how sorry he is to lose a ‘valued employee' like me."

The two men exchanged grins, Brian certain they were both thinking of Theodore's ‘bladder infection.' "Oh, what a relief it is," he murmured, shamelessly adapting the Alka-Seltzer commercial to fit the occasion.

"Indeed." Ted winked at his friend. "Your idea of inviting Wertshafter to the gala was a good one, Bri. I think it eased the sting of my somewhat abrupt resignation. The old man was made up to be the first to receive an unofficial invitation. He even offered to put together suggestions for others we should invite."

Right as Brian opened his mouth to utter a ‘thank fuck' that Wertshafter had never caught Theodore watching porn at work, his mobile began buzzing, jittering a little on the glass table. He glanced at the number and when he didn't recognise it, he ignored the call, intending for it to roll over to voicemail.

"Bri," Ted half shouted, excitement in his voice as he also looked at the display. "That's Wertshafter's private number. While I was telling him what a brilliant adman you are, he started musing out loud about how his firm should do more to attract-"

The advertising exec stopped listening at that point, instead pressing the green phone symbol to accept the call and greeting in a smooth baritone, "Brian Kinney."

"Mr Kinney," the business owner's voice boomed down the phone line, "this is Hildebert Wertshafter."

Christ, Brian thought, wincing. He wouldn't want to be saddled with that moniker - it was just as bad as the one bestowed on ‘A Boy Named Sue.' "Yes?" he prompted, not daring to say more lest he show his horror at the man's name.

He was surprised when Wertshafter emitted a convivial chuckle. "You're stunned by the magnificence of my name, aren't you?" he accurately conjectured.

"Hmm," Brian murmured, glaring at his CFO. Why the fuck hadn't Ted prepared him for that ‘magnificent name'? he wondered.

Hildebert laughed heartily. "Haven't met anyone yet who didn't share that reaction," he revealed. "Because of some distant ancestor, who was supposedly an accomplished warrior, males in my family periodically get lumbered with that monstrosity."

"Hmm," the adman reiterated noncommittally, still cautious about agreeing with the other man and possibly offending him.

"I usually shorten it to Bert," Wertshafter admitted, amusement lacing his voice, "after I gauge people's reactions, that is."

This time Brian laughed along with the owner of the accounting firm. The glare he was directing at Ted softened to a look of puzzlement. Why hadn't his friend mentioned that Wertshafter had quite the sense of humour, much like Theodore's own dry wit, in fact? While he was pondering that conundrum, he asked, "What can I do for you, Mr Wertshafter?"

"Bert, please," the man responded.

"Brian," the advertising exec said in turn.

"Theodore Schmidt sang your praises after he handed in his resignation," Bert explained, "and that got me to thinking that my firm could do with an advertising campaign. We've never done much before - mainly relied on an oversized entry in the Yellow Pages, a couple of newspaper announcements as tax season neared, and word of mouth."

Flabbergasted, the adman removed the phone from his ear and stared at it for a long moment. No matter how good Wertshafter's firm was at all types of accountancy, he couldn't fathom how they'd stayed in business, never mind thrived. Holding the phone to his ear again, he inquired, "What did you have in mind? We could prepare a multi-pronged approach - newspaper, magazine, billboard and smaller posters, online, radio, and local TV. We'd have to move quickly, though, with tax season right around the corner."

"Well," Bert hedged, "I'm not sure we can handle the cost of that much advertising."

Or absorb the influx of new customers, Brian thought, that was bound to result from one of his marketing plans. He refrained from saying that, of course, madly scribbling a note for Theodore - How many new clients does Wertshafter want right away? - and then diplomatically suggesting, "Why don't Ted and I work up a cost analysis for you as well as creating some boards for various print advertisements? We could target increasing your client base by a small number - say two hundred to two hundred and fifty new customers for the 2000-2001 tax year," Brian said as he read his CFO's answer from the scrap of paper, "and then proceed with an all-out print, online, radio, and TV blitz next year. That would give you time to prepare for a true inundation of clients."

