As if woken by the movement, Dick sighed contentedly, tiredly, the way one would after a large meal.

“Thanks, Lew,” he said.

Nix scoffed. “Did you just thank me for jerking you off?”

“I meant it in more general terms, but--Yes.”

“Mm. You're welcome.”

Dick was silent then, and Nix figured from his minute body tension that he meant to say something else, but he was struggling to pick the right words. He pictured Dick’s furrowed brow, the rigid line of his lips as he formed the sentence.

“Sometimes I don't know if--” Dick paused. “All this sitting around. Waiting to be overrun, wiped out. And nothing--,” his voice almost broke there, “nothing feels, not good, I could take that, but--It's just. White. White all over.” He took a shaky breath. “So, yeah. Thank you.”

The terrible truth that Nix was completely, hopelessly out of booze chose that moment to hit him. It suddenly felt like everything had gone dark, a dry, cold kind of emptiness like a desert at night. His mouth like sandpaper, Nix closed his eyes and thought of Paris so hard that he almost tasted onion soup, merlot, bordelaise sauce--and deep under it all, the tangier notes of Dick’s skin and sweat.

“You ever need a refill, you come to me,” he said. “This is no place for ennui.”