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"Very classy," he said, deadpanned, shutting his phone when he realized the next two messages were from a very irritated Vardaman. The wrinkle never left the area of his brow, "I don't know my leather well, obviously. The only harness I'm familiar with is a horse harness. Or... a dog harness."

Jon lifted a brow and began to wonder what on earth it may have looked like before he stopped himself dead in his tracks. Not good, not healthy -- quick, abort! Dropping his phone into his lap, he lifted his hands to his face to rub his eyes (and maybe a little in prayer). His mind defaulted in order to stay on task: Button-up shirt, maybe, slacks, comfortable shoes. Briefs. Yes. Definitely briefs.

Jon's eyes widened against his fingers. He cut his gaze towards Reed, "You heard that? Christ, what's the volume level on my phone?"

He picked it up again to check, clearing his throat, "It's uhh, one of my friend's affectionate nicknames for me. Like Satchmo? I guess. He's a ******** moron."

Jon refused to dwell on any such marks just as he refrained from mentioning how he was now Vardaman's personal secretary more or less. Thank God not the kind Reed was implying; he would have quit if that were the case. Or transfer. Yeah, transfer more likely.

"Or kill myself," he muttered, pocketing his phone and grasping the handle. Pausing, he cast Reed a scrutinizing stare; there wasn't much going on behind his eyes. While he may have worried about image earlier, having the beast parked out in front of his apartment complex was incriminating enough. He gave a shrug and a faint grin.

"If you want to come in, by all means, Reed, I'm not going to stop you. In fact," he pushed the door open and stepped out, ducking his head in before he closed the door, "I'm inviting you in, how's that?"

Jon paid Arjun the same respects and barely gave him a second glance. He threw open the door with a snort and shook his head, "Kids? I guess. That wasn't a kid, though. That was a p***k."

He dug his keys out as he retraced the path he had walked the day before, only this time he was riding the elevator, damnit. Jon punched the button a little harder than he would have normally done (or was necessary), and once again tried to smooth his ruffled feathers as he stepped into the box. He thumbed the floor number as soon as Reed had followed him inside.

It'd be a real shame if Alex or Natalia dropped by. While he had a place to entertain, his unsavory roommate would put a damper on any fun he may have had with his friends. Not to mention clashing personalities. Jon leaned against the wall of the elevator and sighed.

"If you think I'm a bratty rich kid with problems, you'd be surprised. I met him for what, thirty seconds yesterday? Exudes a*****e." Jon folded his arms across his chest. His ears twitched.

Was Reed doing this on purpose? It was like he was forcing himself into his head and diving beneath his current train of thought (blue shirt, khaki slacks, in the big suitcase) to splash the problem to the surface. It was partly his fault, admitting that little secret like he had, though he never stopped to consider if Reed had believed him or not. If he had known he was going to face this sort of torment after giving in to instinct, he would not have broken his resolution.

Jon blinked. Okay, that was a lie. It would also be a lie to say he wasn't considering punching the button to the highest floor and pinning Reed to the wall, because it all seemed like a very good idea right now--

"Once," he admitted, staring at the numbers above the door ticking closer to their destination. Jon looked at Reed, "Wouldn't mind repeating the experience. I'd rather not get caught again, though."

The elevator dinged! and the doors whispered open. Jon stepped onto the floor, heading down the hall as he added as an afterthought, "Or maybe I would."

Jon was beginning to miss the cold brick and cement of his old flat. His new key ring felt incredibly lonely with just one key and its metal tag with the apartment's logo raised on it; he scratched his brow with it as he came to the door.

"I like getting caught. Makes it more exciting," he said, unlocking the door. "I just found out the hard way that the person I was with wasn't as shameless as I had first assumed. Well, this is home, sweet home."

He flashed Reed the most fake and obnoxious wide grin that had ever crossed his face (which looked more deranged than happy and on the verge of crumbling the perpetual monotony of his expression) as he shouldered the door open. And there, lounging on the massive couch in the sunken living room reading the paper like any normal, civil person would, was none other than--

Satan himself.

Blaine's ear tilted, folding delicately against his immaculate red hair, which was only highlighted by the light spilling in from the French doors at the north wall. Other than that, he made no other move to greet the two, opting to instead turn the page of newspaper.

"Had I known you were bringing company," he began in that slow drawl of his without taking his eyes from the paper. "I would have made more coffee."

Jon didn't respond, didn't even react. His snide quips, which came so naturally when he was in Reed's company, were left at the door as he took a miniature vow of silence. He strode across the hardwood floors and turned into (and passed) a miniature bar that fed its way up into the vaulted ceiling. Everything had a pungent, new smell that reminded him of raw maple. It was too clean, so unused. Again he yearned for the cold and worn alien-ness of his old apartment and its contained clutter.

His room bore the same, near-cathedral ceilings of the apartment. The enormity was repeated in the grandeur of the windows, the bureau, the bed. It looked like a living space within a living space, seating area and all (the fireplace would have been too much had the entire apartment not already been too much). As Jon maneuvered around the taped boxes towards the suitcase on the bed, he had one bone to pick with the perfection of it all.

"I don't even get my own damn bathroom. Ace."

Jon was too busy digging through his luggage and clawing open various boxes to notice that Reed had not quite followed. He shoved his leather briefcase over and retrieved his Blackberry, turning it on with one hand as he tossed clothes over his shoulder. After checking the time, he stuffed the Blackberry into his mouth and gathered up all his effects, making a break down the hall to the bathroom. He didn't bother to take a look at the decorum, because in his effort to hurry, he realized he hadn't grabbed any boxers.

With a muttered curse, he was padding back down the hall, making a memo in his crackberry about having a bathroom put in his room.

Blaine had been thoroughly engrossed in the morning paper when Reed addressed him, and instead of looking over, he folded the paper neatly and set it on the coffee table. He removed his reading glasses as he stood, finally turning to regard their so-called guest with a critical eye. Well, who had ever heard of a cat dragging in a cat? Though his expression never changed from that of apathy, he was displeased with what his little pet had left on the doorstep. What a dreadful mess.

"And who are you?" he asked. "Other than the reason Gudleif is late, of course."

Like earlier, Blaine barely moved save for a small, tufted ear leaning back at the sound of the shower running. Why on earth hadn't Gudleif come back to retrieve his... whatever Mr. Lockhue was? He was certainly no babysitter! While Blaine's first instinct told him to leave the room, he fought it-- if only to keep an eye on this Reed character.

"Of course," he said after a while. No 'it's a pleasure' (because it wasn't) or 'come, have a seat' (because he'd rather not let him). His mother had taught him proper etiquette when it came to guests once upon a time, but without her reprimand or his sister's scolding pinches on his arm, he felt no need or drive to monkey them. In fact, after a while of staring Blaine lost all interest in Reed and yawned wide, turning to make his way back to the couch.

Mr. Lockhue was practically forgotten for greener pastures in the newspaper.