"Ted said you're an advertising genius," Wertshafter replied, skepticism evident in his tone, "but do you really believe you can deliver that many new clients for the upcoming season?"

"I'm certain I can," Brian stated confidently. "Even with utilising print media only, the problem is going to be limiting your firm's exposure so that you don't end up with twice that many clients before the tax season is over. That's not a problem I'm used to addressing," the adman drily finished.

"Holy sh- uh, cow," Wertshafter harrumphed. Brian could almost hear the wheels turning in Bert's head, as the man contemplated the potential revenue. "Maybe," he said slowly, "we could handle upwards of three hundred new accounts, provided some of the customers don't need more than either the short IRS form or the simple one."

"Huh," the advertising exec ruminated, chuckling wryly, "I can barely remember when I was eligible to file the 1040A, much less the 1040EZ."

"Me neither," Wertshafter agreed, "but it's a problem I'm glad to have."

Hmming in agreement with that sentiment, Brian scanned his calendar for December on his laptop screen. "We should target mid to late December for the first round of ads," he informed his new client. "Since Ted has all the deets on your firm, my staff and I can draft the adverts in the next week and a half. We'll want your approval, however, before we finalise them. Will you be available on the morning of December twelfth to review everything?"

"How about ten o'clock?" Bert proposed. "A couple of the junior partners and I will look over what you've come up with."

After confirming the time, the adman was about to ring off when Wertshafter announced, "You're lucky to have acquired an employee of Theodore Schmidt's calibre, Brian. He's conscientious, reliable, and productive. I was sorry to see him go - I'd been grooming him for a leadership position for years - but I wasn't about to hold him back from the opportunity to help build an agency from the ground up. If for some reason things don't work out, however, I made sure Theodore knows he will always have a place at Wertshafter."

What the fuck was he supposed to say to that? Brian wondered. He was hardly going to gush about Ted's attributes, especially while the man was sitting right next to him. "Ehm, yes, a real asset," he managed to spit out. His friend, drat the fellow, arched a knowing eyebrow when he mumbled those last few words before saying goodbye to Wertshafter.

"That hurt, didn't it?" the accountant jested the moment he hung up.

"I can still fire you, Theodore," the younger man threatened.

"Aw," Cynthia cooed, "you wouldn't want to fire an asset."

"Christ," Brian complained, standing up and stomping over to the coffee maker, "I'll fire his ass and yours if you don't stop acting like lezzies." Realising there were only a few drops left in the carafe, he bellowed, "Cynthia!" snickering when the blonde woman almost fell off her chair.

"Jesus, Brian," Cynthia griped as she righted herself. "I'm all of ten feet from you. Lower the volume, would'ya?"

"Coffee," Brian grunted, pointing at the empty machine.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," the secretary declared exasperatedly, "I forgot to give you the ‘dummies tour for operating a Braun coffee maker' before I left yesterday. You're going to learn right now," she insisted, iron in her voice.

"Couldn't you just make it?" Brian whined, appalled to hear his voice rise in pitch, but nevertheless having no desire to master the ‘simple' machine. Since the disaster with his newfangled DeLonghi, he preferred to drink the product rather than tinker with making it.

When Cynthia tilted her head so she could look past him at the door, the brunet stud craned his head around, before barking, "What? No one's there."

"Could've sworn I heard that puny friend of yours," his assistant replied, shaking her head in bewilderment. "You know, the one whose voice sounds like a weird cross between a high-powered drill and a donkey braying."

"Har de har," Brian reproved his assistant, shooting her an insulted look. "I do not sound like Mikey. Never have, never will."

"Uh-huh," the blonde responded doubtingly as she smirked at her boss. "What do you think?" she called out to Ted, who had stayed out of the fracas up till now.

"Uh, I'm Switzerland," Ted fended off his colleague's query. "Completely neutral."

"Get your ‘ass-et' over here," Brian commanded. "If I have to torture myself with this German contraption, so do you. In fact," he added after the older man had joined them, "you can be Cyn's backup for making the first pot in the morning.

