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He'd left the door open, not so much to invite her in as to have the upper hand in case she was going to show up in nothing but a towel again, which, all things considered, would be incredibly awkward for his current situation. It did not help that he was, despite himself, half-hoping she was going to show up in nothing but a towel, even if all he'd be able to do was turn her away (possibly after a good eyeful).

But then he'd thought of the Sahara and the copies, and as a mental bucket of cold water this was highly effective. So he'd left the door open so he'd be prepared, and he'd sat down in the chair in front of his desk, his feet propped up, and made headway through a cheap bottle as a warm-up even though, truth told, he was already half-drunk--as he normally was before sleep of late.

By the time she arrived he was smoking a cigarette, windows open as they typically were, and trying to think of what he'd say if America made one of her unexpected visits and he was hoping, praying, that Cee was going to do anything but talk about the clones.

"Congratulations," he said finally, around an exhale and a forced little cough. "Not surprising. You've been working hard. Work ethic's a woefully uncommon thing around here."

His usual tension was even more amped-up than usual, fed by a suite of uncomfortable variables. "Got any information on what it'll be yet?"

He was not sure why she'd come to him, but he was, in his way, flattered.

"Remember what I said Lawrence did in the desert? He got promoted for that, or at least partly for that. For a half-assed act of betrayal which made him inadvertently useful. He's in your division." He swapped cigarette for joint, the former going into the ashtray, and he held the smoke for a second before continuing, placidly: "You're gonna be fine."

He disregarded the question for the moment, turning back to promo and letting her scout his impeccably-clean room for signs that almost weren't there--almost, because there was a shallow tray scavenged from somewhere and resting on the bedside table in a futile effort to corral the endless march of bobby pins he was now doomed to find in his sheets and in the cracks between the floorboards, or materializing between the active paws of the cats when they were out for their hour-a-day romp. It was almost enough to make him take back all the "never cut your hair" demands.

"Even if you weren't in Death, I'm sure you'd do fine. You give a ******** about doing a good job or you wouldn't constantly be looking for spars and training. But you are in Death, so you'll definitely do fine, and Caelius will tell you you're a useless ******** ******** who's nothing but a burden and then the people who actually care will see to it that you've got a new coat and fewer bathroom-cleaning shifts. You'll be fine," he repeated, leaning back with the bottle, and then finally succumbing to the rest of it. "And it's--fine," he said, with the barest beat of a hesitation.

"It's--on," he said, bristling a little. "It stays on. Thanks for letting me know I look like s**t, though, really appreciate it. We're just--taking it slow."

Postponing the inevitable.

"How many notches have you added to your bedpost since the last time we talked, anyway?"

Fiona's restless indignation at Cee's liberties with his person helped distract him from his initial urge to keep her there. He was being good. He was being so very, very good.

(America slept in his room two, maybe three nights out of seven; she spent the rest curled up with Kostya and he knew it even if he tried to make himself believe it wasn't true.

It wasn't the same. It wasn't an equivalent analogy at all. It was worse. It wasn't nearly as bad. It was terrible. It was nothing.)

He let himself look, at least, and didn't try to pretend he wasn't.

"I'll have you know the taking it slow was at my ********' behest," he informed her flatly. "She tried to get me to move in."

Dangerous. Don't go there. Too late. Maybe intentional? Maybe he wanted to tell someone. Maybe he'd hoped it would be Bix or even Maebe, possibly Peyton in the right situation. Instead what he got was Cee. Dangerous. The gossip. Change the subject.

"Anyway why, exactly, would I be taking advice on dedicated wooing from someone who's racking up a tally as fast as she's able?" Contrary to the words he didn't sound irritated. He sounded, if anything, tired.

It was not surprising to him that Cee was acquainted with the house. Nor was it surprising that question incurred a swell of shame and self-loathing that had him reaching for the joint again.

It would have been easy, especially given his usual habit of prevaricating, of dismissing, of pretending to mystery that he didn't have, to just tell her it was none of her business. But humiliation felt comfortable, and an opportunity to vent felt like a relief, and maybe he could use this as currency against her later, in some way. And it would besides prevent the talk from going around to the topic of the clones.

"Do you know Konstantin Bashmet?" he asked.