Reeve was eighteen the first time the President invited him to the Honeybee Inn.

(Invite was a soft word for it. Heidegger had pulled Reeve under his arm, punched him in the shoulder, and said something about making Reeve a man. He had met the President's gaze, saw the thoughtful glint there, and he swallowed back his protest. It would only have made him seem like a child. More like a child.)

He didn't visit terribly often anymore, not since the President had stopped holding regular court there, but sometimes...

He slid his fingers down the sides of the glass. The Inn was quiet-- not too surprising, given that it was in the middle of the week-- but there was still enough to watch. There was a rhythm to the place, same as there was anywhere else, and not for the first time, he thought the ebb and swell of the crowd was not unlike the pulse of a reactor.

But then again, what in Midgar wasn't?

He wasn't surprised in the slightest when someone joined his table. He'd already gently dissuaded two girls, which meant it had only been a matter of time before the queen appeared. Her perfume was unmistakable, a symphony of flora that somehow never clashed with the rest of the Inn.

"Melissa," he offered, and he smiled as he looked up from his glass.

"To what do we owe the pleasure, Director?" Her voice was warm, and Reeve could feel some of the day's tension easing for it.

That was her gift, after all.

"Charlie and his Gongagan barbeque." Reeve leaned back in the seat, sipping from the glass he still held. "It's the best in Midgar," he added, his voice low.

She chuckled, and while she didn't lean into him-- that would have been too much when she was dressed like this, when she was surveying her domain with all the same self-assured possession that any Director could muster-- she did rest her hands on the edge of the table, putting herself just a hair closer to him.

"I know," she said, as though telling him a secret, and her smile widened. "You tell me every time you're here."

Because of course he did. Somehow, even after all these years, it was the first thing that popped into his head. He shook his head, and he set the glass back on the table.

"Do I really?" When she tilted her head, confirming it, he shook his head. "I must be slipping.  I thought I was a better conversationalist than that."

"Maybe."  When she stood, Reeve couldn't help but watch her, entranced for just a moment by the heavy, elegant lines of her dress.  "Then again," she said, her own voice soft enough that it was almost hard to hear, "maybe it's just that you don't come here for conversation."

Reeve tipped his head, acknowledging her point before she headed on, calling on someone else to pay their respects.

His finger traced the edge of his glass, and he watched her make the rounds. The crowd was small; he could afford to wait for her to reach him again.