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I am patching in live from the land of the Methodists to say Happy Birthday, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
missmollyetc! And in honor of your birthday, I use the nice Christians' wi-fi to post hookerfic (written this morning, while the rest of my family was at church).
Mr. Wednesday Two O'Clock
Megan knew from the crib book that Charlie's two o'clock had been drinking scotch on his first visit, but that wasn't much help. First visits were never really indicative of anything, once a client became a regular. Even the first few return visits could be a feeling-out process, as the client became convinced that he really could have anything he wanted (within the parameters of certain house rules), from the intoxicants to the talent.
On his fifth visit, Charlie's Wednesday two o'clock had confided that what he really wanted to drink while he waited (he always turned up in the bar promptly at one forty-five, and Charlie always made him wait a few minutes after the hour) was a root beer float. Megan had had to call down to the kitchen for the supplies, and he'd been both startled and delighted when she served it up. After a look around her otherwise-empty bar, Megan had poured the rest of the root beer over another scoop of ice cream and sat down to drink and chat with Charlie's client.
He'd introduced himself a little shyly as Larry and she had, as she was allowed to do at her discretion, introduced herself as Megan. He'd looked down into his drink, stirring it with the striped straw, and started talking about stars and galaxies and cosmic forces.
Megan had been making sure to keep ice cream and root beer on hand ever since.
Appointment clients were encouraged to wait in the bar for talent to come and meet them. It kept them aware that talent controlled the transaction--the talent were, for the same reason, encouraged to be a little late--and it allowed the bartenders to observe the clients, so that someone a little more removed than the talent in question could gauge whether the client was getting what he (or she) really wanted.
Megan had seen Charlie make hundreds of entrances into her bar or other areas on the floor, dressed in hundreds of ways designed to cater to the precise desires of dozens of clients. She still never failed to be a little startled when Charlie walked in to meet Larry, because Charlie somehow managed, through some trick of body language, to look as out of place in the establishment where he'd been working for close to two years as Larry did in the establishment he visited one afternoon a month. Today he wore jeans and a green t-shirt, flattering but not strikingly tight, and scuffed canvas tennis shoes. Charlie had spent hours up in the garden on the roof, methodically pacing through dirt and then shuffling across the concrete, so that they would look just that worn. He had his hands in his pockets, his curls falling almost-but-not-quite into his eyes, and his smile was bright and friendly.
Larry, when he turned away from telling Megan about string theory to see Charlie coming toward him, smiled as well--not the eager leer of a typical client, nor the heart-in-eyes glow of the deluded. Just a smile, not unlike the way he smiled at Megan herself. He was always pleased to see Charlie, Charlie who carefully made himself look like a normal kid this one afternoon out of the month.
Megan could usually peg the clients, their pathologies and instabilities and insecurities, the voids that they'd pay exorbitant prices to fill. She'd never known quite what to make of a man who could have anything he wanted and wanted nothing more than a root beer float and a curly-haired boy in blue jeans, but she'd never regretted giving him her name.
***
Charlie went to the mini-fridge for a bottle of water, keeping his back turned until the sounds of clothing being rearranged stopped, and he heard Larry take a step toward the blackboard. Charlie grabbed an extra bottle of water and went to join him, offering it wordlessly as Larry's eyes traced the lines of his latest work, carefully recopied onto the playroom chalkboards from his notebooks during setup this morning. Larry took the water with a vague nod, and Charlie smiled. It had taken him months to hit upon exactly the right level of distraction to make available so that Larry wouldn't follow up sex with thanks, apologies, or sheepishness, but he had it down to a science now.
Larry's hand went to the board, hovering over the third line--the reasoning there had been tricky, and Charlie took a long drink of water, trying to drown the sudden fluttering sensation in his belly, because if Larry said it was wrong, discredited--if he'd seen this tried and it was a dead end, and that was why Charlie had never found it in any of his reading--
Larry shook his head slowly, but he was smiling, and Charlie breathed. "Charles," Larry said, forgetting even to hesitate about saying Charlie's real name, "this is--this is amazing."
"Really?" Charlie said. "I mean--I know I'm untrained, but--"
"No, Charles, this is--I'm no mathematician, but as far as I can follow it, this is amazing work--I know we've talked, but I had not idea you'd come so far."
Charlie swallowed the automatic teasing reply about coming, and said, "So far?"
