2 Works in Quaquin Elmore
Quaquin didn't care for sex clubs as a rule, but at least Satyr's was among the classiest of the station's various fornicatory establishments.
Vigo wanders into the kitchen, the floating cam trailing after him. Quaquin catches a glimpse of his ass as the angle shifts dizzyingly. "Something wrong?" Vigo asks as he pours himself a drink. He actually sounds concerned. Like he cares.
"Nothing's wrong. I'm just on a tight schedule, that's all. Tonight's out of the question, but I've got a couple of hours free this afternoon." And I really fucking need to see you, before I snap and tear someone a new one, he doesn't add. The tension's probably plain from his voice, anyway. Vigo's good at picking up on those sorts of nuances.
Vigo shrugs. "Sure, I can shift a few appointments around, be ready for you by one. How long did you want me for?"
As long as it takes, no more. "Half an hour?"
"Aw, don't short-change yourself, Robin." Quaquin hates it when he calls him that, mainly because of the way it makes his stomach roll over on its back and whimper. "You said you had a couple of hours free, so let's make it last."