It wasn’t at all like Ryder Renwick to be nervous.

However, the pack of cigarettes Balthy had been kind enough to give him money for the night before was now almost empty, and his fingers were now busily beating an unsteady rhythm against his knee cap; his bottom lip was also just a tad bit swollen from where he’d been chewing on it for the past ten minutes, and his hair was just a tad bit more disheveled than he would have liked. He was nervous, he realized, and detested the idea as he tried to straighten his seating position, tried to get his shoulders just right. Or perhaps it was rather more about what had happened the night before –maybe, just maybe, that was what had him so on edge. It wasn’t really that he hadn’t liked shagging Balthazar; it was simply that in all his fantasies of that perfect moment, his best mate had been rather sober and aware of what had been occurring.

The bar had been full of sexually frustrated male muggles that had been apparently up to hitting on every female that walked by them, but Ryder and Balthazar had simply ignored their surroundings as they’d downed a copious amount of alcohol. It had all been in the mood of celebration, for Balthy had passed a big test and was well on the way to becoming a trainee healer, and both of their moods had lightened as they’d became ever drunker. Then, after hours of sitting at the same table, after they’d put so much alcohol in their system that it had seemed possible they’d never sober up, the two had returned to Balthazar’s apartment. And somehow, in the midst of stumbling to the ground, giggling like teenage girls, they’d fallen to the ground in a mess of knotted limbs. The kiss, at first, had been rather accidental, Ryder was sure –but then it’d developed from a simple, chaste touching of lips, to a shady affair of tongues desperately searching for something they might have missed their entire life. And, if when the snogging had led to clothes being removed and rather heavier explorations taking place, Ryder had let it happen even though a portion of his brain had been quite against the idea, he really couldn’t be blamed.

He’d been waiting years for that moment.

It had been the awkward silence after that had really torn at Ryder, and the way Balthazar had simply sighed, stared down at him, and escaped to the bathroom as if running from an embarrassing secret that was threatening to be exposed. For an instant, the blonde had remained in bed, his breath coming in short and his mind trying to push through the simple bliss of having finally done this; it should have been his moment of glory, but instead Ryder had heard as Balthy vomited in the bathroom and cold, clear reality had slapped him across the face as harshly as any hand ever had. Slowly, he had pulled on his underwear and then the rest of his clothes. It had only been as he’d been reaching the door that he’d heard the footsteps behind him and paused. His best mate did, too, keeping a distance between them that would now certainly be there forever. Because they’d crossed a line that Ryder never should have allowed them to cross. And, if it’d hurt almost as much as if someone had crucio’ed him when Balthazar simply thanked him as if this had been nothing than a favor, perhaps Ryder had deserved it.

And so, presently, he sat at the small, scared table, waiting for his companion, he couldn’t shake the cold feeling that was festering inside him like a germ in an open wound. Instead of the sense of victory he’d always thought he’d feel at this moment, he was faced the hard, cold truth: it shouldn’t have been this way. With a heavy sigh, Ryder glanced up at the sound of the door opening, watching as a man entered and feeling deep inside that this must be him. He was hot, and in the simple thought Ryder focused his entire attention as he sat up and forced himself to smile professionally. Because this was business and Balthy wasn’t, and no matter the consequences that last night was bound to bring, Ryder had matters to take care of which couldn’t be seen to unless he forced himself to shoulder past the boulders of life and ignore it all.

And so he waited for Rick Donovan to join him.

Towering over a good fourth of tonight’s traffic, Rick surveyed the room, his gaze blank and apathetic beneath a slight frown. ‘Bored’ might have been an apt enough description for it, but he wasn’t, not really, and in any case business meetings weren’t supposed to be fun. Not the kind where a guy hoped to get anything done, anyway.

And if Rick would get his way, things would be. When he’d been contacted by one Ryder Renwick, courtesy of Éloi Desrosiers, he’d been… well. Wary was one way of putting it. Some might find it funny, that his most lucrative dealings came from his riskiest, most disliked connections, but he didn’t, and though by no means was Desrosiers the worst of them– no one else put Rick on his guard quite like Almasy –the werewolf didn’t trust the man as far as he could throw him, which was far. Anyone he sent Rick’s way was to be received cautiously, though Rick admitted he’d been pretty lucky so far, in that nearly all of them knew what they wanted but weren’t too overbearing about it, with others to vouch for them when he inquired. They were mostly a respectable bunch too, which went a long way for his professional reputation.

