Monk grew panicky at the mention of sex. It wasn't as though the other man had yelled it out loud enough for the whole pub to hear, and honestly most people in a place like this wouldn't have cared regardless — too focused on surviving their own lives to worry about anyone else's — but it still wasn't the sort of thing discussed openly, except by people who made their living through sex. Monk wasn't a rentboy, but having someone else talk about his sex life made him feel like one — like everything he'd done to date was cheap and meaningless. Which, he supposed, it was. He hadn't slept with anyone prior to Ewan. Ewan had been fun at first, but Monk wasn't kidding himself by this point — he knew he was mostly staying with him for the flat. Which was just half a step up from being a rentboy, wasn't it? The only difference really was that he had a consistent john instead of a rotating cast.

Monk wasn't sure what to say. He was feeling a little despondent, a little annoyed — maybe more with himself than this stranger. He had the feeling that he ought to have clever things to say, ought to put up more of a fight than just weakly protesting that Ewan wasn't that bad, but he felt like his legs had been knocked out from under him and he was being sluggish to regain his footing.

He gripped the pint glass tighter. Maybe he couldn't defend Ewan, but he wasn't half-dead; he could at least do a little better than rolling over and letting some stranger walk right over the top of him. "So you left him and now you're on top of the world, is that it?" he challenged mildly.

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