"Of course I want to go out." She makes a face at you, and one leathered palm slaps against your chest, her lips puckered as if she's about to tell you where to get off. Instead, she leans up on tiptoe to kiss you soundly. "I've been in all week. I don't care where we go - surprise me. Wherever we go, we can kick back, make a little noise, stir things up a little, right?"
     Her tone is insolent, but her eyes are focused on you with that mixture of wary defiance and hopefulness. Both hands drum a tattoo on your chest as she then wraps her arms around you, looking up at you with a crowing laugh. "Dammit, Davy... Something had to give. I've been being the good wife and mother for aaaaaaaaages," Fiona sticks her tongue out at you, "and I miss Pashmina's. You can't get decent takeaway curry here for blood or money. And, for the record," she pulls back, turning on her heel as she wanders away with a long lingering look over her shoulder, "Rhodri hasn't seen it yet. You get the virgin crack. Again."

     His arms go around you, his smirk firmly in place (it may well be permanent), and then he cackles at the virgin crack, waggling his eyebrows. "As well I should," comes the rumble. "So, alright... it's back to London then, is it? You're not going to take me to any strange clubs or sommat, are y'?" He grins that madcap, crazy Mercurial grin of his, that streak of comets and lightning that lights his whole face. "I'm not part of your scene. I'm the old fogey and you're the young punk minx." As if it's a role-playing game for the bedroom...
     Well, isn't it?
     "I like your hair," Davydd chuckles as he says it. "It's short, bouncy, blue." You know he could make commentary on other blue things that are bouncy -- it's a glimmer in his eyes -- but he holds off. At least for now. "Pashmina's for dins, I think we can manage that. We can head up the Phantasmagoria...it's sort of reverting back to it's harder roots, or seems to be. Not quite the hot thing it was, but still popular with your kind. Or we can go to that Boobs place. They had good drinks. Though I can't promise y' I'll dance..."
     Reaching around you, Davydd takes up his umbrella (he seldom travels London without it), and he turns to guide you out of the door. "I know you've been a good mother and a doting, sweet wife for longer than I expected," he rumbles again. "I think everyone half expected you to go a bit bonkers being cooped up here." He looks as you as he leads you down the grand staircase to the ground floor. He doesn't have to watch his steps; after so many years, he has them memorized. "You look good," he murmurs. "And you took pity on me, the poor old dear that I am," Davydd continues with a wide grin, "...leavin' off with the little plaid skirt and the Mary Janes. I think my head would have exploded otherwise."
     With all of the baby nonsense, and of course your healing period, he has only gotten a hint of you, a bit of a nibble and taste -- but those are far and few between with the little infant demanding your attention and your other husband constantly underfoot. Add on his work and travel and you have more misses that hits in the hit and miss romance.

     "Back to London," Fiona sighs. "I miss the city. I'm just not much good in the country. Everyone says how nice it is to get to the country - slow down, take your time, pace yourself, but you know, the more I slow down, the more I feel like I'll start sagging all over until I wobble like jelly. And who wants that? Not me." She reaches up to tug at your hair. "Well, you know. Blue versus red. Like they say."
     She pokes you lightly, then, watching you with narrowed eyes as you go for your umbrella. "I never hung at the Gory much. More at Betty's, but most of the time I was working, remember. And not having sex. Pashmina's first, then see if we're in the mood for drinks more or eye candy more, if that works? Or," she smirks, "we could always go to Davy's, give Llew a thrill."
     She moves ahead of you on the stairs, flirting her hips a little more than strictly necessary. "Well, I could have done the entire Ess Ay, but you know," she drawls, "I wasn't figuring I'd necessarily get lucky tonight. You can buy me dinner. And maybe I'll suck your knob in the back of the car after, and maybe I won't."
     See that grin as she looks back at you? Pure devilry. She is as impish as an entire barrel of monkeys tonight. "You might have to get me drunk, first."

