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While Blaine bustled around the apartment, Jon stood back and settled down to watch the redhead. Boxes were shifted, bags tossed into rooms, corners were inspected and spaces measured. His tufted ears gave a flick of boredom as he consulted his watch before his hand retreated back into his pocket. He could already tell that living with Vardaman was going to be a pain in the a**; he'd better get a pay raise for this. Trying to deal with him outside of sponsored events where contact was absolutely necessary was already such a hassle. He checked his watch again. Maybe he could find some haunts to kill time at, make this place strictly for shelter or something....

"Gudleif, get the box at the door, would you?"

His pale eyes flashed as his attention was drawn back to the present. Jon turned to the door and waved a hand, "Sure!"

He pushed the box past the threshold with his foot and let the door slam shut behind him. A second later it was thrown open again:

"Where the hell are you going?"

Jon held up the crumpled packet of cigarettes in response as he punched the elevator button. He needed a smoke break... and maybe a drink. Or five.

Ahh, there was nothing like a breath of fresh air - when laced with the occasional puff of cigarette smoke, that is. Smoking was, perhaps, Jon's only vice... well, next to his passive aggressive way of handling troubling situations. Problems like Blaine. The gray haired feline scraped his hand through his hair, snagging his fingers on his corkscrew curls. He made a face and disentangled himself, spewing smoke from his nostrils as though he were some frustrated dragon. A rather bird-boned dragon, but a dragon nonetheless!

He sucked another lungful in as he crossed the street, the heels of his dress shoes clicking loudly against the pavement; the streets were occupied by parked cars with the occasional taxi idling by the sidewalk. Something about the city's quiet was appreciated by Jon - that it was just a little bit sleepy. Not like where he had been stationed before, where it crawled with movement and much more life than the city limits could hold. But, he thought absently as he flicked ash from his cigarette. Where there's congestion, there are good jobs.

Sometimes there was no point in trying to win.

Nothing particular caught Jon's attention. Though Augustine struck his fancy now, not much else impressed him. No display window, no beckoning store front. He passed them by without a second glance, hands buried in his pockets. Why had he even accepted this proposal?

"Look, I can't send Nilly. He's already gone through two editors and she's stuck around the longest; she's a real asset. Since you work with him more in the public eye it just makes sense. It'll be easier this way. You're really the only one who can handle him and you're pretty efficient at what you do - I trust you'll keep him in line."

"...So I'm going to be babysitting him?"

Jon tightened the corners of his lips as he caught his foot against the pavement and very nearly pitched forward. Just as his tail began to curl with distaste, a bar materialized like a godsend across the street. He literally gave sigh of relief.

"Well, ride's over," he said, and with one last tug at his cigarette, he tossed it into a litter-less gutter and j-walked his way to freedom.



After Gudleif had left and Blaine had given his most soulful diatribe in the gray feline's wake (on just how worthless assistants were these days), he set about taming his anger by sorting through his own set of possessions. At least his bedroom was handsome enough, spacious with its own big window and a private bath. The bare necessities occupied the space: a bed, a set of drawers, a giant desk. Granted, the latter had been his old desk (and looked a bit out of place in the quasi-modern setup), but.... He set about tearing the tape away from the drawers.

Everything he had brought along had been immaculately packed by his own hands, because who better to trust than one's own self? Instead of attacking the masking taped boxes labeled 'clothes sf' or 'clothes c' (he was just as careful separating formal and casual), he went about unpacking the few plastic boxes that had been carried up.

Folders were dislodged from the plastic bin and spread out across the bare desktop in his room. Labels marking genre were printed neatly in the ears of the manila folders - an assortment of manuscripts, finished and unfinished, prose and poetry, were separated accordingly.

"Hm, what's this?" He scratched the bottom of the bin and pulled out a laminated paper, holding it up to the light. "Mm. Coaster."

He carelessly tossed his old law school diploma onto his desk before climbing to his feet. He needed to unpack some underpants; he wanted bath.

