Terrace

[Deleted]

Terrace

Mushy moments happen here. There will be hand checks.

[The Exodus]

Damien Blackwood-Michaud

There was something distinctly unromantic about standing in Myron Bolitar’s office. The first—and surprise second—kisses had been indescribably nice. But once Damien regained a semblance of composure, something clicked in his head. He and Toddy were in Paris, the most romantic city in the world, but they were in the least beautiful spot in the whole city. There had to be somewhere else where they could murmur sexily to each other because, honestly, offices didn’t scream sexy. They didn’t scream romance. They said, in stuffy, CEO voices, “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” or “I expect the report on Monday.” Damien didn’t want that. He wanted accordions and violins and mandolins and star-filled skies and the Eiffel Tower standing witness in the background. He wanted the City of Love to live up to its name. He wanted a romance for the history books. Or, at least, that inspired half a dozen historical romance novels. He wanted that picture perfect, modern-day fairytale moment.

And if anyone deserved a happily-ever-after, romantic moment, it was Toddy St. James. After the hell he’d been through—from Damien’s teasing to the thugs in the subway—the universe owed him nothing but good things. And if Damien could give them to him, even better. He’d been trying to be some sort of romantic hero and failing epically the whole time. From awkward half-promises to lip brushes to a vase of irises sent to Toddy’s desk, Damien had gone about everything the wrong way. He knew it and Toddy must have known it. This was a chance to make it all up to him. So, huskily, Damien whispered, “Let’s get out of here” after that second kiss. And that was how they ended up here.

The Moulin Rouge’s terrace bar and dining room would be, by night, lit up with the stars and glittering lights from the surrounding Montramarte neighborhoods. If Damien squinted, he could convince himself one of the houses in the ritzier neighborhood was his dad’s. He could have pointed it out to Toddy—at least, what he thought was it—and promise to take him there to show him the art deco palace he sometimes called “home”. If he imagined, he could spot the bistro he and Toddy had had their first date—if it counted as a first date—and he could easily slip into reminiscing like a lover. Instead, Damien leaned up onto the cement ledge, like he would have as a reckless and giddy teenager, and swung his feet a little. All the while, his back was to the city and he looked at Toddy.

The sun hadn’t yet set, but it was on the cusp of the horizon. The pinks and oranges were giving way to purples and blues. Shadows caressed Toddy’s face; down the sides of his cheekbones and sweeping under his jaw. In the warm, almost-autumn light, Toddy’s eyes seemed an even brighter blue. Damien smiled at him. This was the man he’d kissed. The brave, kind, crazy man he was falling in love with.

And it was weird because, at twenty-three, Damien shouldn’t have known what love was. He was young, perhaps a little too young. He’d thought his parents were in love and their marriage ended in bitter divorce mere months ago. He’d thought Chris Brocklehurst loved him, but he was long gone, a thing of the past. And Damien couldn’t pin-point what made this thing between him and Toddy so different, other than to say it was the way he felt. He’d gone from hating to admiring Toddy in mere minutes that day they’d met. He’d gone from wanting to wring his neck from jealousy to wanting to kiss every inch of that neck—and those lips—in even less time. He’d seen Toddy at his best, most pristine on date night, but also at his worst in a subway tunnel, bloodied and broken. Or maybe that was reversed. He’d seen Toddy nervous and twittery on date night; he’d seen him calm and defiant in the subway. There was something about this feeling Damien had, this thing he called “love”, that transformed his thoughts of Toddy from being those of mild exasperation and intrigue to this tingling sensation that spread from his chest outward. It made him float high above the city; higher than he and Toddy were now, standing on the terrace.

The trouble was saying all that. It was probably too soon to say “love”. “Love” didn’t just say tenderness or fondness or passion. “Love” said possession. “Love” said selfishness. And “love” could be a scary word. Not one you threw around after a kiss or two. And just what did you say, anyways? Damien was surrounded by straight men and women. He’d seen his parents and his friends flirt shamelessly with the other sex; never the same. No one had given him a manual or a talk about love and romance and sex as a gay man in Paris. In Wiltshire, he and Ben had experimented cavalierly with each other. They were friends with benefits and romance wasn’t much a part of the equation. Chris had wooed Damien in London. Rather, he’d kissed him in a bar and brought him home and somewhere along the way, they began dating. Toddy deserved better than any of that. He deserved to be flirted with and declaimed to. This was supposed to be different; better. Damien just didn’t know how to make it that way. He nibbled the corner of his top lip and sighed.