     He almost looks offended. "Since when do you have to get drunk?" He knows you're playing. The offended look evaporates easily, like fog in sunlight. "We'll start with Pashmina's, good idea, and then just sort of see how we feel. Maybe cop a feel in the stairway," he murmurs. He leads you, though he's sure you know the way, down the great stairs, down a hall and to a set of smaller (much) stairs in a rarely traveled hallway. These stairs lead to the back ways to the terrace gardens, from the interior guts of the palace itself. It used to be a secret passage long ago.
     The hallway is dark, with only sconces to light the way. You a punk and he a vampire. Seems a bit fitting, don't you think? "There are a few new clubs. You know, different night, different hot spot. I'm sure we can find something. I don't think Davy's is a proper date," he rumbles, looking to you. His hair is fiery in the low light. "I mean, I own it... you own it by default. It's sort of like going home. I'd just as soon go somewhere else. I'll definitely buy your dinner and you can definitely suck my knob for recompense." He cackles at that, sure you'll not let it slide.
     The journey ends at the back of the Aviary. The birds are cooing and singing in their evening nests. He leads you past the gate, invisible from the other entrance, and to the dirt-covered floor where he first bled you. The stones are as you remember. Davydd takes your hand, lacing your fingers with his, and he steps forward, breathing a phrase of ancient Welsh.
     And then you feel the moist kiss of London's weather...
     The other end of that magical trail used to end in an alleyway within an alley. But times called for a realignment and now it leads to the alley behind Black Jack Davy's. His convertible Jaguar circa 1965 is parked and secured here (at some point, he installed a security gate, closing off the alley to the public access). The top on the Jaguar is up. Now that it's autumn, convertible weather's all but over in London.
     People walk past the gate all the time and rarely look in. In the shelter of the alley's darkness, Davydd pulls you to him tightly and kisses you like any punk girl should be kissed: hard, with your back against the bricks.

     "What kind of a girl d'you think I am, anyway? I should punch you." But she's grinning, and you can hear it creeping into her grin; like sunlight through lace curtains, like schnapps sneaking up behind in a drink. You draw her along with you, and she sticks to you like glue. Right into what she dimly remembers - and what a punk moment was that?
     "Nice," Fiona coos as you and she are so suddenly in London again. "What's for your next trick? I'm game for a change-up on the clubs," she adds cheekily. "But expect people to ask if you're my daddy." She kicks at a discarded scrap of metal, watching it go ricocheting off the bricks as she turns to you and to the car. "Mmm. Nice and crisp. Just the way I like it."
     And then you are pulling her in, and the breath goes out of her. You are a very solid man. One hand goes up to your cheek, fingernails digging just a little, prickling at your skin as she kisses you back just as hard. She makes an emphatic sort of sound, then slaps your shoulder as she wriggles, gasping for breath.
     "What was that for?" Fiona inquires, but she doesn't even begin to manage to sound displeased. She grins up at you sidelong, licking her lips. "Glad I didn't bother with lipstick." She lets the wall have her weight, though keeps an arm around your neck. "Going to pour me into the car, or expecting me to get there under my own steam, now? Double everything at dinner. Since, well, you're buying."

     "I don't think I have to have a reason for kissing my wife, punk princess or not," Davydd murmurs. He winks, his dark eyes sparkling in what light there is (not much, simply residual from the street). Stepping back, he gives you space to breathe without breathing him in as well, and he unlocks and opens the car door for you. "They'll think I'm a cop before they think I'm your daddy," he chuckles. "But, I am who I am. I'm not a leather wearing rocker." No, that's your Other Husband.
     Davydd stands in the open doorway of the driver's side of his Jaguar, and presses the same lock activator to unlock and open the gates. Snazzy. He then folds his large self into the small sports car and makes himself comfortable. It takes a minute. "I had the gates put in a couple of weeks ago. Not foolproof, but enough of a deterrent to keep the riffraff out of the alley. Except for me," he grins, pointed teeth and all.
     He backs the car out of the alley, giving a honk to the pedestrians to clear the way. "Sodding drunks. I'm going to end up running them over one night. Yeah, sweetheart," he raises his voice, "... any time you're ready to move out of the fucking way..." Once the car's out of the alley, the gate slides back into place and locks.
     He drives fast regardless the vehicle but the Jaguar is actually built for it. He looks at you in glances, each time his gaze lands on a different place. He even makes the attempt to glance at your face now and then. "I could do with some curry. I'm famished." It's not far to Pashmina's, certainly not the way he's driving.