Ryder, though—other than hearing what a cold bastard Renwick Senior was, Rick didn’t know much more of the name, and even less of the disowned kid. And what he had heard was even less promising. If Desrosiers was sending him a brat…

Luckily, it didn’t look like he had, if the kid’s slightly strained expression was anything to go by. Rick knew people could have constipated looks on their faces and still be a brat, but in this case anything other than a smug face was promising. The kid looked a little sickly, even, but hey—this was the Leaky Cauldron they were in. You weren’t a proper pub if you hadn’t had someone already puke on your floor at least once.

“Renwick?” Rick held out his hand when he arrived, not quite asking. “Donovan, at your service.”

---

The trick to this meeting, Ryder Renwick knew, would be to make it appear as if he were entirely in control and held all the information -even if, in reality, all he had was a name. The boy's fingers fiddled restlessly in his lap, the only sign of anxiety in an otherwise suddenly poised body. The smile he forced upon his face was calm, natural and friendly, and his eyes held a sign of friendliness. It was easy to slip behind the mask and pretend his whole world had not been shredded to pieces the night before.

His gaze settled on the bloke that approached, stretched out a hand, and offered his name. Ryder's first instinct was a sudden and violent need to shag Rick Donovan until his brain turned to mashed potatoes. His second instinct was to cry, as a sudden image of Balthy licking down his chest jumped to mind. His final instinct, and the one he decided to go for, was to push his chair back with the hind side of his knees, stand slightly and take the offered hand in a tight grip -and Merlin be damned, that rough skin felt good against his palm.

"Ryder Renwick," he smiled a small, not eager smile, before letting go of the man's hand -even if pulling it towards his cheek and letting such actions lead to other, even more perverse actions, sounded rather more appeasing. "Thanks for meeting me," he tapped the menu before him. "Would you like to order something before we get started, Mister Donovan?" It was only polite to offer -even if he had no money to pick up the check. He would figure that particular problem out later.

Oblivious to Ryder’s appreciation, Rick took the chair across from him, hooking a foot around a leg and dragging it forward. With his usual, careless grace, Rick sank into it, making himself comfortable until he looked very much at home– which he was, pretty much; at one point or another, all bars were one and the same. “A beer’s fine,” he replied, politely skimming through the menu. He’d already eaten.

Still, Rick looked through it anyway. It was that, or stare at Ryder until he broke spoke– something he usually did with clients both new and old alike, but held off for now. The kid was young– eighteen or something– and even younger looking up close. But more than that, he looked green—put together, maybe, well enough to please someone’s grandma, but if anything it brought to mind a kid trying on dad’s clothes.

The kid’s hand was as soft as a infant’s bottom, even. No wonder Éloi had nothing to give Rick about him; there probably wasn’t anything to give. And the bar’s older patrons and more casual setting? Only reinforced that.

Jesus.

Suddenly restless– impatient– and missing Leon with a pang that did absolutely nothing for his mood, Rick’s blank, stony expression cracked with a sigh. Mondays were one of his days off, but not typically Leon’s, and today had been a sweet exception; by the time Rick had rolled out of bed to shimmy into the nearest pair, he’d done so with resentment and it had been edging close to midday. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could return—and he really wanted to return. “Desrosiers didn’t give me much to go on,” the werewolf began without preamble, setting down the menu as one would roll up his sleeves. Pale, grayish eyes stared at Ryder levelly– their gaze attentive, yes, but unmistakably sharper than kind. “Your old man aside, there’s little I know about you that’s actually worth anything. What does he care about some wet-behind-the-ears rich kid?” Other than the obvious.

Clients were clients, but for more reasons than one Donovan’s wouldn’t hurt any if a potential one passed it by; for all his unapologetic American-ness (when it suited him) and a brusque demeanor that bordered on outright rudeness, Rick had established himself as a skilled artificer, his craftsmanship surpassed only by his grumpiness.

Ryder could always find another, of course, but there were few who could promise quality and decent pricing like Rick could. And if he’d have trouble just picking up the check, Rick would be really curious to see how just how he’d pay him…