“This might sound stupid,” he said, not quite abruptly. “But… you aren’t seeing anyone else, right? Because… well…”

Damien gripped the ledge for support and met Toddy’s gaze. The fire in his eyes was spreading to a nervous blush on his ears.

“I want to call you my boyfriend,” Damien confessed. “I want to tell my friends and my family and everybody in Paris that Toddy St. James is my boyfriend and they can’t have him.”

In his head, that sounded romantic, but once the words were out there, Damien just prayed they didn’t sound creepy.

[Deleted]

Toddy St. James

So that was like random. Spontaneous. Ah, yes, spontaneous is the word for tonight. It was really just making Toddy St. James all dizzy. Which was usually how he feels after watching Love Actually. Hugh Grant humps the air throughout an entire house, who wouldn't? It all just meant that Toddy's life was like a movie right now. What the hell, right? Movies were scape. Real life was like watching the news where root growing, terrible complexion people like Casey Anthony get away with murder, because the prosecutor was obviously to busy glaring at her boobies. Which speaking of boobies, Toddy was missing Keeping Up with the Kardashians. This was a big deal. Tonight was a big deal. Damien Michaud was a big deal. Well, not big as in biggen. Goodness to Jillian Michaels, Toddy would not be caught dead with a tubber.

Well, okay, so wait. Now Toddy St. James was imagining Damien with some extra... baggage. His pretty blue eyes would still be in tact. His full sweet lips that left tingling sensations all over would still be on that model looking face of his. He would still be the same person. Meaning, his quirky sense of humor, passion, and great fashion sense would still be there. Oh... Oh sweet muffins. Toddy St. James would still be hopelessly in deep liking with Damien Michaud if he were a chubby bunny. Shut up! Where was the famous shallow, materialistic, and all things must be gorgeous or they were not worth the time Toddy St. James? Like, knock knock- where the hell are you? It was so strange. With Damien or to Damien- Toddy couldn't find an imperfection. This was almost as freakish as Joan Rivers' face. Which, nothing would ever be. But seriously, it would official. This baby blue eyed darling had Toddy on a string. Oh honey, it felt so good too.

The kiss felt even better. Better was probably an adjective he wouldn't quite describe it as, but there were just so many marvelous things he could say about it, Toddy would be completely tuned out to this moment on the terrace. Ugh, the terrace, right?! How cliche' romantic- going to look at the city of Paris. Cliche' romantic was a beautiful thing, because again, it never happened. Talked about, hoped about, dreamed about ... but never happened. Especially for the gays. That was a another story, and right now Toddy only wanted the Toddamien story. Oh, Toddamien. Toddy liked the sound of that. It made him feel like a character off of Glee. Which was so true because at this point in this beautiful terrace moment, he would so break out into song. He wouldn't even mack out with Mr. Shue or whatever his name was, although it was on his manly bucket list. Because, for one of the first times in Toddy's life, he was genuinely falling for someone.

And he was about to fall off of the ledge of the roof in a hot second.

Damien was sitting on the ledge, and for once Toddy St. James actually cared if someone fell off it or not. Yes, he wasn't quite the people person. Unless they were a rich or glamorous celebrity. Did over paranoid come with all these lovely feelings to? But the view was amazing from here so Toddy didn't say a word or bother to move. Not Paris either. Screw the dazzling lights and whatever else. Damien Michaud was just the sight he wanted to only look at.

Toddy smiled to himself, sliding his fingers into his pockets, and cocking his head sideways. What now? Well, it didn't really matter did it. His mind was at a complete standstill. This was fine. This was nice.

“This might sound stupid, but… you aren’t seeing anyone else, right? Because… well…”

Then again it wasn't terrible if this moment was interrupted.
Toddy could feel his heart race and his weight shift from foot to foot.

Well .... ?

“I want to call you my boyfriend."

Interruptions were the greatest thing ever. Screw Oprah.

Toddy St. James' eyes brightened, his chest swelling, and he felt the wide grin spreading on his lips. He met Damien's sharp eyes and never left them.

“I want to tell my friends and my family and everybody in Paris that Toddy St. James is my boyfriend and they can’t have him.”

Was he really even asking this? Toddy really didn't even need to think of the answer, because as of now, if they weren't anything but boyfriends- it would just be almost as queer as them.