"Sure," Ted answered agreeably. Gently nudging the woman to one side, he lectured, "You're going to want a full pot, so pour water into the tank until it reaches the maximum mark" - he pressed an index finger against the horizontal line with ‘max' written above it in white script. "Then you measure the coffee into the filter" - he counted out the appropriate number of rounded scoops - "and then comes the tough part," he joked. "You have to flip the switch at the base of the machine to on."

"Good job," Brian drolled from his chair at the dining table, to which he'd returned without Theodore noticing, the older man overly intent on demonstrating his coffee-making technique. "Go ahead and flip that switch, and then you can repeat the procedure in the morning."

Ted shrugged good-naturedly. "I don't mind playing barista, but you're gonna be out of luck, Bri, once the bathhouse has been converted to offices and we're no longer meeting here."

That could pose a problem, Brian reflected. His countenance brightened, however, when a partial solution popped into his head - his blond fuck buddy could take care of things the nights he stayed over. Heck, it was the teenager who'd made the coffee in the burgled Krups coffee machine at least ninety-five percent of the time anyway.

Apparently Cynthia was also thinking about the blond brat because she inquired, "What did Justin say when you asked him about freelancing for you?"

"I didn't have a chance to ask him; the diner was like Grand Central Terminal yesterday. And then, right at the opportune moment I'd finagled to talk with the kid," Brian grouched, "some doofus offered him a ride home."

It was with a bit of malicious satisfaction that the younger man noticed Ted clamping his mouth shut. He knew he wasn't being fair - Emmett would have shared a taxi with Justin if Theodore hadn't given the teen a lift - but he'd been pissed at being left behind at the diner by all his friends, with no chance at all to approach the boy. Frustrated and horny, he'd briefly considered picking a trick up at Babylon, but then - having set his sights on the teenager, and still leery of encountering his assaulter - he drove home instead. He'd spent a restless night, jerking off over and over, but never feeling satisfied.

His assistant's voice intruded on his brooding. "You'll ask him today then?" she encouraged her boss. "It really can't wait, Brian, especially now that we have Wertshafter for our first client" - she paused to grin at Ted - "with Iams likely to follow."

"I'll ask him," the adman promised, "even if the majorettes from the North Allegheny High School marching band come trooping in, twirling those asinine batons. The lad won't be at the diner for a couple of hours, however, so in the interim, let's brainstorm about other potential clients."

Later that afternoon, Justin breezed into the diner, snowflakes melting on his jacket in the warm air. "Geesh, that feels good," he exclaimed, keeping his coat on as he waited for his shivers to subside. "It's monkeys out there, even though it's only snowing lightly."

"Have a cuppa," Debbie suggested, pushing a mug of tea across the counter. "That'll warm up your insides."

"Shit! That's hot," the teenager cursed after taking an incautious swallow.

The redhead laughed at him. "The rising steam should have clued you in, Sunshine," she chided.

"Um, yeah," Justin mumbled in embarrassment. "I guess I thought I could chug it down before changing out of my uniform and starting my shift."

"Take your time, Kiddo," Deb recommended, her eyes still twinkling with laughter. "It's not gone four o'clock yet; plus, it's pretty quiet at the moment."

The blond lad sipped more carefully this time, before finally shucking his jacket. As he dumped his backpack and the garment on the stool next to him, he noticed Fahad setting a couple plates on the ledge of the kitchen window. "Are those crab cakes?" he called out, craning his neck to see better.

"Yep, they're selling like hotcakes," the chef confirmed, chuckling at his own wit.

Justin rolled his eyes fondly at the man's sense of humour. "I like beefcakes better personally," he commented, figuring he might just as well join in with the dad jokes.

Debbie cackled, "I'll take a beefcake or a hotcake."

"Detective sized?" the blond slyly inquired. "Horvath is kind of beefy if you're into that sort of thing."

Raising her perfectly shaped eyebrows, she queried, "That sort of thing?"

Justin shrugged. "Straight guys."

"Well, in that case," the redhead paused briefly, "I am definitely into that sort of thing!"

