Date Night

The Jacque Vert, located at the corner of 5th and Earl’s Street in prestigious L1, is the last bastion of the era of 21st Century modern cuisine and has, with no little exaggeration, seen it all. It has shrugged through the hostile military occupation of space, and weathered economic downturn, rebellion and all-out war. It has withstood and evolved against the usual turning tide of food trends, scorned scathing critique and lasted long enough to become the place that one’s grandfather loved. Therefore, with the 50-year effect of nostalgia and cultural amnesia, it has become popular again. 

 

In its time, the restaurant has had no less than twenty-nine different head chefs, but in the last fifteen years, only one sommelier. This, in Heero’s opinion, says a lot about head chefs. 

 

At any rate, Jacque Vert had been the name that came up first on the list of potential venues, and the only one that met all of the rigorous and varying criteria he’d compiled for choosing a restaurant, so the Jacque Vert it had to be. Heero expected the others to thank him later. 

 

Even though they’d probably forget, the ingrates. 

 

Heero arrives earlier than early, and lingers watching the exits for a full ten minutes. There are perhaps only ten staff working the restaurant, including the kitchen, suggesting a slick operation. The hostess is a lady with great aplomb, who he can see through the main window, and who seems to be the captain of her reception podium. 

 

All in all, it bodes well. Even the tie seems like a good idea again. He straightens it, checks his watch unnecessarily (he’s still early) and then enters the building. 

 

She smiles to see him, blindingly, so that Heero fights the urge to look over his shoulder to see who all that charm is for. In the natural hierarchy of things, it’s not usually for him. 

 

“Bonsoir! Good evening.”

 

“I have a reservation,” he says, regretting the tie again. 

 

“Certainly. Under what name?”

 

“Yuy.” 

 

She checks down the computer screen nodding, looking, checking. Silently, Heero presses his damp palms to his trousers. “It’s for a date,” he says.

 

“Yes, I see your booking here, monsieur; please allow- pardon?” She stops picking up drink menus and looks at the screen again.

 

“What?”

 

“Please excuse me, I wonder if there’s an error on our system.” She smiles again. “The reservation was for two?” 

 

“Five.”

 

“Yes..ah, of course. If you care to follow me.” 

 

“Was there a issue?” 

 

“No, no,” she breezes, gathering her composure. “My apologies. Right this way.” Heero follows her. The table is a large one; an oval nestled into the curving embrace of a banquette with space for three against the wall, and two chairs facing. The wall itself is shiny with mirrors that are softened by a fresh floral display. 

 

Heero unbuttons his jacket and sits rigidly at the end of the banquette facing the door. 

 

“The evening’s wine list will be with you shortly. Our sommelier, Henri, is just making his final choices now, and in the meantime, is there anything I can get you?”

 

He demurs everything except water, and she returns to the podium to observe. 

 

In short order, the sommelier glides out with the evening’s wine list for her, starchy as ever. “I have something nice tonight, Michelle, a surprise. The South Africans are finally pulling their boots up.”

 

“We have another one tonight, Henri,” she tells him, taking the list and refusing to feed his archaic distaste for South African wine. “Table nine.” 

 

The veteran of the Jacque Vert, the sommelier leans his head close to Michelle’s and they side-eye the table with professional discretion. “This one?”

 

“A date. At a table set for five.” 

 

“The world today, ma cherie, is a very modern place. If a man is rich enough and deaf enough for four wives, then good for him.”

 

With professional discretion, she treads on his toes. “That is not the face of a man with four wives. Do you recall Ms. Dolly?” 

 

The sommelier does; the real name is forgotten, and only the shabby recollection of the woman remains. At the very same table, she had sat and quite seriously dined with no less than three antique china dolls. Henri has a particular echoic memory that ‘Jemima’ thought that the wine was corked, which still haunts him. Then again, the poor lady had been sweet, and in Henri’s opinion, most of their patrons have empty heads and sawdust for palates, so really where’s the difference?  

 

“The war,” he says knowingly, “Touched some harder than others. We can but be kind.”

 

At any rate, table nine sits there for twenty minutes over a breadbasket, alone, watching the door with a kind of dog-like expectancy. He doesn’t fidget with the napkins or while the time away with a cell phone. He simply waits like an old man parked on a bench who has forgotten how to go home. 

 

It’s awkward and heart-breaking enough that the staff feel obliged to send a plate out, on the house, just a little amuse bouche, for the man insists on waiting to order until his date arrives. Michelle delivers it herself. He accepts politely, and then adds, “Excuse me” as she’s about to leave. 