"Only if I can be there when you say it."

Toddy purred with a smirk, taking a few steps so he was standing in front of Damien.

He looked at him, boring into his eyes. Toddy's boyfriend's eyes.

"Because we would have to prove it to them." He told Damien, putting a hand on his lower thigh near his knee that was hanging off the ledge. "Just so they are all sure that I'm yours and your mine."

[Deleted]

Myron Bolitar


"Thus, the bromance continues ... "

Myron Bolitar grinned widely, looking over his shoulder at Santiago Ortiz from his standing position on the edge of the rooftop, a little bit of Myron assuming that he had just pissed his best friend off a little at that term Santiago did not care for. Which meant a whole lot of Myron was loving that he did. Because, you know, instigating is the way to go. But he missed the banter. He missed the differences between the two that somehow worked out in a way that would make a good Twilight Zone episode. This all felt good though. They were back.

Looking back into the skyline of Paris with a nice glimpse of the moon being right in his face, Myron mentally decided to not even be phased by the pretty because duh- Paris is gorgeous. Does he need to dwell on that fact all the time? No. What was better than the view, was the feeling. Work was over. Myron had his favorite sweater on, because everyone has one of those. His head and body felt better from the pills that made him feel more like he belonged on Dr. Drew's show everyday of his life, but there was no way in hell he was going to share a network station with Snickers-Snooger-Snog-Snooki- whatever the hell the tanned blob was. He was alive, which a lot of people take for granted, but he would never again. Finally, Myron was with Santiago Ortiz. Oh, with a kick *ss glass of lemonade in hand. That could not be ignored. It was really good. Compliments to the chef who made it for him before they closed. Well, to get technical, compliments to him for hiring that person. Boom.

Who needed a fort when he had a roof? It was the perfect spot.

"So is this the part where I ask if you want the moon because I'll give you the moon, or I scream I'm ontop of the world?"

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

The September breeze felt more like wind as Santiago tried to light his cigarette. On the ground, this would have been done already, but he couldn’t smoke inside the Rouge. Apparently, that was illegal. It was funny, what laws ex-gangsters obeyed. The no smoking one was a big one for Santiago only at the Moulin Rouge. He didn’t want to get Myron slapped with fines.

"Thus, the bromance continues ... "

Santiago eye rolled from behind his lighter, but said nothing. Myron’s ridiculous American slang word for their friendship wasn’t as much of a problem as it used to be. Santiago had even found himself using it in his mind. Not out loud.

"So is this the part where I ask if you want the moon because I'll give you the moon, or I scream I'm ontop of the world?"

“You just did,” Santiago said.

His cigarette finally lit and he pocketed the lighter. He loved standing above Paris at night, smoking, and talking with a friend. It was relaxing after a long day. Besides his stage manager duties, he’d taken on teaching a friend French and Spanish for the hell of it. Well, she wasn’t a friend so much as an acquaintance. Whatever. Point was, mornings were spent teaching Penny the nuanced differences between French and Spanish and evenings were spent rushing around back stage, keeping performers in line. Nights were spent visiting Reese until the nurses kicked him out of the hospital. Breaks were nice. Much needed. Santiago took a drag and sighed.

“This is nice,” he admitted in a rare moment of candid relaxation. “It’s been one of those weeks.”

[Deleted]

Myron Bolitar



"You just did."

Myron smirked to the sky. He did, didn't he? Really it did feel like he could just grab the moon, and it was like he was on top of the world. James Cagney and Jimmy Stewart sh*t people not. This was real emotional stuff. Myron Bolitar wouldn't take advantage of the night sky or this view ever again. Hell to the no. In fact, Myron would never take advantage of a single breath again. He appreciated things so much lately, that he was sure Christmas time would be demonic and scary.

“This is nice. It’s been one of those weeks.”

"It's gonna be a short week too if you keep sucking on those cancer sticks." Myron half teased, half warned, seeing his friend light one up and puff some from the corner of his eye.

Sliding his hands into his pockets, he rocked back and forth. "It's been one of those... few months."

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

"It's gonna be a short week too if you keep sucking on those cancer sticks."