"Will either one of you take care of these orders?" Fahad interrupted their raillery. "Or are you going to keep gushing over those other ‘hot cakes'?"

"I've got it," Debbie assured Justin. "You go change out of your uniform, Sunshine."

"Leave it on!" someone at a table full of rowdy queens cried out. "I like a schoolboy cake."

Flushing as he recalled how his ex lover liked exactly that same kind of cake, the teenager ignored the comment, rushing to his cubby in the break room instead to change.

When he returned, it was to find Debbie's good humour had fled, the woman frowning at the countertop as she tapped a red fingernail against it. He cast a searching look at his surrogate mother, wondering what had happened. "Something wrong?" he asked her softly, keeping his voice down so as not to get overheard. 

"I was just thinking how much Vic would like the crab cakes," Deb commented. "They're a favourite of his. He's not been very peckish the last couple of days, but that seafood would surely tempt his appetite."

"Oh, is he okay?" Justin worried.

The redhead gave him a reassuring smile. "Of course, Honey. His appetite just sometimes comes and goes, that's all."

The teenager smiled at her in relief. "Why don't you take some of the crab cakes home for him tonight? He'll dig right in, I bet."

"I'll be sure to try that, Sunshine," she told him. "Now let's stop wallowing and start working - this joint won't run itself."

As the afternoon wore on, the diner got busier and busier. Most of the gang hadn't arrived yet, Justin observed, although Michael and Ted had just walked in, with the accountant cozied up next to a hunky guy who looked vaguely familiar to the teen.

"Hey, Justin," Ted greeted him with a smile, before turning to his companions. "You two grab a seat, I have to freshen up," he told them. "The cold always makes me want to go."

The hot brunet grinned. "Too much information, Ted," he remarked teasingly.

"Yeah," Michael chimed in dismissively. "Who cares about your bladder problems?"

The short man then stared at Ted in perplexity when his friend simply laughed before heading toward the restroom, taking his problematic bladder with him.

Michael huffed quietly, sliding into an empty booth. "My bladder is completely healthy," he informed his companion, a little pride bleeding into his voice.

It looked to Justin as if the hunky bloke barely suppressed an eye-roll at that strange conversational gambit. "Uh, can I get you guys something to drink?" he asked.

Michael perked up. "Um, yeah, we'd like a bottle of ‘Mutted Chandon,'" he pronounced carefully, looking at the man sitting opposite him to gauge his reaction. "And two glasses," he added.

Before Justin could remind Michael that they didn't serve any alcohol at the diner, let alone something as expensive as Moët et Chandon, the hunk interceded. "Um, I think I'll just have a glass of water, actually," he told the blond, before adding with a smile, "And bring whatever's Ted's usual; I hear he's a regular."

Justin returned the smile with a sunshiny grin of his own. "That'll be a Dr Pepper then." Turning to Mikey, he confirmed, "And a Coke for you, I assume?"

Michael pouted for a moment. "I really wanted some of that mutted stuff," he grumbled, "but I guess a Coke will do."

"Right," Justin concluded, sticking his pencil behind his ear. "I'll wait with the food orders till Ted's back with you, shall I?"

"Ta, that would be great," the muscular bloke replied, directing another friendly smile at the teenager. "I already know what I want, however, providing you haven't run out of the crab cakes. Ted was raving about them on the way over here."

"I'll put one away for you," Justin promised flirtatiously.

The stranger - Ted's boyfriend? the teen speculated - winked at him in return.

"Would'ya go get our drinks already?" Michael griped, obviously not enjoying the flirtatious byplay. Leaning across the table to bring himself closer to Ted's friend, he announced, "You can't go wrong with the crab cakes. I'm the one who convinced everyone to try them."

Swallowing down the words that wanted to escape his lips at the blatant lie, Justin shook his head. He was really curious what Michael was aiming at - a little harmless flirtation was one thing, but this appeared to be something more. He must be wrong, though, he thought as he poured the drinks for the three men; after all, Michael was totally wrapped up in Dr Dave. 