 

“Yes sir?” 

 

It is clear that he is very much out of his comfort zone when he gestures, almost shyly to the glossy tabletop. “Could there be a candle?” 

 

The poor soul is given candles to wait with. 

 

But beyond this small drama, the restaurant is otherwise filling up, Michelle seats a flurry of well-heeled guests, all who have had the sense to arrive with their dates, if they brought one. 

 

And then, just as the evening is starting to find its stride, there’s a sudden little buzz of excitement from the door. The restaurant manager appears abruptly at her elbow, straightening his tie and generally puffing himself up.

 

A VIP has arrived. 

 

“Who is it, Robert?” she asks, picking up on the wave of infectious excitement. 

 

“WEI,” he replies. “Straight from the spaceport. Let’s make a good impression.” 

 

The man comes through the front doors, with no apparent awareness of the fact that they swing open for him, despite not being automatic. “Welcome back, Mr. Winner, it is always a pleasure.”

 

Quatre Winner is a small man in a grey suit, who nevertheless seems to gild the whole atmosphere. He apologetically presses his phone to his lapel and smiles. Leonardo would tear down the Mona Lisa for that smile, Michelle thinks, but then she’s biased. 

 

“Good evening, Robert. Sorry, just a moment,” and he’s back to the phone again. The manager smiles and mimes in gesture to Michelle and retreats. Michelle waits. 

 

“Sorry,” Quatre says again, finally hanging up. 

 

“Not at all. It’s our pleasure. I can have your usual table ready for you in just one moment. Are-”

 

“Oh no, sorry, I already have a booking.”

 

“Perfect.”

 

“It should be under Yuy.”

 

“Oh, yes,” she says, wits grinding to a complete halt, but the body soldiering on. “Of course. Right this way.” She has to make a concerted effort to avoid Henri’s eye as she leads him across the dining room. Henri simply flicks his serving cloth over his arm, which is long-standing sommelier’s parlance for a scream. 

 

The man looks up from table nine, unsurprised and cool as a cucumber to find Quatre Rababa Winner, looking like that and actually putting his phone down for a hot second to embrace him in public. 

 

The manager burbles in her earpiece frantically, while she stalls, pouring water for the table. “Ah, excuse me, sirs, I’ve been informed that the spring room is available, if you would prefer…?” A little privacy? A table for two?

 

“Oh no, this is fine,” Quatre says, smiling like butter on warm bread and easing into the seat besides the first man. “Thank you. Heero, it’s very naughty of you. You should have told me,” he adds, forgetting her. 

 

“I’ll be right back.” She walks away, mouth firmly closed, if only because she has no towel and therefore no outlet. The phrase ‘Mr Yuy is being very naughty’ rattles in her brain, a novelty of a sentence, and one that will be forefront in her mind the next time anyone mentions WEI. 

 

Meanwhile, at the table:

 

“It's so good to see you,” Quatre enthuses, squeezing Heero’s arm. “It’s been too long.” 

 

“It’s been a while,” Heero answers, giving him a dry look as Quatre’s phone buzzes. 

 

“I know, I know, I’m too busy all the time, I’m sorry. Let me just deal with this and then I promise… hello?”

 

Back at the podium, Michelle is making new deductions. 

 

“What is happening?” Henri hisses, making a pretence of stocking more wine menus and straining out of his suit for the gossip. “Are they friends? Lovers?” 

 

“I think our man believes this is a date, and Mr. Winner hasn’t realised it yet.”

 

“Well if you book a table for five, for two.” Henri surmises, billowing away again. 

 

“Hey,” says a voice.

 

“Bonsoir! Good evening,” she says automatically pivoting to find the guest leaning rather close on her podium, enough to send a sudden horrid thrill up her spine. She hadn’t even heard him come in. Black shirt, black suit, sneakers; the posed carelessness of a rockstar, but she’s not heard of one with hair like that. The smile suggests she’s either not been heard gossiping, or has but isn’t in trouble. Instinctively, however, she doesn’t quite trust it. 

 

“Hi,” he says easily, “Uh, so my buddy booked a table?” He rocks on the toes of his shoes, shooting a look down the dining room and then smiles broadly for someone else. “Wait, never mind, I see him. Oh hey! Q!”

 

The call bounces off the glassware, making heads pop up from dinner plates around the room. The man waves and then bounces down, swaggering off ahead of her, leaving her scuttling to keep up. 

