Hot and Humid
Cross Bar II
by Josan
Actually, when I think about it now, it was rather funny.
We'd gotten a couple of visitors who had had the place
recommended to them.They'd arrived in full leather regalia,
expecting to find what they usually found in a typical leather
bar.
Except that's not really what we are. Typical, I mean.
They had strutted up to the bar, looked around and found that
they pretty much stood out.
Well, we are a leather bar.
Sort of.
Generally, people do seem to associate the dom subculture with
leather. And we do have the requisite rooms for rent upstairs.
Except that we're more of a place where members of that culture
can come and hang out without the costuming, if you know what I
mean.
They thought we were, and I quote: quaint.
That's why she, my partner, was so pissed off. Quaint, to her,
conjured up images of little old ladies with white gloves,
sipping their tea with their little fingers jetting out, nodding
over the "quaint" little doily from Louisiana one of them had
added to her collection.
Personally, I thought it was a rather strange term to describe
us.
Oh, well.
So, I was alone behind the bar that night. She'd gone home to
her herd of small dogs, litanizing all the things she would do to
those idiots if they were ever stupid enough to show their faces
in here again.
It was a Thursday night and it was typical weather for July:
hot, humid. And the AC was not working well. So the crowd was
light that night.
Mostly regulars.
At one table, there were a couple of subs whose doms were out of
town. At another, a dom and his new toy, a pretty little thing
who devoured him with his eyes. Made me wonder who was domming
whom?
One of our oldest regulars was playing pool with his brother. I
knew it was his brother because he'd taken the time to introduce
us when they'd come in. The brother was not into this scene and
he kept on nervously looking around the place as though he was
expecting to be gang-raped at any minute. Not that he would have
been even if our regulars had been that type: he wasn't pretty
enough.
Oh, and at the table, just to the side of the bar, where I could
hear them talking—not that I was listening, mind you. Well,
not then, I wasn't. But placed where I could certainly follow
the evening's conversation were three of our newer regulars:
Boss Man and his two subs, Armani and Vodka.
Yes, I know. Not their names. We knew who they were. I mean,
D.C isn't such a big town if you're not part of the political
sweep we have every four to eight years.
It was hot and they had dropped in for a cool drink and some
relaxation.
That's what we offer, here. A place to be yourself without the
need for posturing. Hmmm. I don't think there's anything
"quaint" about that.
Anyways, there they were, looking pretty, all three of them, each
in his own way.
Boss Man had dropped the Hugo Boss tailored look for an off-white
polo shirt and jeans. He was sitting very straight in his chair,
nursing one of those Canadian brews we import. Armani was
slouching back in his chair, an American beer in hand, baggy
shorts and sleeveless t-shirt sweat-stained, as though he'd been
for a run. Vodka was explaining something that had the other two
listening intently. He wore a light green shirt, sleeves not
rolled up, and dark olive pants.
Vodka had been holding their attention a good while when suddenly
his concentration was broken by, "Alexander!
A...lex...an...der!"
The room went dead silent.
Vodka grew very still.
"Alexei, dearest. It's I."
Boss Man and Armani turned around to see who was at the door.
Vodka let his head droop, not even looking, pretending to be
suddenly very interested in the patterns the condensation off his
vodka on the rocks had formed on the table.
"Dear god!" Armani gasped.
"Oh. My," agreed Boss Man.
Shit! I thought. Haven't seen anything like that in...well,
let's be honest, in this place, I'd have remembered if anything
like...
He was tall, slender. Blond, curly hair that ended mid-back. He
stood just inside the room, twirling a curl around a long, narrow
finger. He wore a huge smile on his face. As though he was
rather pleased with himself. I mean, he had to know he had the
attention of the whole place.
But somehow I thought he looked a little jittery, like a...I was
going to say pony, but this was no pony. More a fine-boned
thoroughbred.
Large blue eyes. Seriously. I could see the colour from where I
stood, they were that blue. Probably helped by what my sister
would call "a touch of summer make-up", but still such a blue as
to make me wonder if he wore specially-tinted contacts.
If I hadn't figured out he was British from the accent, the walk
would have told me. What is it with those Brits? You know what
I mean? Like at the Oscars a few years ago. Jeremy Irons walked
like he was gliding, smoothly, an inch above the stage. The
American actors walked out like lumbering idiots who didn't know
where to put their feet, never mind their hands.
In concession to the temperature, he was wearing a white t-shirt
that was so thin you could see the colour of his nipples. And it
was silk, not cotton. As were the white pants he wore. White
sandals completed the image.
"Alexei, fancy meeting you here."
He'd made his way, quickly and efficiently—all eyes
following—to the table where Boss Man, Armani were looking up
at him, eyes not certain of what they were seeing.
Vodka sighed loudly, sounding very put upon.
He looked up from the patterns he'd been making with the water
and a finger. "Hello, Dorian. What are you doing in D.C.?"
