It had been a couple days since his ill-advised letter to Dempsey and Dean was feeling... well reticent. Seeking the company of his female bedmates had been a better pick-me-up than expected. Two years was a long time to mope and Dean had convinced himself that he was over it, until that last letter from Dempsey. He hadn't meant to give so much away, but in having to translate (bad) Spanish from a borrowed text had really set him off.

In an effort to push it (and the lack of a reply) from his mind, Dean had accepted an invitation at the behest of a French friend visiting relatives in London for the week. He was due to be off for a bank assignment in a week's time and he was ready to trade in the British isles for the heat of Egypt. Maybe he'd start working on his Arabic so he could go down more often. Gobbledegook was good for the bank business, but if Dean wanted to travel more, he was going to need to learn new languages. He'd start thinking about which the next time he needed a distraction. He was no longer drinking in excess, a year of that was enough, and Dean had learned his limits, found better ways to occupy his time and wayward thoughts. After getting sent home from work on day for looking like shit, he'd learned his lesson. Perhaps a new language would be a better use of his time.

An hour past his arrival and nursing his one glass of whiskey, Dean was in an animated conversation about French wine with his host when he spotted Dempsey. Of all the places. He obviously hadn't seen much of him, considering one or both of them had been out of the country lately, but the letters were still fresh in his mind. This time he wasn't about to flee, but he also wasn't about to engage; the ball was in Dempsey's court, even if Dean wasn't sure he wanted to volley.