Santiago laughed, billowing smoke in Myron’s direction on purpose. He was a grown man; he’d made his choice to smoke a long time ago. It hadn’t killed him yet; it probably wouldn’t any time soon. Besides, even if it did, Santiago didn’t mind so much. Death didn’t scare him like it had when he was younger. Myron meant well, but would probably not understand Santiago’s relationship to his own mortality. Whatever personal circle of hell Myron had endured in the past few months was only a taste, a bitter swallow of the world Santiago once soaked himself in. It messed you up; it made you stronger. And a stupid, little ‘cancer stick’ was nothing but a way to relax. Lung disease was a remote fear others could bother with.

"It's been one of those... few months," Myron continued quietly.

“Yeah,” Santiago muttered, flicking ashes onto the concrete. “But you’re back now. So….”

Santiago climbed onto the concrete barrier, the only thing keeping the roof from ending as a sheer drop and he swung his legs over the edge so that his feet dangled over the city. A rush of thrill surged up through his toes and and into the pit of his stomach. He felt oddly at ease tonight; perhaps a little cathartic. Myron was in the city again. Work was stressful, but that was how he liked it. It was a matter of weeks before Reese would be discharged from the hospital. Life was getting back to normal. Santiago sighed as he put things into perspective. He was establishing a new normal, as was Myron. And new didn’t mean “bad”. If he was any kind of decent friend, he’d distract Myron from sounding so depressing. Get him back to normal.

“Talk to me. What’s next on your agenda?”

[The Exodus]

OOC: Essentially, the three musketeers. Santiago/Myron/Toddy! BIC:


Santiago Ortiz

The February air was uncharacteristically warm. Santiago had left his jacket inside the Moulin Rouge tonight so he could finish off his pack of cigarettes before Myron and Toddy showed up. Undoubtedly, one of them—more likely Myron—would make some snide, but well-meaning joke about cancer sticks and Santiago would be d*mned if he had to be the (cigarette) butt of every joke tonight. It was bad enough guys night out was reduced to hanging in Myron’s night club after hours, and that guys night out now included Toddy St. James as more than an annoying hanger-on. It would only be worse if Santiago got caught in the crossfire of sassy repartee between the two Americans. He didn’t understand Toddy and Myron’s friendship.

He assumed it, like his and Myron’s friendship, had to be based in part on mutual care for each other or shared interests. But as far as Santiago could tell, it was mostly Myron taking care of Toddy. Giving him a couch to sleep on (even if once it was Santiago’s couch Myron gave away). Giving him a job (even if it was as a receptionist in a nightclub. The Rouge was the only bar Santiago had ever heard of with a receptionist). And Santiago didn’t want to think his best friend shared Toddy’s interest in making Santiago’s life miserable. Santiago didn’t know much else about Toddy’s interests. He didn’t care at all beyond what it said about Myron. What did Toddy and Myron have in common?

Maybe that was it. Maybe Myron and Toddy met at a support group for men with weird names.

Santiago took a deep drag from his current cigarette before fishing for the next one and lighting it off the tip of the one in his mouth now. He threw the old one to the ground, replaced it with the new. Chain-smoking was preferable to wasting matches. He might need those later.

Lately, he had added a small pack of matches to his pockets, in addition to his lighter, switchblade, flask, wallet, and cellphone. And of course his gun. Everything was strategically placed and small. Downsized. He wondered if that was how real cops thought. Concealing sh*t, making it convenient. He supposed the one big benefit to downsizing was that he could get through most security without hassle. He’d come into the Moulin Rouge, armed, and the bouncer hadn’t so much as batted an eyelash.

Of course, he had a badge now.

And the benefit of practically haunting the place. As Myron’s friend, Santiago was at the Moulin Rouge as much—maybe more—than the most dedicated patrons. But if Myron hadn’t owned the place, Santiago wouldn’t even walk within a ten foot radius. High-kicks and featherboas weren’t his taste.

Oh. That’s what Toddy and Myron had in common. Theatricality.

That mystery solved, Santiago exhaled a cloud of smoke. It joined the smoggy, city air and disappeared into the ink-dark sky. Waiting up here until closing time wasn’t exactly the most entertaining of things to do.

Santiago supposed he could make a few phone calls concerning Lorenzo Reyes’ disappearance. He had what he thought might be a lead in La Peripherie. Some turf war erupted between some Morroccan-French locals and a group of “foreign gunmen”. Santiago thought the newspaper article was slanted, racist, and inaccurate. But it was a starting point. He could call Catalina and tell her he had a lead. Or he could call the journalist and ask to talk. Or he could have even arranged a trip to the outskirts of Paris.

