Bobby walked into the building that morning with a sense of unfamiliarity. He hadn't seen Hastings, Hart, & Witman in a week, and already he'd forgotten the interior.

God, being a certified private accountant was boring.

"Mr. Drake! How are you? Better, I see..."

Misty? Martie? Trixie? The receptionist smiled beautifically at him, ignoring the cringe he made everytime someone refered to him as a "Mr."

"Yeah, crazy how hard that flu hit me, huh?" he smirked as she handed him his messages. That six-foot-two, auburn-haired flu with the body of a Greek god.

She giggled a little and might've blushed, but Bobby was immersing himself in the messages, cataloging what work he had to get done before he could return the phone calls.

"Mr. Hasting's wanted a meeting with you today and your assistant called down to have me tell you it's at 11:00."

Bobby belatedly nodded as he started walking off towards the elevator and only after he'd pressed the button for 13 did he realize he had a meeting in two hours over an account he hadn't touched in two weeks.

"Aw...Shit!!"

~

Remy mused on how easy it had become to climb through ventalation units with a stainless steel briefcase strapped to his back. He couldn't remember a time when it hadn't been the easiest part of his jobs.

"Y'been doin' this too long, boy. Need a bit of a break, neh?" he whispered to himself, sliding up to a grate he was positive was above Bobby's office.

Sure enough, there was Bobby in his large black leather chair, in front of a desk that Remy was only sure was cherry wood because he'd seen it already when it had been devoid of what looked to be five too many folders and their contents spread out across the all the space the computer didn't occupy.

Remy paused and gave thought to backing out and leaving Bobby to work, but promptly dismissed it. He wanted to preen and gloat about the job he'd pulled, and anyway, the money was a ticking timebomb until it was laundered. Underneath him, Bobby was muttering to himself...

"That fucker, having me clean up his messes... Double ledgers are such a bitch..."

... and that sealed it. Bobby needed a break, and what else was he good for? Remy grinned to himself, pulling a sort of reverse screwdriver out of his belt to start unscrewing the grate from the inside.

When Remy finally dropped himself through the vent and onto Bobby's work, Bobby didn't quite notice at first, much to his annoyance.

"Bobby, ain' you even gonna pretend to act surprised that I'm here?" he frowned. It was usually a really dramatic thing, dropping into people's offices from their ceiling.

Bobby was ruining his drama. He hopped off the desktop and unstrapped the briefcase, making a big flourish of presenting it to Bobby, right under his nose.

Bobby didn't even look up. "You are so in the doghouse, mister."

"...quoi?"

The briefcase dipped a little, and Remy had to refocus enough to fix his dropped jaw back into an approximation of a smile.

"Climb your skinny ass back up and out and make sure my Twinkies are replenished before I get off this afternoon." He still hadn't looked up, and now Remy couldn't help the shock.

"But I stole--"

"Do I *look* like I care?"

"But, *look*..." and he popped open the briefcase and set it on the desk, the neat stacks of green quite the contrast to the disaster area of white, manilla, and canary.

This time Bobby did look up from the computer screen, but his eyes went right past the money to Remy's face.

"Twinkies, cajun."

Remy threw up his hands and made a choked squeal in indignation.

"I just spent all night goin' through six of the most dangerous levels of security at the Chemical Bank of New York to steal a hundred thousand dollars in unmarked, non-sequential bills, and you bitchin' 'bout y'damn Twinkies?!"

Bobby felt he was being incredibly diplomatic in keeping a straight face while Remy flailed his arms and paced around his office, for all the world, looking gay as a drag queen.

"Remy, you ate the last of my Twinkies sometime during the night when I was unconscious and unable to defend them."

Remy pivoted around to face Bobby, hands on his hips, still looking rather befuddled by how the conversation was going.

"Defend them."

"Yes," he said as he turned back to the computer screen. "Besides, it's just rude to take without asking."

"I'm a thief!!"

Bobby couldn't help the laugh this time, but he kept his face turned away from Remy, so as not to embarass himself, falling out of the chair in hysterics at the face he knew Remy was making.

"This ain' funny..."

He could *hear* the pout.

"You're right, you're right," he said, clearing his throat. "This is, indeed, serious business."

"Damn straight it is!" he huffed as he walked back to the briefcase. "So half needs to be laundered right awa--"

"Remy."

"Right, sorry. You already know the drill."

"Remy."

"Bobby?"

"My Twinkies."

Remy coughed and sputtered and Bobby's resolve was so quickly tumbling the more the shock registered on his boyfriend's face.

"Sapristi! [You're still... you. It's stupid *food*, you bastard! I bring you *money* and you want sugar and... shit!! Fuck!! I can't... I'm leaving.]"

Bobby's eyes were watering, he was pinching himself so hard not to start laughing.

"... Um, what?"

Remy wouldn't even look at him as he hopped onto the desk and started pulling himself back into the vent. Bobby hadn't thought he could jump and climb back into the ceiling that fast, but he guessed, with the right motivation...

"I'm goin' where I can be 'preciated."

Bobby just raised his hands in an I-give-up gesture. "Alright, do what you want. Just make sure my vent's back on right; I don't need my bosses thinking I'm too dim to notice when I'm being robbed..."

"You questionin' my skills?!" Oh. That was definitely a growl. "You think you're getting' your goddamn Twinkies now? Non. This Cajun done been thoroughly insulted by your ass this morning and he ain' havin' no more!"

"They're usually in the pastry aisle! By the Hostess cupcakes and the Ho-Hos!" he called up to the ceiling, turning back to his work.

Bobby was still chuckling a minute later when he was whacked in the back of the head by a smashed Twinkie, still in the wrapper.