 

“Heero!” He all but drags the man from his seat and hugs him, making Henri flick his towel again by planting a loud, smacking kiss on Mr. Yuy’s cheek. “Q-ball, what are you doing here?” 

 

“Working,” Mr. Yuy answers. 

 

“Duo! One second- Yes, no, sorry, I’m actually at dinner and -”

 

“Gimmie that-” ‘Duo’ reaches across and in the middle of the most respectable restaurant in the colonies, actually wrestles the heir of the WEI foundation’s phone from his hands. “He’ll call you back later,” he tells the device and hangs up. 

 

“Duo!” 

 

“Don’t pick it up. Or next time I’ll dump it in the water jug.”

 

“It’s waterproof,” Mr. Winner says petulantly, and receives his own resounding smooch on the cheek for his troubles. “At least let me turn my out of office responses on.”

 

“Can I get you a drink?” Michelle offers, weakly. “Or some bread for the table?” 

 

“Ah, sure. Bread’s good. You guys order? Not yet? Give us a minute.” The rockstar actually winks. It takes her a couple of seconds to pivot on her heel and scoot away. This is turning into a very weird evening, indeed. 

___ 

 

Duo waits for her to go before leaning over the table. “Damn, Yuy, this is fancy. What gives?” 

 

“I just thought it would be nice,” Heero mutters, letting Duo budge him with his hip until they’ve all moved around a place. Duo knowingly and without giving a shit, picks up Heero’s water glass and drinks from it. 

 

“The menu’s gonna be all in posh. You don’t speak posh, and you know I don’t speak posh.” 

 

Heero gestures to his left. “Quatre speaks posh.” 

 

“I speak six languages,” Quatre corrects. “But yes, I will help you order.” 

 

The hostess returns with a selection of warm bread, and a dish of butter glittering with rock salt. “Oh god, real bread,” Duo mutters again, grabbing a piece. He tears it in two, watching as the soft structure tears apart at each tiny air pocket, the crust crackling under his fingers. The aroma that puffs up from it is indescribably good. 

 

“See,” Heero says, “I knew you’d like it.” 

 

“Shut up. Eat some bread. Actually, no, the bread’s mine. Get your own bread,” Duo says, and then laughs, the candlelight making stars in his eyes.

 

___

 

Back by the door, Michelle is busy again. People arrive, people go. She says goodbye to a regular who had been the first reservation through the door, and is still near the door when the next man arrives. 

 

People arrive in all states and moods to the restaurant; some already drunk, some nervous, others sober but nevertheless boisterous. Some arrive on a cloud of ego and expectation that’s very difficult to manage.

 

This particular man is harried. There’s no other word for it. He comes up the steps at a sharp marching pace, scowling, apparently still pulling his jacket on and juggling items - car keys, wallet, a comb- into the pockets. Michelle catches a glimpse of a Preventer’s identity badge before he steps inside. 

 

“Good evening,” she says, cutting to the chase. “Do you have a reservation?” 

 

“Yes,” he says curtly and then catches his own tone and at once alters his whole demeanour. He tugs the jacket into place with one last swift tug and actually looks at her. “Yes, I do.”

 

“Can I take the name, please?” 

 

He opens his mouth and then is cut short as laughter comes ballooning out of the dining room. He gives her a very, very sober look. 

 

“Is there a man here with stupid hair?” 

 

“I… couldn’t say,” she replies, taken aback.  

 

“Braided. Down to here,” he gestures briskly to the general area of his own backside. 

 

“Ah, I believe so…are you with the-?”

 

“Yuy party, yes,” he says, in a long-suffering tone. “It’s fine. We’re together.” He mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like ‘these morons’.  

 

“Let me show you to the table,” she says, but only actually takes him halfway, opting to instead indicate the location of the table, which at any rate, can’t be missed. This gives her a rather good view of the rock-star lookalike spluttering on a glass of water at the sight of the newcomer. 

 

“Holy smokes, Wufei, look at you! You’re late.”

 

“I wasn’t late. The valet driver was just an imbecile,” he replies. Michelle edges around to where Mr. Winner is seated, as the least threatening and most familiar patron. “Excuse me, are you expecting anyone else to join you?”

 

“One more,” he replies, thumb still flying over his phone. In the corner of her eye, she can see the rockstar enthusiastically mobbing the policeman. 

 

“I’ll bring you some…more bread,” she says. In her peripheral vision, there are no less than two loud kisses. It must be special. 