Larry finally looked over at him. "Well, naturally I've read your papers from Princeton."
It was Charlie's turn to stare fixedly at the board. "All two of them?"
"Both, yes," Larry said placidly. "You showed great promise ten years ago, Charles, and it's rather staggering to see you fulfilling it now, in the absence of formal schooling."
"Well," Charlie said, trying to play it cool despite the wobble in his voice, "you know. I--I read as much as I can."
In his peripheral vision, Larry smiled, but let that one pass without comment. "If you could write this up, I'd really like to show it to someone in the math department. They could give you better feedback on it than I can."
Charlie's heart started to pound, and he raised a hand to his work, letting his fingers hover an inch from the chalk. "You really think...?"
"I think it's worth trying," Larry said firmly. "If you're willing to--"
"I gave Al an electronic copy of my write-up," Charlie said abruptly. "You're not allowed to leave with any kind of recording, normally, but he's vetted it and he'll pass it through security for you."
"Ah," Larry said. "You've thought this through, then."
Charlie nodded, reminding himself to keep breathing. "I mean, naturally--I'm sure it's rather--derivative, or--undeveloped--but--"
"Charles," Larry said, very gently, and he actually reached out and touched Charlie, which he rarely did once they'd moved into the math segment of the afternoon. Charlie looked him in the eye. "Do I have your permission to mention your name in association with your work?"
Charlie shrugged, a jerky, helpless movement. "Sure," he said, trying to sound confident, like he'd had years to think about this and made his peace with it. "I mean, it's been almost nine years since they've heard anything about me. Even Marshall Penfield has probably gotten over the immediate urge to have me castrated and/or lobotomized."
"Ah." Charlie braced for a remark about Marshall Penfield, but Larry only said, "Well, I think it was always the spouses of the mathematical community who were most passionately in favor, but I won't bring it up with any of them."
Charlie smiled, and he could feel some subtle change in pressure, some cue in the lingering touch of Larry's hand on his shoulder--Larry was about to make an offer, tell him his life could be different. Charlie turned up the smile nearly to dazzling and gave him a brief, fierce kiss, until he could feel Larry give up on whatever he'd been about to say. "Come on," Charlie murmured against his mouth. "Help me break in the new air hockey table."
missmollyetc! And in honor of your birthday, I use the nice Christians' wi-fi to post hookerfic (written this morning, while the rest of my family was at church). Mr. Wednesday Two O'Clock
Megan knew from the crib book that Charlie's two o'clock had been drinking scotch on his first visit, but that wasn't much help. First visits were never really indicative of anything, once a client became a regular. Even the first few return visits could be a feeling-out process, as the client became convinced that he really could have anything he wanted (within the parameters of certain house rules), from the intoxicants to the talent.
On his fifth visit, Charlie's Wednesday two o'clock had confided that what he really wanted to drink while he waited (he always turned up in the bar promptly at one forty-five, and Charlie always made him wait a few minutes after the hour) was a root beer float. Megan had had to call down to the kitchen for the supplies, and he'd been both startled and delighted when she served it up. After a look around her otherwise-empty bar, Megan had poured the rest of the root beer over another scoop of ice cream and sat down to drink and chat with Charlie's client.
He'd introduced himself a little shyly as Larry and she had, as she was allowed to do at her discretion, introduced herself as Megan. He'd looked down into his drink, stirring it with the striped straw, and started talking about stars and galaxies and cosmic forces.
Megan had been making sure to keep ice cream and root beer on hand ever since.
Appointment clients were encouraged to wait in the bar for talent to come and meet them. It kept them aware that talent controlled the transaction--the talent were, for the same reason, encouraged to be a little late--and it allowed the bartenders to observe the clients, so that someone a little more removed than the talent in question could gauge whether the client was getting what he (or she) really wanted.
Megan had seen Charlie make hundreds of entrances into her bar or other areas on the floor, dressed in hundreds of ways designed to cater to the precise desires of dozens of clients. She still never failed to be a little startled when Charlie walked in to meet Larry, because Charlie somehow managed, through some trick of body language, to look as out of place in the establishment where he'd been working for close to two years as Larry did in the establishment he visited one afternoon a month. Today he wore jeans and a green t-shirt, flattering but not strikingly tight, and scuffed canvas tennis shoes. Charlie had spent hours up in the garden on the roof, methodically pacing through dirt and then shuffling across the concrete, so that they would look just that worn. He had his hands in his pockets, his curls falling almost-but-not-quite into his eyes, and his smile was bright and friendly.