Brian sauntered into the diner, his eyes immediately zeroing in on Justin, who was carrying a tray of drinks. The brunet stud was certain that he'd shortly accomplish his goals of hiring a freelance artist and - much more importantly - acquiring a fuck buddy. His focus shifted away from the blond, however, when he realised that Ben, in addition to Michael, was sitting in the booth that was Justin's current destination. Although he didn't see Theodore, he guessed his friend couldn't be far away, and that he'd decided to bite the bullet and finally introduce his boyfriend to the gang.

What in the heck was Mikey up to? he wondered, puzzled that the short brunet was leaning precariously over the table as he spoke to Ben, going so far as to place one hand on the professor's arm. Brian abruptly stopped dead, his mouth dropping open in shock, when he overheard Michael coyly invite, "If you wanna ditch boring Ted after we eat our crab cakes, I'm available to show you a good time, Big Boy."

Brian was vaguely aware of Justin standing beside him, equally shocked by Michael's behaviour. The two men watched in stupefied silence as Ben merely stared at Michael for a long moment, obviously taken aback by the man's proposal. Then, angry red splotches appeared on the professor's cheeks as he prised Michael's hand off his arm and dropped it onto the table, sternly declaring, "You may be available, but I am not. I suggest you-"

What Ben would have advised went unsaid as Michael interrupted, "A guy like you - I can understand why Ted's interested in you. But if you let him down gently, like I did when I discovered he had a crush on me, he won't cause any problems."

Zen Ben - as Brian had privately dubbed the professor - was looking decidedly less zen by the moment, the adman mused. Doing his best to shake off the consternation engendered by Michael, he shared an incredulous, slightly panicked look with Justin before he stepped forward. Stretching out a hand, he jovially addressed Ted's beau, "Professor, it's good to see you again."

"Brian," Ben acknowledged, appearing grateful for the timely intervention as he clasped the other man's hand.

"You're a professor?" Michael gasped, looking totally nonplussed.

Forcing himself to scoot into the booth next to his oldest friend, so Ted could eventually slide in next to his paramour, Brian quirked an eyebrow and inquired sardonically, "Haven't you been introduced? Tsk, tsk. It sounded like you were crushing on the professor, Mikey. I'm sure the good doctor will be hurt to hear he's been replaced as the object of your affections."

"Haha, hahaha," Michael fake-laughed, clearly alarmed by Brian's sudden appearance. "I just, you know," he fumbled for an excuse, "wanted to be sure a hunkalicious guy like the, uh, professor, is genuinely interested in plain old Ted. So I, hahaha, pretended to make a play for him just to be sure he won't hurt my good friend. I wasn't serious, of course." Peering around Brian, he belatedly noticed Justin, who was still frozen in place, drink tray in hand. Emitting another unconvincing chuckle, he claimed, "Even Justin knows I was just kidding around, right?"

Yeah, right, Brian thought to himself. As if any of them bought that load of bullshit.

Ted returned from the loo at exactly that moment, putting an end to the conversation. "Is everything okay?" he asked. "You all look really weird."

"Uh," Michael stuttered, "we were just wondering what had happened to you. I thought maybe you'd fallen into the toilet, hahaha. You really should see a bladder doctor, Ted, if you have to pee all the time."

An affronted expression on his face, the older man said, "I don't need to visit a urologist, Michael."

"Yeah," Justin concurred, finally approaching the table and setting the tray down, "it's perfectly normal to urinate more often in cold weather." Then he paused, tilting his head in consideration. "Why are we even talking about this, for God's sake?"

Brian nodded quickly in agreement. "Yeah, let's order," he suggested. "That's what Justin's here for anyroad." He softened his words with a small smile, though, hoping the blond would just go along with it and not throw a hissy fit.

"Sure," the blond teenager stated easily, effortlessly picking up on Brian's cue. He took the pencil from behind his ear and flipped open his pad. "What would you guys like?"

"I'll have the crab cakes," Ben said with a friendly smile at the teen. "Like I said earlier, I've had a hankering for crab ever since Ted first mentioned them."

Brian joined in with his order, "I'll have one too, and bring me some of that green salad as a side."