     "You're what I like," Fiona tells you comfortably, letting you hand her into the car with only a single flash of eyes. "Nice. All automatic. Must've cost a fortune. Been giving any of it away, or has it all been going to decorate my pretty little neck? Oh, damn - that's what I forgot. The studded collar. But then, since I did marry you, I suppose that might send entirely the wrong message."
     Her hand goes to your thigh, and for a few minutes, at least, she's fine with companionable silence. Her eyes close, and she smirks a little as you scatter humanity in front of you. "At least you're not bourgeois," she murmurs. "You have an equally low disregard of people regardless of their origins."
     Fiona looks over at you, catching you looking at her, and one eye closes in a wink as her smile broadens. "I could do with a double order of curry and some apricot naan. Nothing too gummy. Something with flavour and substance. I swear, I feel like my stomach's vanished under my tits so that I look like a walking advertisement for a botched boob job, but it's all the milk, what can I say? Slow down, I don't think they do takeout to the hospital, and I'm pretty sure the Pearly Gates won't accept delivery either - of food or us."

     "People. Can't eat with them, can't eat without them," Davydd croons out. "But I do like to consider myself an equal opportunity observer." Or offender, take your pick. "Parking might be a bid mad, but we'll get some grub. They've expanded into the next shop now, added booths and all. It's a regular restaurant these days. I'd like to think we had sommat to do with that."
     Although it's in the middle of the dinner hour, he's able to procure a decent enough parking space, just a short walk away, less than a tenth of a block. Then engine purrs to a whisper to a stop, and suddenly you're faced with instant Cymri. Just add mischief, right? "I haven't had my favorite snack in months, you know." Tugging you to him with a finger crooked in your top, Davydd plants another kiss on your pretty punk face.
     If you don't dress as a lady, how can you expect him to treat you like one?
     "I like your advertisements," he murmurs, grinning wide and warm. And he takes a moment to be utterly crude (as if he only does that for a moment, right?) and looks not at your face but at 'your other face' as far as men are concerned. All men. And he's definitely one of those. "I haven't even had a chance to enjoy them, we've been so busy and preoccupied. I'll rectify that later." A wink, a kiss, and he's piling out of his side of the car, closing his door and heading to yours. So he's a gentleman despite the things he says.
     Davydd opens your door with a flourish. "Well, my pampered punk princess... this'll probably be the last door you let me open for you tonight, wot? You going to sock me in the jaw for my bourgeois impertinence?" The very idea tickles him, clearly. "You know everyone's thinking I'm a dirty old man dipping into the kiddie pool right about now. You look all of eighteen, if that. Mind I don't get arrested."

     "I made Rhodri go three times a week for their pickles while I was pregnant," Fiona says smugly. "I- mmm, hello." You tug at her top, and she tugs at your belt, both hands going to the leather as she turns her face up to the kiss. "Mm. Well, you can have a taste now and again, but til I finish nursing, Rhodri'll probably get upset. At me, rather than just at you. But I think tonight..."
     Her eyes sparkle. Oh, yes, she likes being your snack about as much as you like the snacking. "Am I low-cal enough for you?". she purrs. She takes a deep breath, thrusting her chest out for you to look at, then backs off to slip out of the car and come round to meet you. "Noone's going to arrest you. You look like you've got too much money. And you can open doors for me if you want, or you can walk ahead of me and let me comment on your rear end." She wolf-whistles mockingly, then laughs.
     "Maybe I should've worn the school uniform after all..."