 

“Thank you, and uh,” Quatre pivots and holds a hand up to cover his mouth as he whispers, the others distracted with their own carryings on. “I’ve just asked Robert to fetch me a special favour. If you could just let me know when he has it?” 

 

“Of course,” she says, and then flees. One more. Thank God, just one more, and then the table can be someone else’s problem. 

____ 

 

In the downtown area, where all the theatres are, the savvy drinker knows there’s only one place worth going on a Friday night when Joe public is out pre-gaming and looking for dinner: for some reason, everyone forgets that hotel cafes serve alcohol. 

 

In the first-floor bistro of the Hatton Hotel, Trowa’s phone beeps to remind him that he is now officially some fifteen minutes late for dinner. He knocks the remains of his drink back, closes his book and walks the ten yards around the corner to the Jacque Vert at a comfortable stroll. 

 

“Mr. Yuy’s party?” the hostess says before he can even begin to tell her he has a reservation. 

 

“Yes?” 

 

She gives a weary little nod as if to say ‘of course you fucking are’ and then a rather more professional smile. 

 

‘Ah.’ Trowa thinks, ‘Perhaps I’m a little too late.’ 

 

“Has he been waiting for me long?” he asks, as she beckons him towards the dining room. Maybe he should have brought a gift, but Heero’s not really the type. Well. Maybe a firearm, but that’s not the sort of thing you can casually wrap in a bow and pass across a dinner table. Not here, anyway. 

 

There are definitely restaurants on the other side of town where you could.

 

“They’ve waited to order,” she tells him, pleasantly. Trowa levels his gaze above her head at the word ‘they’ and sees at once what she means. 

 

“Ah,” he says. “Oh well, at least he hasn’t been bored.” 

 

“No, I suspect not,” she says, showing him to the last seat. He sits and says, “Hey,” as she lifts the carafe of water to pour. The conversation falters around the table, and there is a short, blank silence. 

 

“Trowa?” the policeman says, triggering a bright flash of understanding around the rest of them. 

 

“What happened to your hair?” 

 

“Holy shit.”  

 

“You have a whole face,” Heero says, pointing to it. 

 

“Did you cut your hair?” Quatre is rising from his seat in consternation. “Why did you cut your hair?” 

 

“I didn’t. I just restyled it,” Trowa says, leaning back and fending off Quatre’s anxious hands. “For tonight.”    

 

There are four quite varying re-iterations of the word “Why?” to which Trowa can only shrug helplessly. 

 

“I didn’t think you all cared so much.” 

 

“I don’t care,” Duo says, “I’m just freaked out trying to look you in both eyes at the same time. It’s like having a Barton-eyeball-specific astigmatism. I keep sliding to the right.”

 

“Oh, you’re right. That’s what it is,” Wufei says, blinking. “Like having skewed depth perception.” 

 

Heero squints. “It’s not symmetrical. I think I was expecting it to be symmetrical.”

 

“What do you mean, my face isn’t symmetrical?” Trowa objects, feeling that his grand entrance has not only been ruined, but wasted on these philistines. “You’re all assholes. Wufei’s changed his hair.”  

 

“Yes, but we finished getting all bothered about that before you arrived.”

 

“My hairband broke,” Wufei admits. 

 

In the lull, the hostess says, a little high-pitched and overly smiley, “I’ll bring you your menus.” And then she hurries away agin.

 

___

 

 

On the other side of the room, Michelle collects five menus and the sommelier. “I didn’t even have to ask,” she tells him. “I think they’re all dating Mr. Yuy. Or thought they were. Or once did. I can no longer tell.”

 

“It is… a male model?” Henri ventures, gazing across at the new arrival. “I feel like I’ve seen a lot of him before, if you know what I mean.” 

 

“Henri!”

 

“No, like couture modelling. He has very high cheekbones. He’s wearing velvet. A cologne advertisement on a billboard maybe?” 

 

“He has been seated, the party is complete,” Michelle says with a sigh. “Let’s just feed them and see them cheerily on their way.” 

 

“Oh cherie! You are being grumpy. Where has your sense of fun gone?” 

 

“I just don’t know what is going on here. Each of them has arrived as if it should be a date for two, and now it is… whatever this is. My hunch warns me it could end in tears and broken glassware. I hope not.”  

 

“I think not,” Henri says, patting her arm. “Look, they’re laughing. Maybe this is just what the rich do now. In my day it was simple; they snorted cocaine from the plastic bottoms of dancing girls, and looked horrible in the papers. Maybe now they are all gay polygamists. What do I know? Are you listening to me?”