Justin nodded in confirmation, jotting down the order and adding a note to bring his ex a glass of guava juice as well. And maybe a couple of chips, since they had been a success the day before.

"Me three for the crab cakes," Ted quipped. "I'll pass on the limp lettuce, though."

Justin was about to ask whether Ted wanted a side of fries, or maybe onion rings, when a panting voice called out, "Wait for me, boys! I just escaped from Torso after waiting on the most demanding square-butt for hours, I swear. Absolutely nothing would properly fit that horrid arse of his."

The blond snorted, trying to hold back a loud, unprofessional laugh. "I'm sorry to hear that, Em," he told his flamboyant friend. "What can I get you to make you feel better and forget all about that unshapely derriere?"

"Oh, la," the queen flapped a hand at Justin. "An order of crab cakes will help me-" He suddenly broke off, gazing intently at Ben. "Don't I know you from somewhere?" he asked.

"I don't believe we've met before," the professor replied, although the twinkle in his eyes belied his words.

Emmett continued to stare at Ben, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Em?" Justin finally prompted, when several seconds had elapsed. "Your order?"

"Hush, Baby," the nelly queen pled. "I've almost got it."

"I'll order while you think about it," Michael impatiently inserted. "Otherwise, we'll be here all night."

"Go ahead," Emmett muttered, disregarding his friend's rudeness. "Though it's not like Baby doesn't already know what you want - you always order the same."

"Crab cakes?" Ben guessed, raising one eyebrow at the squirrelly man.

"Huh?" Em asked, jolted out of his introspection. "No, it's a cheeseburger that he always gets."

"Oh, I must've misunderstood when he said that he turned all of you on to-"

"That's it!" the tall queen suddenly yelled, waving a hand at Ben. "You're the fellow who was ogling Teddy at the garage sale."

Justin brightened. "Oh, right!" he joined in, finally realising why the fit man seemed so familiar. "You were watching us perform In the Gay-rage."

"Is that how you met?" Emmett inquired. "You waylaid Teddy later that night?"

"Um, not quite," Ted interjected. "Ben and I actually met in a bookstore a while ago."

"I had to make quite an effort to persuade Theodore to go out on a first date with me," the professor elucidated, "but since then, we've talked almost every day."

Brian gagged theatrically, rolling his eyes at Justin. "Met in a bookstore," he muttered. "I swear that's the most cliché thing I've ever heard; I wouldn't even dare put it into an ad."

Emmett snorted, leaning closer to the ad executive. "Not everyone can meet the love of their life underneath a lamp post."

Ben smiled curiously. "Lamp post?" he questioned. "I didn't know you were dating anyone. In fact, I got the impression that you-"

"Am happily single," Brian interrupted, ignoring the folderol about the ‘love of his life.' He winced, though, when he saw a stony expression steal over Justin's face; his campaign to seduce the lad into an overnight fuck was off to a poor start. Damn the chatty queen - who didn't look at all repentant - for opening his big mouth.

"So, Em, your order?" the teenager reminded the queen.

"Oh! The crab cakes, of course," Emmett replied.

"All right, I'll bring you the food once it's done," Justin told the gang, turning on his heel to leave them to their conversation.

Michael called after him, "Wait! I haven't ordered yet!"

Obviously suppressing an eye-roll, the blond glanced at the short brunet. "A cheeseburger with fries and a Coke?" he guessed.

"Um," Mikey paused. "No! I want onion rings this time!" he claimed victoriously. 

"How adventurous of you," Ted inserted drily.

"Right?" Brian deadpanned, exchanging a sarcastic look with his friend. "I mean, going from one deep fried vegetable to a... different deep fried vegetable."

Michael pouted - a full-out, deep pout - his arms folded across his chest petulantly. "You don't always have to make fun of me, Brian. I know it's just friendly teasing and that you love me, but sometimes it's a little mean," he complained.

Typical Mikey, Brian thought to himself. He'd already forgotten about his egregious behaviour with Ben, and was now playing the victim card - not that he was entirely wrong about Brian picking on him, but Michael made that so easy.