     "Well... what he doesn't know won't kill him," Davydd rumbles lowly, giving you a press to the Jaguar. "Just... don't tell him." It's as easy as that. He waggles his eyebrows and leans in for another kiss. "Fuck low-cal. I don't drink light beer." His mouth cuts a sideways grin, wide and warm and wild. He chuckles into the kiss and then steps back. "Don't dent the Jag," he cracks. As if.
     Pashmina's new and improved sign beams beacon like from across the street. Looking right and left, Davydd takes your hand and leads you across, his marching stride quick. You might have to jog to keep up. "You can't see my rear end," Davydd quips. "Unless you can see past the wool coat." What rear end, he started to say. But well, if you like it he's not going to cast aspersions onto it. "Coo, but I do look smashin', don' I?" Peering into the window, moreover onto his own reflection, he dusts off his shoulders with a hand against the wool and admires himself for a moment, even going so far as to check his shaving job. Narcissistic much?
     "If you'd have worn that outfit, we'd never have made it out of the car. Car? Castle," he grins, going for the door to hold it open for you, "Let's get a booth and sit together so I can fondle you through the appetizers."

     "You know that I don't tell him things," Fiona retorts. "Somehow he just knows, that's all." She flaunts what she's got, even if she is in jeans instead of a dress or a skirt. Something she'd never have done when you first met her - but here and now, it's on display for you. You nudge her back, and she leans forward, tugging at your mouth with her own before she pushes off the body of the car to be led.
     "You look beautiful, dear," Fiona tells you with a roll of her eyes and a smug, sidelong grin. "I married you, didn't I? You can't seriously be worried that you don't look good enough. What do I need to do, perform a package check on you?"
     One hand drops as if she's about to - but no, not really, she doesn't. Instead, she holds onto your hand with a tolerant look, a look of 'it amuses me to pretend to be docile. For now.' "We can get a booth, but you can only fondle me just so long as it doesn't interfere with my eating. I'm HUNGRY."

     He looks at you as though you've just sprouted a second head. "What? Look good enough? Nah I'm not serious." He laughs. "But thank you all the same." He opens the door for you widely, a gallant arm swinging, motioning you within. What a charmer. "The one in the back there," he murmurs to you and then he's greeting the owner as if they're long lost brothers, even speaking a bit of Welsh-flavored Hindi. How are you? Wife fine? Oh we're fine, thanks.
     Davydd waits for you to slide in the booth first, taking the time to remove his overcoat and set it on the opposite seat (the one with its back to the door. He has to sit with his eyes facing the door, naturally. What self respecting vampire sits with his back to the door anyway? He nods to the waitress as she sets down the utensils and the menus, piling into the booth only after you sit down.
     "I think two teas to start...chai," he says. She nods (that is the owner's sister, Bindi) and heads to the back to prepare the tea. Davydd stretches his arm behind you, letting it rest against the back of the booth's seat. Dark green eyes make a survey (so quick, could you even tell he was looking?) around the room, seeing who is here, who is not. It is a decent enough crowd, though it is between the dinner hour and the late night tea crowd.
     "You can perform a package check on me at Betty's," Davydd grins. "I'll look all sorts of out of place there," his lyrical tumble of words comes, his earthy tone warming them. "So, what's brought this all about, anyway? Not that I mind it? I don't, actually. I like you when you're perky and irreverent. Makes for saucy evenings..." But still, he's curious.

     She's a little tempted by the idea of crawling into your lap - but she doesn't. Instead, she settles a hand on your thigh, lightly scritching her fingernails against your trouser-leg. With her other hand, she opens the menu, content to let you order the drinks, anyway. "Hmm... lamb or chicken... I'm just not very fond of chicken. Those beady eyes."
     She isn't paying very much attention to the crowd - that's what you're for, isn't it? Instead, she peers up at you sidelong, then grins. "Why? I'm not ready to die yet. What other reason do I need?" Fiona nudges the menu closed. "You want a longer answer? Well ... it's like ... what is my purpose? It's not just to have fat babies, and if you try to say otherwise, I'll frog you one. Don't get me wrong. I love my baby, and that's not going to change, but - I need to be someone other than Peter's mum. And this is who I was before all that, and to some extent, this is who I'll always be."

