. x .

Here's what it's like; it's like bumping your elbow on some cute stranger's tit in a crowded subway. You don't mean to do it, you're perfectly mortified, but your elbow is thanking you. Or else it's like going to cross your legs under the lunch table and finding you've hooked an ankle over someone else - a friend, maybe. And they just leave it there, and they just keep talking, and it's up to you to decide whether or not to move.

It's comfortable and it's extremely awkward at the same time, is what this is.

It's nothing like yawning and reaching over to get your arm around your girl, no, 'cos that's not accidental at all - and White is way too cool for shit like that anyway. If he wanted to cop a feel he'd probably just say so.

You think that might be his gentlemanly M.O., at least, but then again, you happen ta think a lot of things.

What you do not think, however, is that White is doing any of this on purpose. He probably doesn't even know what kind of affect it can have on a guy like you, when one ankle has strayed under the other as the group readjusts to all fit around that bar table. When the warm press of his thigh betrays the hard muscle of a man who might actually use his legs to actually take him places.

You suck your cigarette down the wrong way when Brown cracks a particularly ribald joke about the Mayor of LA. You knew the Mayor's wife, for chrisakes.

White, like it's the most natural thing in the world, reaches over to pat the center of your back until you stop coughing. Slap, slap, heavy palm on dull black leather. He's not even paying attention while he does this, talking up at the waitress for a coffee to follow this last round of beers. When the waitress leaves, White settles his hand where it lands, bracing you like someone might steady their dog on the furniture.

You lean back like everything was fucking daisies, nodding at Pink's half-hearted concern. White's elbow props back against the booth, fist curled between your shoulderblades. With each word of the argument with Joe, White's fist gives a small tap forward, a little punch, rough and playful like you're is just some kid brother.

Carefully swallowing your beer, you a better glance over at White. He's sprawled back, relaxed, in serious violation of your personal space. Not like that was anything, though - hell the group was all squashed together to keep your voices down an' your faces out of the public eye. Or maybe it was just the nature of the crook to be drunk and friendly. You weren't going to count it as a loss, if they so easily accepted you into the ranks.

And, you know. It was all just sort of an accident, anyway.

A matter of circumstance.

A coincidence.

White, see, White is the kind of guy you might go for, if you ever had any time to browse LA's scene. He might be a little bit older than what usually draws your eye, sure, but he more than makes up for that with conversational charm. And - despite the covert nature of your operations - he was an open book, was White. Easy-going and dry with the humor. It was a shame, too, because, you know, you went to school for profiling, for fuck's sake; it didn't take your every power of deduction to understand this guy was flying the same damn flag as you, but, you know. A damn shame.

Because it's like this, see, it's like walking into a room and knowing the cologne in the air. You can pick out the aftershave behind the cigarillo smoke, and a layer under that there's fresh-ironed cotton and heat and salt and, y'know, musk. The smoke and the booze can't hide it. Your own jacket hardly hides your body's response, when the sweat of you loses the tang of anxiety and pulls up with the fragrant leather to go neck-and-neck for fuck-me vibes.

You're all sweating, sure, red in the nose with drink and laughing and opening collars in the hot press of this backstreet California dive.

It's tripping into a stranger on the subway, is what it's like. Your body is singing a lament to your fucking wedding ring while you just wanna to double over and apologize and maybe go find yourself a cab home already.

White's attention drifts over to you like an iceberg, full and unstoppable. "You catch the game last night?"

Your mind races for the tail end of the conversation going around the table. "Uh," a blink. Blame it on the beer. "The baseball game?" You sit up straighter. You do like baseball, you just haven't had any time to sit down and enjoy a game in a long while.

White's eyes light up over the rim of his coffee mug. His fist closes over your far shoulder and he gives a tug. Chuckling, he sets his cup carefully to the table. Then his attention is back on you, zip, and his smile does a suddenly weird thing to the pit of your stomach, pow. "Never thought I'd get to see it, the day the Brewers started winning me money again. Shit," White looks over your meager crowd. "Like a crisis of faith, these last three seasons. Then bam, outta nowhere, Varnes and Crowley take it to the fences." White shrugs back against the booth, chuckling. Joe is congratulatory and at the same time wants to know how much White won off the bet already. White rounds off a figure, but it's no safe assumption that a few fellas what might owe him will skip out.

You listen carefully for any name drops, smile quirking up when White frowns a question your way.

It's just a matter of circumstance, is what it is. You settle back with your beer, heel tucked up on the edge of the booth seat, one elbow hanging lazily over your knee. Casual cool. White's arm is just behind your neck, heat and scent and the colorful splash of hibiscus print on a short sleeve.

You knock back the last swig off a beer, hair tickling the inside of White's elbow. You lean forward, right, to find a clear spot on the table to deposit the empty beer and by the time you're relaxin' back again White's arm is half caught on the withdraw. You startle up, both feet hit the floor and you don't make it past the apology before White's arm is tightening behind you, like. Curling around your waist.

It's a brief squeeze to pull you outta the way so as to let Nice Guy out to 'powder his nose', and White's arm has tripped and found itself under your jacket and it's awkward and it's comfortable and you swallow audibly and pick up someone else's beer.

White isn't even paying attention. He's bragging about the baseball game, laughing at Blonde's dry rejoinders. Blondie catches your eye and winks and for no reason at all this makes your skin go hot.

You light a cigarette just to prove to the room that you can do so with steady hands.

. x .