When Brian didn't bother to address Michael's complaint, Emmett jumped in, changing the subject. "Why didn't you tell me you and Ben have been dating, Teddy? he asked in a small, rather hurt voice. "I thought I was your dearest friend."

"Christ," Brian swore, "let's not have a muncher meltdown, Honeycutt."

"Just because you lack the finer sensibilities, Bri," the queen sniffed, "that doesn't give you cause to ridicule my feelings."

"I was planning to tell you, Em," Ted intervened, "but I really doubted this thing with Ben would go anywhere."

Ben put his arm around his boyfriend in support.

Ted shrugged, smiling at the professor. "I mean, look at him - can you blame me?"

Brian, who'd had enough of the ridiculous dating palaver, nudged Emmett with his hip. "Budge over," he muttered when the man glared at him. Fortunately, the queen complied without further fuss, and the brunet stud was soon free of the booth.

As Justin saw his ex lover heading toward the WC, he hissed, "Brian!" and motioned for the man to join him in the break room. He quickly glanced at Kiki, the tranny's nod confirming that she would handle the customers for a bit.

"What?" the brunet questioned suspiciously once they were alone. "You're not pissed about that comment, are you?"

Justin threw him his best confused look. "What comment?"

"Never mind," Brian waved him off. "What did you want?"

Beginning to get a bit irritated with the brunet's deliberate obtuseness, Justin retorted, "The situation with Ben and Michael, of course. What should we do about it?"

"Nothing," Brian curtly replied.

Justin gave his former lover an incredulous stare. "You can't be serious. Michael came on to Ted's boyfriend!" he accused. "I don't think even you'd be so callous as to do that."

Brian shrugged. "It's between Mikey and Ben. There's no call for us to interfere."

"Yeah, but wouldn't you want to know if you were in Ted's place?" Justin insisted.

With a roll of his eyes, Brian said, "Why discuss a hypothetical impossibility?"

"Just pretend," the teen urged. "I know you care about Ted, so you can do that much.

Heaving a heavy sigh, Brian demurred, "I can't play at being Ted. He'd analyse the problem to death for-fucking-ever before making up his mind."

"Fine," Justin huffed. "I'll be Ted. After carefully thinking about it, I've decided I'd want to know if someone I consider a friend were so graceless as to hit on my boyfriend."

"I'm me, right?" the brunet sardonically inquired. When the teenager nodded, he repeated, "I don't do a damned thing, Justin. It would only make matters awkward between me and Ted."

The blond scowled at his former lover. "That's what a friend does, Brian, no matter how uncomfortable it makes them. It's up to you to warn Ted."

"You're his friend too," the older man complained. "Why don't you tell him if you're bothered so much?"

"You've known Ted a lot longer than I have," Justin countered, "and it's obvious to me that Ted respects your opinion."

"Bullshit," Brian denied, shaking his head. "Besides, your whole scenario is flawed," he told Justin.

"Oh, yeah?" the blond reproved skeptically. "How so?"

The taller man leaned closer to his former lover, getting in his face. "Because you don't actually know what Theodore would prefer in a situation like this," he sneered. "You just based your theory on your own immature feelings, but maybe Ted would rather live in a happy oblivion."

Justin pressed his lips tightly together, refusing to get rebuffed so easily. "If you think sniping at me is gonna make me drop this, you don't know me very well."

The brunet shrugged again. "Regardless of how much you yap at me, you're not going to convince me to intervene, not when I strongly doubt it's what Ted would want."

"How would you know, though?" Justin asked, refusing to back down. "I bet the two of you never talked about anything like this." He was surprised when Brian didn't immediately issue a snarky retort, instead appearing unusually thoughtful, and maybe a little abashed.

"Look," he continued less stridently, "what if, rather than talking to Ted, you persuade Michael to come clean?"

"Oh, yeah, that's bound to be so much more effective," the older man drolled. "Mikey's as stubborn as a mule, and he'll have already forgotten about his ‘misbehaviour.' The only result would be that he'd throw a temper tantrum and then sulk for weeks."