While inanimate objects and window shopping bore no interest for Jon whatsoever, his approach of the bar was met with a living person in a window. Naturally, this was different, deserved some balking (which, with Jon, consisted of little more than the tightening of his brows). Could they be closing? He stepped onto the sidewalk and shook his wrist free from his sleeve to take a look at his watch (for the trillionth time that day, no less). Couldn't possibly... what sort of bar closed early? He snorted, knuckling his temple when he swung the door open and stepped inside.

He turned almost immediately towards the window, "Please tell me this place is open. The last thing I need is to go back to my apartment sober."

Without waiting for an answer, he made his way to the counter. He didn't care what kind of establishment the bar was, what kind of people it attracted - after a few drinks, it wouldn't matter.

Jon's pale eyes belatedly followed Reed's, landing on the clock and settling there even after the bartender had returned his attentions to him. He'd be having a lot of that now, time, that is. Was he really that upset about this job opportunity? He worked his jacket off and slung it over the chair next to him, hands going to loosen his tie.

"Jon Gudleif," he said with a distracted smile. "You've said 'sir' about three or four times just now."

The monochromatic feline propped his elbows on the counter and cupped his hands over his mouth and nose, chin resting in the curves of his palms. He shut his eyes and huffed against the long fingers caging his lips. Someday he'd walk into a bar for the fun of it, not for a fallback therapy session.

"As refreshing as Sex on the Beach sounds right about now, mind giving me a Screaming Orgasm?"

Jon's eyes opened, but barely. He peered at Reed over his fingertips, one hand dropping over the menu with a click of nails and plucking it off the counter. Though his eyes flicked back and forth, he wasn't really reading what was on it. In the end, he set down again; it was useless pretending.

"Wine would be classier, wouldn't it? It'd be like asking for a Blow Job at a major release when you're supposed to be toasting with Roederer," he held in a potential sigh and pushed the menu back at Reed. "But! I'm not feeling very classy right now. I just need something that I can pretend is coffee and just shy of being chloroform. The more vodka, the better. Think you can help me out... sir?"

Had he not been of reserved nature, he would have stretched his arms out across the counter and laid his head down in defeat. As it were, he had a little more dignity when he wasn't being smothered by Vardaman's person. His tail swayed, curled around the leg of his stool.

"Is it always this empty or am I just early?"

In some respects, Jon was a master in the art of being blissfully unaware, but ears - on cat people, especially - were like flags and Reed's were definitely signaling some sort of malcontent. Jon just couldn't figure out what.

Something that looked suspiciously like a grin graced his lips, "You don't look like the type. Up Against the Wall?"

His tapered tail sliced the air as he leaned over to his jacket and flipped it open, shaking his hand into an inner pocket, "Ectoplasm? Huh. Sure, why not. I trust you - you're the one mixing the drink. I'm just here to get plastered. Ah, here."

Sitting back, Jon held up a pen, "Mind giving me a napkin?"

Jon decided not to question the overproduction of napkins at his behest. He slid them forward, stacked them neatly, and bent over them, pen at the ready while Reed busied himself with mixing the cocktail. After making several neat markings he looked up again, tapping his pen against the lacquered counter; the sound was muted by the stacked paper.

He picked the glass up and raised it, "Thanks. If this sucks, I know who to blame."

He meant it in jest, really, but when your voice barely left the whispery confines of monotony, it was difficult to say whether a person was kidding or not. He took a swill of the cocktail.

"Tab," he breathed around the taste when he set his elbow back on the bar top. He rolled the cool glass against his forehead, pen slashing across a neat row of what were clearly tallies. "No Screaming Orgasm, but not bad. Cheers!"

Jon held up a finger splinted against his pen, "By the way, that last 'sir' makes ten. I'm thinking I should buy a drink every time you 'sir' me. My liver will be shot by the end of the night. Evening. ...Dinnertime."

He retreated to his drink.