     Suits him fine. You see him look at you with that easy, canary-shit-eating way of his and he smiles, the corners of his mouth ticking upward. "Truth be told?" As if you'd tolerate anything else. "I'm glad to see it. It was getting entirely too fucking serious. We needed a bit of levity," his voice rumbles low. He lowers it a notch still, leaning in toward you. "I wasn't as into the whole...ethereal princess bit. You're lovely no matter what you do, but... this is you, you know. The earthy, physical, saucy girl. Mouth and attitude in surplus." And he has a fond spot for that mouthy young girl you were, before the world started ending and babies started popping out of the woodwork.
     "Just do me a favor now and again?" Good god, what does he want now? "Toss in a vintage look every once in a while. You know... Ann-Margret, 1960s vintage. Refinement that I can ruin. I love that." Davydd's words finish in a breath. Love it? He could eat it whole, just the thought of it. "I love a well-dressed woman, perfume just right." His arm slides off the booth's backing and snakes around you, pulling you in close. He's wearing a fine cologne -- you had to get up against him to smell it, but it's nice and light, a warm tone. "I like the blue," he murmurs.
     "Here is your tea," Bindi says lightly. She is smiling at you, a canoodling pair -- odd couple that you appear to be on the surface, but she knows you. She's seen you plenty of times in the last couple of years. "What would you like to eat... or... do you need a few more moments...?"

     "Mmm. Glad you like it, since this is what you've got." Fiona halfway purrs it. You lean in, she leans in, and she's inches from just grabbing you like there's noone else around. "I'll still revert now and again - the boys need their mum, after all - but I'm looking forward to shocking the shite out of them a little bit. How do you think Io and Gwi will react?"
     She listens to you, watches you, then tosses her head. "I think I can probably hunt something up if that's really what you want." She wrinkles her nose at you, watching you from under her eyelashes - all mischief, even as you're reeling her in. "Mmm... I like your cologne," she murmurs back to you. "I've forgotten what else I was going to say."
     Bindi's approach was unobserved by her, and she sits up suddenly, eyes widening - the lightning dart apart usually reserved for teenagers when a parent walks in. "...Uh. Lamb kashmiri and apricot naan and jasmine rice and some of those chunky pickle mix and chutney, thanks. I'm good." She nods, several times, folding her hands on the table as if she's attempting to be pious. "I don't know what he's getting, though."

     "My dear," he croons out to Bindi as he hands her the menu, "I would like the apricot naan as well, I love apricots," that aside for you, "...and let's have a few of the lamb kebobs. Just meat tonight. And the lamb on the rare side of medium, love. I need all the protein I can get." He finds that hilarious, his dark eyes twinkling in unvoiced laughter. Bindi smiles and bows slightly, gathering the menus and turning to put in the order.
     A slight turn toward you shortens whatever slight space there was between you. While you are not in a world all your own, the close quarters do create a kind of island unto yourselves. Davydd slides his hand upon your denimed thigh and then between them as he leans in to whisper. "Bah, who cares what they think. They're grown. Peter's sure to give you odd looks. At least until he sees the tit, then he'll forget all about the hair. Just like most men." He laughs at that.
     "I'm glad you like it," his words are breathed near your ear. "I did a little shopping this week. Bought a few new suits, and this. My nose is pretty sensitive. It cost a small fortune to get something that didn't completely assault my senses." Funny how after you die your senses can become more acute. His hand massages where it rests, unseen by any but most assuredly felt by you. "This was a good idea," Davydd rumbles. "Thanks for suggesting it. We needed a little time to ourselves." The marriage, though it is a marriage of three, has readjusted slightly... the separate parts wanting to remain separate for now. You know you'll have both of them in the same bed at some point again, but for now separation is desired. Different needs, different lives.

