One day, Rusty figured, he'd have the kind of friend who he missed because they moved to a different state, or had kids, or shuffled off the mortal coil. Instead of the kind who he missed because they were in jail.
Danny shifted on the stool beside him and the movement brought his knee flush with Rusty's hip, where it rested warmly against him with steady pressure. Rusty appreciated that. He'd had one ex who shifted and fidgeted constantly, awake or asleep, and that had taught him the value of stillness.
"Fleur de Lys?" Danny's voice was pitched perfectly between the murmur of the television and the ambient bar-chatter. It was one of his gifts, blending in. "Private cabana dining seems pleasant."
"If you're Grace Kelly and Frank Sinatra."
"I've always suspected you admired my expressive baritone." Rusty could hear the smile in Danny's voice and he leaned into that pressure against his hip.
"Let's go to Tao," he murmured. "We can share that Roasted Buddha chicken you kept eyeing last time."
Danny threw back the last of his drink, knee rubbing down Rusty's thigh. "Nothing better than a meal that sounds vaguely blasphemous," he sighed. "You're so determined to lead me astray."
"Always," Rusty said. He pitched it to be more quiet than the ambient bar-chatter, but he knew Danny had heard.