"Then," Justin contended, "you'll just have to go with the lesser evil and talk to Ted."

Christ, Brian mused, half in admiration and half in frustration, the kid never gave up. "Okay," he relented, shrugging in resignation, "I'll figure out a way to sound Theodore out on the subject. But," he cautioned, "if it's clear that Ted would rather not know, I'm going to abide by that."

Justin beamed at the brunet, happy to have wrung that concession out of the stubborn man. "Thanks, Bri."

"Yeah, yeah," Brian waved off his thanks. "Enough with the mushy crap. Let's talk about something truly important."

The teenager lifted his brows in inquiry. "Like what?"

"You can draw reasonably well," the adman commented, smirking slightly, "and I'm in need of an artist for my new agency. So, how would you like to freelance for me?"

"Um." Justin wished he could step outside for a cigarette and mull over the surprising offer but settled for biting at his thumbnail instead. "I'm not sure I can fit that in with everything else I'm doing. How much time would that involve each week?"

"You'll have plenty of time," Brian asserted, "since you'll be able to cancel the go-go dancing gig."

Arrogant, high-handed bastard, the teen fumed to himself. "How do you figure that?" he snapped.

In an overly patient voice, Brian elaborated, "You'll make far more money as an artist, and the work won't be nearly so physically taxing."

"You do not get to decide for me," Justin growled through gritted teeth. The brunet had peeved him off so badly that he then bragged, "I can do it all - study, dance, work at the diner, and help you out. I don't need to give up anything." To himself, the teenager conceded that he was already having trouble coping - there were only twenty-four hours in a day, and he was constantly short on sleep. What with tutoring Daph and now Sydney, his little free time had almost completely vanished, leaving him scrabbling for a smidgen of time in which to develop his relationship with Carl.

"Fuck," Brian cursed. "Have it your way, but don't come whining to me when you discover you can't handle it all and end up doing something stupid, like relying on drugs for a pick-me up."

Justin huffed, offended. "I wouldn't do that," he denied. "I'm not stupid."

Brian rolled his eyes. "I know you're not," he admitted. "But even clever people make stupid decisions when desperate."

"Well, you don't have to worry about me," Justin snarked, folding his arms.

"I'm not-"

"Whatever," the blond interrupted. "Was that all you wanted?"

"Christ, but you're a stubborn little twat," Brian claimed, a hint of fond exasperation in his tone. "It's enough for now that you've agreed to freelance for me. We'll discuss the specifics in a few days."

Justin narrowed his eyes at the older man. Had he actually agreed to work for Brian? He supposed the adman might've taken his insistence that he could do everything as a form of consent. "You manipulated me," he complained half-heartedly.

Brian smirked at him but didn't say anything, confirming the teenager's suspicion.

"Not fair," Justin mumbled. "You're good."

"Practice makes perfect," the adman opined sententiously as he left the break room and rejoined his friends, entirely forgetting that he'd intended to wash his hands before eating. Oh well, it wasn't like he was dirty or anything.

Brian kept an eye on the blond teen as he consumed his meal and chatted with his friends - there was no way he was going to miss his opportunity to invite the teen over for an all-night fuck fest this time. Dawdling over a third cup of coffee while the boys nattered on about the nitwit in the White House - he pretty much tuned it out - he watched as the hour and minute hands on the wall clock finally ticked forward to read eight o'clock.

He started to rise from his seat, intending to offer the teen a ride - one which would end at the loft - when Michael reached across Emmett and tugged on his sleeve. "Brian," he asked excitedly, "is it time for us to head to Woody's?"

"What?" Brian responded absentmindedly, watching as Justin removed his pinny and headed to the break room.

"Woody's?" his childhood friend reiterated. "You promised we'd go there tonight, since we never get to spend any time together any more."

Shit, Brian thought, he had promised that. He had also completely forgotten about it. And if he didn't accompany Michael, he'd never hear the end of it. "All right," he sighed, "let's go." He could only gaze forlornly after the blond as he exited the diner and vanished from sight.