Besides. His last lead had been a red herring. There had been a shooting outside Rein Speciaux. Upon further investigation, it turned out to be nothing more than a jealous wife with a sawed-off shotgun going after her alcoholic husband and the prostitute he’d been seeing for months. It was so plebian, even Santiago had to suppress a yawn. Men had bits on the side. Wives got mad. That was life. And death for some.

He finished his second cigarette. He snuffed it out slowly on the ledge, watching the ashes crumble. He’d make the phone calls tomorrow. For now, his biggest concern was where the f*ck was Myron?

[Deleted]

Toddy St. James.

It was midnight. The flask was out and Toddy St. James after work glow was on!

The past Toddy never had to resort to such desperate measures. These measures being because lately at work ... Toddy St. James has had to work. Not even just work, but actually run the Rouge. Since Myron Bolitar, his dearest best friend that was a little hot mess, had to go to rehab- it was Toddy's duty to take care of things. Who else was it going to be? Madeleine went back to the Populaire, Santiago Ortiz would destroy the building because he was Santiago, and everyone else was not in Myron's closest circle of friends. It was Toddy St. James' turn to take care of Myron. Alright, so Myron was working from his desktop and IPhone, but that was different than actually being at the Rouge in person and dealing with everyone and everything. Paris' number one night club? There was a lot to work with. At first, it was just panic attack town, but then eventually Toddy St. James got use to Myron's office, being the one to call the shots (via Myron's request), and be the face for the Rouge. Because, what a pretty face right?

With his glittery purple flask, Toddy St. James closed up and began his walk to the rooftop. Toddy took a swig of his homemade martini, and already just felt so much more relaxed. Myron would probably have things to say about him carrying around a flask after work just to not be such a tizzy, but the sweetheart had no idea of the emotional rollercoaster this princess had been on for awhile. Now, it was like a routine! Like, having a good cry while watching Sex and the City- the episode where Mister Big leaves, but gives her that record- which, is an every Friday night ritual. Even if Toddy did have plans.

Approaching the terrace door, Toddy got out his pink IPhone and went to the contact, 'Damien <3' . His baby blue-eyed boyfriend! Obviously since there was a, '<3'- which, Toddy St. James did not give out those freely. He looked at the contact for a minute and smiled. How tacky, right? Smiling at an electronic device- it was so cheesy Adam Sandler trying to do a romantic movie moment. But, as if Toddy would ever be in an Adam Sandler movie. He was so Jennifer Aniston material. Wait, weren't they just in a movie together?

'Hey sweetie- just got out of work. What're you doing tonight?'

Toddy St. James texted that within a second. He was a professional at it- especially when it was under his desk. But texting Damien made him feel good. Love was such a pretty thing.
Stepping out into the terrace, Toddy St. James met with a less than pretty thing.

"Oh. Santiago." Toddy St. James said, shoving his phone into his desinger jacket, eyeing him for a moment, and went to go sit down. Santiago Ortiz. Toddy's enemy. He sat down, crossing his legs, and taking another swig of his flask. Ugh, it wreaked of that dreadful cigarrette smoke- which Toddy St. James did not care that he smoked like Myron and that Jewish-nosed girl he use to date- if he wants to die from it, Toddy had no problem with that. In fact, he was more than okay with it.

Mostly Toddy St. James didn't like Santiago Ortiz because how close he was with Myron. Although, hell to the no, he was going to admit that. Plus, he was a scuzz ball. Except, tonight- he looked...

"Wow. You look great." Toddy said genuinely, perking up.

Santiago looked like... he showered.

With a subtle smirk, he wagged his foot up and down and leaned, "You didn't have to get all dolled up for me."

Although it was probably for Myron.

His IPhone buzzed, and Toddy smiled down at it.

"Cooking dinner. Have you eaten?"

Toddy St. James would be eating with Damien Michaud tonight.

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

"Oh. Santiago."

If the American accent behind him had been a little deeper, a little more affected by years tacked onto years in Paris, Santiago would have tossed the cigarette off the side of the building, turned around with a half-smile and said something clever.

But it was still the flat, fresh-off-the-boat sound Santiago had come to associate with Toddy St. James. He didn’t turn around. He looked for another cigarette in his pocket. He’d stop by one of the all night bodegas near his house for another twenty-four pack tonight.

Right now, he needed a smoke more than a hung-over man needed a pick me up.