     She waits until Bindi has withdrawn, then grins at you with that pugnacious gleam in her eyes, chin tipped up as you approach. "I didn't say their opinion would change anything. I just like to see how they react," she whispers to you, and the distance is abruptly halved, what little is left. Her hands go up to your chest, running lightly over fabric.
     "Peter will get over it. The only person who has to like it is me. Though I'm glad you do, and hopefully Rhodri will be resigned to it. Mmm..."
     She leans her face in, inhaling the cologne scene with eyes tightly closed. "This stuff is dangerous," Fiona murmurs. "I'm going to insist you not wear it around any other women. What's in it, anyway?" She rubs her cheek against your chest. Other people can go to hell for a little while.

     "Too late," he chuckles. "The girls at the counter all had a whiff," he says as you paw at him. "I don't remember the ingredients. But I kept the box. Probably sandalwood. I think there's a bit of vanilla in there somewhere. But really, I'm talking out of my arse when it comes to this stuff. All I know is that it's not offensive and is expensive." Riot.
     "Oh, well... Gwilym'll probably crack wise, you know him. Iowerth will take it in stride, treat it like the weather or sommat. He's hard to ruffle when he doesn't want to be. And you're right, Peter will get used to it. Your mother's going to have a coronary. But at least Rhodri'll get the blame. He's the one who promised to make an honest woman out of y'. I said no such damn fool thing."
     Bending his head, he kisses you lightly. He doesn't give a damn about anyone else watching. Fortunately you're at the back of the restaurant's new addition, so not as visible as you could be. A little booth can hide a multitude of sins. And his hands are straight from the devil.
     "So you want to go dancin' afterwards... go to a bar, have some drinks. I didn't get to see much of Betty's last time. Just part of the bar and halfway up the stairs." But what a night that ended up being. Your neighbor's babysitter has never looked at you the same way since.

     She meows at you, nuzzling at you and then pulling away abruptly. "I better rein myself in or we won't be going dancing tonight, either. Anyway, I am an honest woman. I'm not pretending to be anything I'm not." Fiona sticks her tongue out at you impudently, then reaches for her chai. "I wish I'd gotten a picture of my mother's face when I kissed you after kissing Rhodri. I think she could have bitten her tongue off and spat it at me."
     She lets herself unbend enough to lean up against you, closing her eyes for a moment. "If you're a very good boy," Fiona murmurs silkily, "I'll take you upstairs, in Betty's. It'll be a cautionary tale for the moral advancement of husbands."

     "You've gone feral," he chuckles, his hand patting your leg again as you sit back. "Better save that for later. You'll need your energy, I'll promise you that. So, I hear there are themes to the rooms? Is that so? Dare I ask?" He's quite amused, really. As if anything could shock him. And yet, surprisingly, he is shocked from time to time.
     And that's the most shocking bit of all...
     "This is about as good as it gets, sweetheart," so he croons. "Ah, food, thank Duw. I was about to gnaw on the upholstery." Bindi does arrive, balancing the several trays. The bread is given first, then the rice, then the two lamb dishes: kebobs nearly rare, flash cooked and nothing more. Just the way he likes it. Davydd's eyes go a bit big and he goes for a swallow of his tea before diving into the bloody meats.
     "Call me if you need me," Bindi whispers. But she rather gets the feeling the two of you would like to be unmolested for the rest of your evening. At least by the waitstaff, herself included.
     "Your mother's a real pip. Very insecure. She reminds me of Rose in about forty more years." Forty, four-hundred, what's the difference? "She relatively happy now that you've had the obligatory child?"

     Food. She begins salivating just looking at the trays. Her appetite is large - not so large as your own, but she keeps up as best she can. "Themes, yes," Fiona answers once the plates are down and Bindi gone. "Sense and Sensibility. Crime and Punishment. A few other rooms as well, and a little vending area off in a corner upstairs, selling things which people might want or need. I've never stayed all that long, mind."
     Rhodri, after all, likes to see and be seen (as does she) and then to have his privacy...
     She smiles over at you, rolling her head back on her shoulders. "Mother wouldn't be happy with me no matter what I do - but she dotes on Peter. Proclaims I'll be a terrible mother and implies I'd leave him unattended in his pram if I go to the park with him. I only put up with her for daddy's sake, you know. He adores Peter; he wants to set up a trust fund."