The curl twisted faster around that finger. "Well, what do you
think I'm doing here?"
"Would you like to join us?" Boss Man was having a hard time
restraining that grin of his.
Armani didn't even try. He jumped up and hauled over another
chair, set it behind Dorian who flashed a smile that would have
done a toothpaste commercial proud. "Thank you. So very kind."
And he sat down.
"Aren't you going to introduce us, Alexander?" Boss Man wasn't
hiding the grin any more.
Vodka looked like he'd like to do something other than that. But
I've got to give this Dorian credit: he just countered that
glare with another of those smiles.
"Walter, may I..."
"Walter? Walter! Oh, Alex, you've gotten your Walter!"
Reaching over, he patted Vodka on his fake hand, a hand most of
us ignored. Then he leaned over, mesmerized all of us watching
with his beatific smile and whispered loudly, "I know all about
you. Alex talked about nothing else the last time I was with
him. I am so happy for you, for both of you."
Even Boss Man looked a little taken aback then. Not a usual
circumstance for him.
Armani laughed.
"Well, now, if that's Walter, then you must be...you have to
be...say that you are...Fox?"
Armani's smile was suddenly shy. "Did he talk about me, too?"
Dorian reached over and patted Armani on the knee. "Of course!
When he wasn't gushing about Walter, he was moaning about you."
He used his other hand to rub Vodka's shoulder.
"Alex," said Boss Man, "don't you think you should introduce us?"
Vodka closed his eyes, sighed—very melodramatically for a man
who never really did anything to call attention to himself, other
than just being.
"Walter, Fox, this is Dorian Red Gloria, Earl of Gloria."
"Gloria?" Armani looked more interested. "Gloria." He squinted
at the newcomer. "Geoffrey the Glorious. Fought with William
the Bastard. 1066. Made Baron, wasn't he? Earldom came with
Elizabeth."
"The first of that name," agreed Dorian. He beamed at Vodka.
"He's every bit as bright as you said he was."
"Yeah," scowled Vodka.
"And, may I ask, your lordship, why are you gracing America with
your presence?" Boss Man was getting into the scene.
"Please, Dorian. I feel I know both of you so very well. I'm
here..."
"To rob some museum," groused Vodka. He looked around the table,
ending with His Earlness. "He's a cat burglar."
"Vile, vile fabrication!" His Earlness fanned his hand in front
of his face, trying to look severely affronted. "I have never
burgled a cat in my life. Mind you," he leaned over to a
grinning Armani, "if you were the cat..."
"Dorian! Knock it off!" Vodka snapped, eyes on Boss Man,
waiting to see how he was going to react.
"Sorry," said Boss Man, in that slightly threatening voice of
his, "that...cat is mine."
His Earlness assumed a serious face. "Yes, sir. Understood,
sir. And may I say, sir, that I now acknowledge that Alex was
not exaggerating your masterly ways. Sir."
"Where the hell is Klaus?" Vodka sat back in his chair, rolling
his eyes.
Now His Earlness looked tragic. "At some embassy show and tell.
He's been ignoring me, Alex." He turned to the others. "Not all
of us are fortunate enough to have our innermost wishes, desires,
dreams come true, you know." He tossed his hair off his face and
gave them one of the saddest, most pathetic looks I have ever
witnessed.
Armani leaned over and patted him on the shoulder. "So, who is
Klaus?"
"The aspiration of my lustful heart," His Earlness said in tragic
tones. "The object of my desire."
Boss Man raised his eyebrows at Vodka.
"Klaus Heinz von dem Eberbach," he explained.
Boss Man's eyebrows rose a little higher.
"Major, seconded from the German Tank forces to NATO. He's a spy
buster."
"And so beautiful," sighed His Earlness.
"You are, too," said Armani, in that tone that has you spilling
your guts out. His Earlness was no exception.
"Thank you." The flirty tone was gone and he sighed. "What do
superb looks mean when the love of my life hates me?" And he
drooped back into his chair.
Boss Man and Armani looked at Vodka who shrugged, seemingly not
at all moved by His Earlness's declaration of unrequited love.
He got up and came over to the bar, ordered another round for the
table and added a Dubonnet on the rocks to that.
As he turned to hand the beers over to Armani, something caught
his attention.
At the doorway was another fine specimen.
"Shit," he muttered. "Klaus."
As tall, as slim as the first, but that's where the similarities
ended. Though his hair was long, it just brushed his shoulders.
Dark instead of blond. Eyes a bottle green—like Vodka's, but
colder. Face closed compared to the openness of the other. Body
dressed in an elegant tux of European cut. He was lighting a
cigarette, looking around the room when he caught sight of His
Earlness.
There was a sensual stiffness to his walk as he made his way to
the table.
Repressed.
He wore the word in large capital letters across his forehead.
I looked at His Earlness.
Poor little shit. Loving that must be like pitching your heart
against a spiked wall. I added more of the Dubonnet to his glass
before handing it over to Vodka.
