He’d ended up loving it. Just like she’d known he would.

He had been listening to her ideas ever since.

Standing in the middle of Daphne’s crowded living room with the remains of the previous nights feeble attempt at sleep still messing up the sofa -- who on earth dreams of fucking in mid-air, anyway? Justin thinks he might be going slightly mad, and that would be a bit of a relief except that they probably wouldn’t let him keep long pointy pencils in his padded room, and he’s not giving up drawing, thank you very much -- Justin gnaws slowly on his thumbnail and considers her idea.

“So basically,” he says, “you’re saying I should stalk him.”

Daphne rolls her eyes and flops down onto the sofa. “Stalk is such a harsh word. I prefer to think of it as creative shadowing.”

Justin snorts. “Still.”

“Please.” Daphne crosses her legs and dangles one pink fluffy slipper over the arm of the couch. “As if you haven’t done it before.”

He has to admit that she has a point. He’s pretty sure there’s still a Justin-shaped indentation in the bushes about halfway down Fuller by the dry cleaners. Still, he hates to just give in without a fight. “I guess,” he says.

This time it’s Daphne who snorts. “This is a foolproof plan,” she says. “It’s genius.”

“It’s better than anything I’ve been able to come up with,” Justin reluctantly admits. Of course, between kicking himself over his own gullibility by day and wild-sex-with-Brian dreams by night, it’s amazing that Justin is able to remember his own name, never mind come up with a workable Win Brian Back plan. Mortification and horniness do not make for clear thought processes, he has discovered.

“The best I could think of was…”

“Was…?” Daphne prompts, all bright eyes and eager ears.

What was he thinking? “Nothing.”

“Justin.”

Justin grits his teeth. He will not squirm. He most definitely will not squirm.

“It was nothing. Really.”

“Fine.”

And when she leans back and studies him, Justin is hit with another memory: seven year old Daphne squatting on her haunches, one finger pushing back the glasses that threaten to dangle right off her nose as she leans over, over, waaaay over, and studies the bugs trundling across the playground.

Justin hates being a bug.

“You know I’ll find out,” Daphne says matter-of-factly.

Justin still doesn’t know how Daphne learned about his fan letter to Joey McIntyre. So he decides to play it cool, and schools his face into an expression of nonchalance as he slips in beside her on the sofa. “Okay. I wrote into an advice columnist.”

“You didn’t!”

“That Steve guy in Out.” Justin shrugs casually, as if he hadn’t stayed up most of a night penning the fucking thing, agonizing over every syllable, a crumpled pack of smokes and a rapidly dwindling bottle of Southern Comfort at his side. “It was no big deal. It’s not like he published it or anything.”

“You’re nuts,” Daphne laughs.

“Fuck off.”

Daphne slides her shoulder against his. “Sure you don’t want some yoghurt?”

Halfway through her meal, Cynthia remembers why she stopped attending reunion luncheons.

She is bored to shit.

However, one of the things that makes her an excellent executive assistant is her ability to listen, her ability to glean facts and insight from the slightest information, even when she is bored to fucking tears. So she maintains a façade of interest, and in between murmuring ‘hmmms’ to the tedious stories of her moronic ex-classmates, she mentally rearranges her filing cabinet, writes her shopping list, and figures out a way to schedule Brian’s upcoming client dinner with Roscoe Trucking so that he won’t have to miss the Abstacular night at Babylon. She deserves a bonus for that one. She is midway through an alphabetical listing of all the men she slept with during college when the story currently entrancing the other diners at the table seeps through her self-imposed fog, and her eyes grow wide.

“… and the kid actually has the nerve to ask how to win this guy back!”

Stephen Poulter was a pretentious prick in college, and Cynthia put his balls in a figurative twist on more than one occasion. There was also the time she put his balls in a literal twist, but she’s hoping he’s forgotten about that. At any rate, she has learned a little diplomacy since then, and so she smiles winningly and touches his arm and sounds oh-so-fascinated when she asks just what advice Steve gave the boy.

“I told the presumptuous pup to consider himself lucky that the ex hadn’t slapped him with a restraining order. Called him arrogant, shallow, and with an exceedingly elevated sense of self worth.”

“You didn’t.”

“Sent him scurrying off with his tail between his legs, I‘m sure.” Stephen smiles smarmily at his captive audience. “Unfortunately, the paper didn’t print that part of the column. Something about ad space.”

“Unfortunately,” Cynthia manages to grit out.

When the phone rings, Justin automatically glances at the number. And freezes. His heart double-times and his palms are suddenly sweaty.

“It’s…” is all he can get out, waving at the phone, and Daphne is suddenly dancing beside him.

He takes a breath and says Hello, praying his voice doesn’t crack or squeak or make strange gurgling noises.

“Justin Taylor?”

Justin pulls the phone away from his ear to check the number, brow furrowed, before replacing the receiver at his ear. “Yes?”

“This is Cynthia Reynolds from Vangard.”

“Um… yeah. Hi Cynthia.”

“I’m calling to touch base with you about Vangard’s internship program. As I’m sure you’re aware, Vangard is one of several organizations in the area who are working with the local schools of the arts to train first year students in the processes of working in a fast paced advertising environment.”

Daphne is scowling and waving her arms and jiggling beside him, and Justin bugs his eyes out at her and tries to concentrate.

“I’m second year, Cynthia.”

“Second year students, of course, that’s exactly who we want. So if you get your paperwork together and drop it off at my desk, I can begin the process and set you up with an appointment with Mr. Murphy, the head of our art department.” Her voice drops, losing a little of the oily professionalism. “That is, if you’re interested in joining us at Vangard. On a daily basis.”

Justin grins into the phone. “I’m sure that would be something I’d be interested in.”

“Wonderful. Get that paperwork in as soon as you can.”

She hesitates and Justin almost thinks she‘s hung up, when her voice comes back on the line. And now Justin can tell that she’s smiling, too. “And Justin? You didn’t hear any of this from me.”