     "Your father's a smart man. Education is expensive." He begins separating the rare lamb flesh from the stick. He'd hate to skewer himself. That'd be an embarrassing way to go into torpor. He'd never live it down at the vampire country club. His mouth quirks in humor at the thought of it.
     "Since Peter's his namesake and heir, I think that's appropriate. I trust him to do what's right for you and your son. He won't let your mother in the way of that. Course, the larger concern is if he passes ahead of her and things aren't established properly. You might ought to tend to that sooner rather than later." You and he don't have to worry so much about Time, but your father's not getting any younger.
     Though the lamb was slaughtered prior to being flash cooked, it is slaughtered again by his mouth and appetite. Davydd makes a sound in his throat, the purring of a dragon, as he eats. His eyes roll in their sockets. "Duw," is all he manages to say. The kebobs don't last long. Soon enough his plate is full of more sticks than flesh.
     Pausing for a sip of the chai, Davydd glances to you. His mouth holds a ribald smirk. "Crime and Punishment. Sense and Sensibility?" He chuckles. "A den of iniquity," comes the tumbling sounds of his own humor, his accent tripping upon the consonants and lilting over the vowels. "We'll give it a look. Why not."

     "I'll tell daddy, but you know, he's likely already had the lawyers draw up the paperwork." She makes a face. She doesn't like the thought of anyone she loves dying - even if with most people she is less wildly insistent upon their continued existence than yourself. "It'll just need our signatures, and the nomination of a suitable guardian in case Rhodri and I die in a plane crash or something."
     She has been working her way solidly and steadily through her own food. "You never know," she glances at you, smirking deliberately, "you might like it. I don't know, though. Somehow I can't see you in a black leather thong."

     "And there's a fucking good reason for that. I'd never be caught dead in one of those." His grin is a firebrand. It streaks in a broad arch across his face, his features illuminated by it. "Let's leave off with the talk of thongs, sil vous plais," he rumbles, leaning in a touch as he decimates the last of his lamb. "It's putting me off my feed."
     Sitting back with a wink, he finishes the last of his lamb, washing it down with a swallow of chai. The apricot naan is next on the chopping block. "And let's leave off business talk. Tonight, for now, we're free of all responsibilities," his fingers tear the bread. "We're just going to go out and have a good time. The baby'll be at the breast soon enough. You need to unwind, have a bit of reckless fun."
     The dark green of his eyes sparkles again as he winks. Your secret, our secrets, will be safe. "I think you should try red next," he says of your hair. "Cherry red, maybe with streaks of bronze or copper, or even platinum. Just to mix it up. Course, I'm partial to pink myself as you know from all your frilly undies. I like my girls to be girls, even when they're wearing a tee-shirt that says 'Fuck You' or 'Sod Off' or 'Get Stuffed'. Hmm," he makes a sound in his throat as he chews the sweet naan and as he studies you. "I think pink'd suit you great. It'd knock me for a loop I know..."

     "No thongs. Unless it's me, and not leather. Silk, maybe." Fiona grins down at her plate, heaping some chutney onto her meat. "But I own lots of silk. I like silk - I admit it. I like leather, too, just ... not undies. Chafes too much. Oh, wait - no talk of thongs. Right. Sorry!"
     She smirks at you, popping the last bit of food into her mouth and settling back with a contented sound in the back of her thought. Once her mouth is no longer full, she reaches for your nearer hand. "Don't I look enough like a girl for you? And I've done my hair pink before, you know. I could do it again. Never done red. I guess I thought it'd be too much, what with you and Rhodri." Her eyes sparkle. She's just had an idea. "Now I know what to do for your birthday," Fiona sing-songs at you.
     Speaking of cats and canaries...