Bobby swirled his drink, scowling.  It wasn't that this particular cocktail party was boring, it was just that this particular cocktail party was beyond boring.  Excruciatingly boring.  Boring beyond measure.  The Mount Olympus of boredom.  Such lofty heights of boredom hadn't been reached since Mr. Worthshafter called an inter-office meeting last month--

"Ah, Robert," his boss said, smiling.  "How are you?"

"This is some party," he answered, drinking long and well.  "Hell of a turnout."

The man nattered on for a while, during which Bobby downed his martini and stared into his glass mournfully.  Praise the gods, Worthshafter actually noticed and clapped him on the back.  "Come on, Robert," and he steered him towards the bar.  "We'll get you a refill and you can tell me all about the Dinah reports."

Bobby tried to swallow his own tongue while he was walking, but only managed to choke himself, and nearly cough right on the hostess.  As he took the martini Worthshafter shoved in his hands, he cheered up a little bit.  At least it was an open bar.

Another of their collegues - from the tax office, Bobby thought - came over, and he and Worthshafter started laughing about the quarterlies.  Bobby nursed the cocktail, and muttered, "what am I doing with my life?"

A rich voice from behind him said, "y' mind passin' me a napkin while y' feelin' sorry for y'self?" and startled Bobby nearly enough to toss vodka - no, gin, gin was in martinis.  no, hell, whatever - all over himself.

"Ah, Malcolm!" Worthshafter said, clapping his hands together.  Bobby inadvertently looked down, and made the awful mistake of focusing on his boss's crotch for a brief second.  He closed his eyes, painfully, and drank long and well.  "Malcolm, you remember Ted from--"

Bobby tuned them out and handed the guy his napkin.  Amazing looking guy, smooth skin on his fingers.  Sunglasses on inside, and a casual look - no tie, open throat shirt, cream.  He knew how to dress, almost well enough to be gay.  The guy was nodding politely along to whatever boring thing Worthshafter was saying, but his mouth was quirked up in a way that was definitely not at all due to Worthshafter.  The only time people smiled around his boss was when he was leaving.

"--is Robert," he said, and Bobby looked back at his boss, blinking.  His vision was already getting a little fuzzy from the martinis.  Finally.  "Robert, this is Malcolm [I so want to say Reynolds here].  He's associated with a New York firm, one of their clients is connected to our office."

Bobby surpressed the impulse to ask why, if this guy was from New York, he'd EVER come here, and shook his hand.  Verrrry smooth hands.  "A pleasure," he said, trying on his best smile.

Malcolm smiled back, totally outdoing Bobby's pathetic grin.  His face was charming, open, mysterious, sexy, and inviting all in one.  "Charmed," he replied.

Worthshafter was still going on about one of their clients with Ted, laughing about how they'd succeeded in court, or beaten someone in court, or telling lawyer jokes or something.  Bobby let out a little sigh, and glanced at his now-empty glass.  Damnit.  It kept *doing* that to him.  Traitor.

"I'll get y' another," Malcolm said, holding his sexy hand out for Bobby's glass.

Grinning wryly, Bobby replied, "I'd better have a gingerale or something equally childish."  Looked down at his shoes, which were very far away and a little blurry.  "Three of these in a half-hour is enough for me."

Malcolm snorted.  Bobby shook his head a little.  This party was going from dullsville central to maybe, actually, could it be, interesting.  Of course, Malcolm couldn't possibly be as good as Bobby thought he was.  He was at a party thrown by contract lawyers, for one thing - and nothing spells exciting date less than contract law.

"I'll make sure y'get home safe, cher," Malcolm said, quiet enough so that Bobby was pretty sure his boss hadn't heard.  He couldn't have, since he was *still* telling some stupid lawyer joke, or another one exactly like it, only now his audience had grown.

Bobby blinked.  It was pretty impossible that Malcolm was hitting on him, but it certainly was a hell of a lot more interesting than Worthshafter's stupid anecdotes about writing up the contract that signed that stupid one hit band again.  "How much have you had?" Bobby asked the guy, tilting his head.

Malcolm grinned, discreetly taking his elbow.  "Haven' been indulgin'," he replied.  Then quirked an eyebrow.  "'Least, not in wine."

Bobby allowed Malcolm to guide him to the exit, but rolled his eyes.  "Come on, that's your line?"  He stumbled, once, stepping over the doorsill, but recovered admirably.  "You have to do better than that."

Bobby belatedly realized that he might not just have picked up, and so was also extremely grateful when Malcolm just pulled him to his rented BMW.  "Robert Drake, yeah?"

Bobby nodded.

Malcolm stuck his hand out. "Remy."

Bobby blinked, as Remy held the passenger door open for him.  "Bobby."

Remy stood, watching surreptitiously to make sure Bobby got into the car all right, even though he tried not to be too obvious about it.  Nice gesture.  "So y' want a better line?"

Bobby tilted his head so he was resting it against the seat back.  Leather interior. Very nice.  "Your name's Remy?" he asked.

Remy nodded, bowing ever so slightly.  "Remy LeBeau, cher."

Bobby looked him up and down, then said, "that'll do."

~

The sex was amazing and fantastic and Bobby came three times and Remy did too, and Bobby knew enough about fucking men that Remy was quite satisfied as well.  Bobby might not be some European model, but the way Remy's face contorted while he was on his back was enough reassurance.

Bobby fell asleep face-down in his pillow, but some time during the night Remy actually curled up with him.

~