Larry, when he turned away from telling Megan about string theory to see Charlie coming toward him, smiled as well--not the eager leer of a typical client, nor the heart-in-eyes glow of the deluded. Just a smile, not unlike the way he smiled at Megan herself. He was always pleased to see Charlie, Charlie who carefully made himself look like a normal kid this one afternoon out of the month.
Megan could usually peg the clients, their pathologies and instabilities and insecurities, the voids that they'd pay exorbitant prices to fill. She'd never known quite what to make of a man who could have anything he wanted and wanted nothing more than a root beer float and a curly-haired boy in blue jeans, but she'd never regretted giving him her name.
***
Charlie went to the mini-fridge for a bottle of water, keeping his back turned until the sounds of clothing being rearranged stopped, and he heard Larry take a step toward the blackboard. Charlie grabbed an extra bottle of water and went to join him, offering it wordlessly as Larry's eyes traced the lines of his latest work, carefully recopied onto the playroom chalkboards from his notebooks during setup this morning. Larry took the water with a vague nod, and Charlie smiled. It had taken him months to hit upon exactly the right level of distraction to make available so that Larry wouldn't follow up sex with thanks, apologies, or sheepishness, but he had it down to a science now.
Larry's hand went to the board, hovering over the third line--the reasoning there had been tricky, and Charlie took a long drink of water, trying to drown the sudden fluttering sensation in his belly, because if Larry said it was wrong, discredited--if he'd seen this tried and it was a dead end, and that was why Charlie had never found it in any of his reading--
Larry shook his head slowly, but he was smiling, and Charlie breathed. "Charles," Larry said, forgetting even to hesitate about saying Charlie's real name, "this is--this is amazing."
"Really?" Charlie said. "I mean--I know I'm untrained, but--"
"No, Charles, this is--I'm no mathematician, but as far as I can follow it, this is amazing work--I know we've talked, but I had not idea you'd come so far."
Charlie swallowed the automatic teasing reply about coming, and said, "So far?"
Larry finally looked over at him. "Well, naturally I've read your papers from Princeton."
It was Charlie's turn to stare fixedly at the board. "All two of them?"
"Both, yes," Larry said placidly. "You showed great promise ten years ago, Charles, and it's rather staggering to see you fulfilling it now, in the absence of formal schooling."
"Well," Charlie said, trying to play it cool despite the wobble in his voice, "you know. I--I read as much as I can."
In his peripheral vision, Larry smiled, but let that one pass without comment. "If you could write this up, I'd really like to show it to someone in the math department. They could give you better feedback on it than I can."
Charlie's heart started to pound, and he raised a hand to his work, letting his fingers hover an inch from the chalk. "You really think...?"
"I think it's worth trying," Larry said firmly. "If you're willing to--"
"I gave Al an electronic copy of my write-up," Charlie said abruptly. "You're not allowed to leave with any kind of recording, normally, but he's vetted it and he'll pass it through security for you."
"Ah," Larry said. "You've thought this through, then."
Charlie nodded, reminding himself to keep breathing. "I mean, naturally--I'm sure it's rather--derivative, or--undeveloped--but--"
"Charles," Larry said, very gently, and he actually reached out and touched Charlie, which he rarely did once they'd moved into the math segment of the afternoon. Charlie looked him in the eye. "Do I have your permission to mention your name in association with your work?"
Charlie shrugged, a jerky, helpless movement. "Sure," he said, trying to sound confident, like he'd had years to think about this and made his peace with it. "I mean, it's been almost nine years since they've heard anything about me. Even Marshall Penfield has probably gotten over the immediate urge to have me castrated and/or lobotomized."
"Ah." Charlie braced for a remark about Marshall Penfield, but Larry only said, "Well, I think it was always the spouses of the mathematical community who were most passionately in favor, but I won't bring it up with any of them."
Charlie smiled, and he could feel some subtle change in pressure, some cue in the lingering touch of Larry's hand on his shoulder--Larry was about to make an offer, tell him his life could be different. Charlie turned up the smile nearly to dazzling and gave him a brief, fierce kiss, until he could feel Larry give up on whatever he'd been about to say. "Come on," Charlie murmured against his mouth. "Help me break in the new air hockey table."