He found another, slightly crushed cigarette in the smaller pocket inside of his jeans. He pinched it back into shape and struck a match against the ledge for it. It wasn’t a waste, since it could feel like days before Myron showed up. He heard Toddy sit down, and still, he didn’t look up. He instead busied himself with snuffing the match under his shoe.

"Wow. You look great."

Toddy’s habit of awkwardly complimenting—or, more often, hitting on—Santiago was one of the things Santiago liked least about the other man. He didn’t understand how someone could hate a man as much as Toddy hated Santiago and still feel compelled to not only look at, but compliment, the way the man looked. Santiago didn’t look up.

"You didn't have to get all dolled up for me."

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Santiago said, pulling his cigarette from between his lips and blowing smoke directly at Toddy. “The only time I’d get dressed up for you is for your funeral, St. James.”

It was a fact, not a threat. And even then, it would probably only be because Myron told him that wearing a party hat was disrespectful to the dead and unfunny to the living.

[Deleted]

Toddy St. James

Santiago Ortiz had the forever feel of Antonia Banderas gone rag muffin. Until tonight, Toddy St. James was beginning to see this glimmer of hope for him in the looking presentable department.

“Don’t flatter yourself,"

Toddy St. James glared at him from the smoke, looking up from his IPhone, and waving it off with a cough. Just because Santiago wanted cancer, did not mean he needed to give it to all the pretty people.

“The only time I’d get dressed up for you is for your funeral, St. James."

This made Toddy scoff a chuckle, slapping his hand to his heart. "As if you are on the guest list for my funeral." Returning to his phone to text Damien how he hadn't eaten, which would for sure make a dinner date happen tonight, he mumbled out loud. "Puh-leaze. Spare me."

Setting the phone down next to him, he took another swig of his glittery flask, making sure that now he would probably be going over to Damien's he shouldn't drink too much, and looked at Santiago Ortiz. Sometimes, in the back of his mind, Toddy St. James thought it was a shame that they didn't get along. In his life, Toddy realized that it was easier to stand someone rather than want to remain enemies. But like Hollywood, that didn't make interesting entertainment and press did it?

"And put your homophobic guard down, Seen-yore." He spat under his breath. "I wasn't hitting on you. I was being genuine." Taking another sip, Toddy St. James rolled his eyes. "It's after work, I'm vulnerable."

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Santiago popped the cigarette back in his mouth, satisfied with his own almost-cleverness. In all honesty, he probably would only attend Toddy’s funeral for Myron’s sake. Moral support and all that. Not just because he disliked Toddy, but also because Santiago disliked ceremonial bullsh*t. Church, weddings, baby showers, funerals… He wasn’t the type. The last funeral he’d attended had been Gisele Evrard’s and he didn’t want to repeat the experience. For that reason, he hoped Toddy St. James lived a long and healthy life.

"As if you are on the guest list for my funeral. Puh-leaze. Spare me."

As if Santiago was the type to grant dying wishes. He’d heard a dozen before, and not a one of them had been granted. He was even less likely to honor Toddy’s. The American busied himself with his phone; the Spaniard with his cigarette.

"And put your homophobic guard down, Seen-yore."

Santiago gritted his teeth. If Toddy only knew that Santiago’s sister was lesbian, maybe he’d get it through his thick skull it wasn’t about his sexual orientation. Maybe he’d realize that he, Toddy St. James, was just the most annoying little sh*t on the planet. With his glitter flask and holier-than-thou attitude.

"I wasn't hitting on you. I was being genuine." Taking another sip, Toddy St. James rolled his eyes. "It's after work, I'm vulnerable."

“Shut up,” Santiago said lazily. “You’re a receptionist. If you’re drinking, it’s because you enjoy it, not because work is stressful.”

He rolled out of his seat an stood again against the ledge.

“I didn’t say anything, for Christ’s sake, so stop playing the victim.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his silver flask. He toasted Toddy, as if to say, ‘see, it’s BYOB night’ in a fatigued, sarcastic way. “Salud.”

[Deleted]

Santiago Ortiz


“Shut up."

Oh, hell to the no, Bobby Brown.

“You’re a receptionist. If you’re drinking, it’s because you enjoy it, not because work is stressful.”

Toddy St. James squinted at him like a cat, watching him get up and move to the ledge. Toddy could feel anger boiling inside. Just a receptionist? Was he seriously going to go there right now? He puckered his lips, glaring over and holding his flask a little more tight.