"Recruiting, Eroica?" He spoke with a clipped German accent. I
wasn't sure I was going to like this one.
I caught Boss Man giving His Earlness one of those assessing
looks of his. Like most doms do when someone new walks in.
His Earlness lost some of the campy behaviour. He looked quite
offended. "Not at all," now his voice was almost cold. "Merely
having a drink with some friends."
The Major reddened the tip of his cigarette. "And in which
prison did you meet these friends of yours, pervert?"
No, I definitely was not going to like this one.
And I wasn't the only one: the three men at the table glared
their displeasure with the newcomer. Not that he even seemed to
notice: his eyes were focused on His Earlness.
Who had discovered his spine. His voice fairly dripped British
Upper Class. "You know that I have never spent any time in any
prison, Klaus. May I introduce you to Walter S. Skinner,
Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigations."
My, my, my! The lad had done his homework, hadn't he?
"Special Agent Fox Mulder, also of the Federal Bureau of
Investigations. And Alexander Krycek, who, if I remember well,
was introduced to me by you, yourself."
I guess the man had had a proper upbringing somewhere in his
background. He pulled his eyes from His Earlness, spared a
glance for each of the men and gave a sharp nod at the
introductions.
"Gentlemen, may I present the man who uses my skills at the
behest of his political masters, all the while abusing me."
I am pleased to say that Boss Man came through beautifully. I
could see why he had the reputation he had, just from the look he
bestowed on our reproving visitor.
"Herr Major Klaus Heinz von dem Eberbach, I believe."
And that voice! Shit! It sent chills down my back and I
hadn't done anything to upset Boss Man.
Even Vodka did us proud. He went to stand behind His Earlness
and placed his hand on the man's shoulder. "Von dem Eberbach,"
he said, voice as clipped as the Major's.
The man didn't seem to notice anyone's reaction. He just exhaled
through his nostrils, like some fire-breathing dragon. Come to
think of it, there was something dragony about his face, in the
bone structure, with the hooded eyes, that long thin nose, the
narrow lips, the large mouth.
"Hanging around with a better class of people these days,
Krycek."
"More honest than the ones you're involved with. How's Baum?"
The Dragon grunted, shrugged his shoulders slightly, then ignored
them. "I want to talk to you, Gloria. Alone."
His Earlness raised his head. "Well, so very sorry, Klaus, I
don't want to speak to you."
Armani stood up. "You're going to have to wait. The pool table
is free and we're up next."
And with that, Armani and Vodka each took one of His Earlness's
arms and pulled him away to the corner with the pool table.
The Dragon's lips thinned even more. Then, he raised a hand to
his forehead and rubbed hard.
Boss Man used his foot to push a chair towards the Dragon. "Sit
before you fall."
For a moment, I wondered if I was going to have a fight break out
in front of me, the way the two of them glared at each other.
Made me doubly glad I didn't have to deal with either of them in
work-mode.
Then, suddenly, the "contest" was over and the Dragon sat down in
the chair. Boss Man glanced over to the pool table, but the
three men there weren't looking anywhere but at the game. He got
up, came over to the bar.
"Got anything for a headache?"
So I handed him four Tylenol and a glass of seltzer on ice. He
nodded his thanks and placed them in front of the Dragon.
He waited until the pills had been tossed back to prod. "I take
it the embassy was a command performance."
The Dragon closed his eyes and held his head very still.
Boss Man said nothing.
After a minute or so, the Dragon took a deep breath and looked at
the man who shared the table. "Idiots," he said tersely.
Boss Man nodded sympathetically. Took a mouthful of his brew.
"Still, no reason to take it out on him."
The Dragon looked over to the corner where His Earlness was
skilfully sinking ball after ball to Armani's surprise and
Vodka's amusement.
I swear I saw him smile. Not a big smile. Not even a little
one. More of a hint. But his whole face softened—for just a
breath, mind you—but it did.
I looked over at His Earlness and thought his cause may not be so
lost after all.
The two at the table just sat there, watching the corner. Boss
Man finished his beer. The Dragon sipped on his seltzer.
After they'd played a couple of games—His Earlness winning
both—Boss Man got up, signalled for his subs who quickly took
their places by him. His Earlness looked on with sad approval.
With a nod to the Dragon, Boss Man and his subs left. Armani
turned and gave His Earlness the old thumbs up for encouragement.
Vodka glared at the Dragon who ignored him.
His Earlness put down his cue, came up to the table. He reached
out to touch the Dragon, then stopped himself.
Instead, he picked up the glass with the Dubonnet and finished
the little that remained in it. He replaced the glass on the
table.
For a moment, I thought he was going to say something, but he
didn't.
He walked away from the table, smiling as he passed me on his way
out.
The Dragon waited until he was out the door. Then, with a sudden
brusqueness, he pushed his chair back. He stood. Nodded very
formally at me.
And followed His Earlness out the door.
That day, my partner had been in a pissy mood.