“I didn’t say anything, for Christ’s sake, so stop playing the victim.”

Santiago brought out his own flask. Of course, not as half as fabulous or blinged out as Toddy's.

"See, it’s BYOB night. Salud."

"Listen here, Santiago." Toddy St. James hissed, jumping up from his seat and staring at him straight in the eye, his voice dropping deeper and becoming incredibly serious. No little jokes, no pretty slang, just Toddy being a straight forward person- which was rare.

"View me however you want, judge my lifestyle however you choose- but know that I have been a lot more to this Rouge than just a receptionist."

Toddy St. James usually didn't care what people thought, or stood up to Santiago's comments. Usually he could come up with a retort. But, Toddy was sensitive when he began becoming Myron's stand in. He realized that he had a lot more potential than he was giving himself credit for. Toddy St. James was now a manager as far as business was, and keeping everyone in line. It felt good. It was different. It was hard. It was something that Toddy St. James was actually, for once, proud of himself for. And obviously sensitive.

"I went through a lot. We all do, and I'm not expecting a pity party-" He explained in a murmur, "But I'm asking for a little bit more respect for what I've been doing. I'll do the same for you too."

Toddy St. James continued to look at Santiago seriously. He didn't have to like Santiago Ortiz and Santiago would sure as hell never like Toddy. But, they could learn to respect one another a little bit more.

Oh sweetie, he was growing up.

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

A swig of whisky and Santiago’s throat burned. God, that was good. Just what he needed tonight. Not because work was stressful (it was) like Toddy was so hellbent on proving, but because dealing with Toddy sober was going to be like walking on Neta turf with his tattoos out in all their glory. Stupid and hazardous to everybody’s health.

"Listen here, Santiago," Toddy growled.

Growled? Who knew he was capable of that. Santiago looked over at him, lowering the flask and capping it. He wasn’t going to spill whisky all over the place and waste perfectly good booze if this turned into a fist fight.

"View me however you want, judge my lifestyle however you choose- but know that I have been a lot more to this Rouge than just a receptionist."

Someone had a chip on his shoulder. Santiago said nothing, but continued to stare, deadpan. He’d never seen Toddy get so defensive. It would have intimidated almost anyone else.

But Santiago was wheeling and dealing with hardened thugs about a missing person case. Toddy St. James didn’t scare him. Impress him, maybe. Just a little. Santiago wouldn’t have guessed the guy could say boo to a goose, much less an armed gangster.

Actually, Santiago suddenly thought Toddy was a bit dense. You didn’t yell at an armed gangster unless you were packing heat yourself. And besides the red-hot anger in Toddy’s voice, there wasn’t enough behind his words to power them. Just passion.

And a passionate opponent was the easiest to disarm.

"I went through a lot. We all do, and I'm not expecting a pity party-" He explained in a murmur, "But I'm asking for a little bit more respect for what I've been doing. I'll do the same for you too."

“Fine.” Santiago shrugged, as if it really was that simple. A sort of half smile over took his features. Maybe it was. “But I’m holding you to your word, St. James. I behave just as long as you do.”

[Deleted]

Toddy St. James

It was oh so obvious that Toddy St. James was acting like he was a black haired tizzy who had their blonde roots showing and was freaking, but what the hell ever. Looking over dramatic to Santiago Ortiz's dreary way of going about life was not the end of the world. Plus, this honey just got finished working. The last thing he wanted to be picked at for was what he just got done doing. Thanks so much.

“Fine.”

Toddy St. James blinked and his shoulders slumped down.

“But I’m holding you to your word, St. James. I behave just as long as you do.”

Was that that or should Toddy be duck and covering for a secret bomb Santiago Ortiz planted, and this simplicity was just a ploy? Toddy St. James remained stiffly standing, but Santiago was calm. Apparently he was the wound up diva.

Time to sit down, Toddy St. James...

Feeling like Britney Spears in her shaving head days, Toddy sat back down grabbing his phone and texting Damien back, who in fact did invite him over for dinner. Highlight of his entire day was yet to come. Now just to get through this ...

"I can reel it in. If not for our sake but-"

Toddy St. James paused and stared out for a moment. Thinking of Myron Bolitar and just how much he probably didn't need them at one another's throats.

Looking at Santiago briefly before taking a swig he said, "His sake."