 

“No, I am trying to decide who I can put as waitstaff to serve the richest man in the colonies, a policeman, a madman, an elf, and their date.”

 

“Don’t overthink it,” Henri advises, “Just send Gavin. Now brace yourself, I’m going to go and offer them all the different ways one can get shit-faced at the Jacque.” 

____

 

“When was the last time we did this?” Duo asks, mopping up the last of the butter. “Was it your birthday, Q? Or was it Wuffles’ promotion party?”

 

“Don’t call me ‘Wuffles’.”

 

“I don’t think it was my birthday,” Quatre says doubtfully. He is feeling around the table top, and checking his pockets. He scowls. “Which one of you took my phone?” 

 

“It’s for your own good,” Trowa says. 

 

“Give it back.” 

 

“I don’t have it,” Trowa says, honestly. “And I think it was Duo’s halloween night.” 

 

“I don’t remember halloween.” 

 

“That’s because we met right after work but didn’t eat until nearly four in the morning,” Quatre says. “I had to scrape you and Heero out of the bathtub.”  

 

“Why were we in the bathtub?” 

 

“You’d decided a hot bath was a fair alternative to a jacuzzi.” 

 

“Why weren’t you in the bathtub?” 

 

“I was busy,” Quatre says primly and then clears his throat as the sommelier arrives at the table. Duo looks up. 

 

“Aw yes, finally. Booze!” 

 

“Booze indeed, sir. My name is Henri; I am the sommelier here at Jacque Vert. May I introduce our wine list, Mr. Yuy, or otherwise I can suggest something in keeping with the expectations of your guests.” 

 

“Uh,” says Heero. “Are we drinking?” 

 

“I’m drinking,” Quatre says without hesitation. “I’ll have a bottle of the usual. To share,” he adds, when Wufei raises an eyebrow. 

 

“I can help,” Trowa agrees. “What’s ‘the usual’?” 

 

Quatre pauses, “I don’t actually know. I just order my food and they bring me something nice in a bottle.”

 

“And this is why people come to the Jacque Vert. Leave it to me,” agrees the sommelier whole-heartedly. “If only all our guests were as accommodating.” 

 

Duo hums and haws. “Can I just get a beer? You have beer, right?” 

 

“Yes, as you can see on the drinks menu you have been holding for the past twenty minutes, we have an excellent selection of beers.” 

 

“This is beer?” 

 

“More accurately, it is biere. For you, I would recommend the Saint-Remy Tripel. Made in Belgium by Trappist nuns, it’s a pale beer, light, refreshing with notes of citrus, but all the kick you could want.”  

 

“Beer made by nuns? Sure. Crack one and bring it,” Duo agrees, shrugging. 

 

“I’ll just have a lime soda.” 

 

Duo is immediately offended. “Oh, what? Boo! No, Wufei, it’s dinner. Lime soda?” 

 

“I don’t want to drink,” Wufei complains. “I don’t like drinking.” 

 

“You always say that. You always drink.”

 

“It’s always a mistake.” 

 

“Put vodka in it,” Duo says firmly. “Or else he’ll sit there all night like a fucking gargoyle.” 

 

Henri raises his eyebrows and diligently scribbles the order down. “And for Mr. Yuy?” 

 

“Same.” 

 

“Very good.” Henri hurries away to his station, detouring to update Michelle. 

 

“One bottle, one beer, one vodka lime soda and one pretend vodka lime soda ‘for the gargoyle’. You are right. At least three of them are insane.” 

 

“Henri, people who don’t drink wine aren’t de facto insane.” 

 

“They are sober. It’s the same thing,” Henri tells her, and goes to oversee the drinks order.  

 

Michelle takes a deep breath. “Gavin,” she says, beckoning him over. “Table nine are ready to order. Possibly.” 

 

____

 

Wufei’s glass has two slices of lime in it, Heero’s only one. Duo is immediately suspicious.

 

“No, they did,” Wufei insists, “And now it tastes awful.” 

 

“Let me taste it.” 

 

“No, we’re in a nice restaurant. I’m not having you slobbering all over my drink.” 

 

“If you didn’t want me to slobber over you,” Duo says, leaning his elbows on the table and batting his eyelashes. “Shouldn’t have dressed so nice.” 

 

“Behave,” Heero warns. “Anyway, if there’s anything to be suspicious of, it’s that Quatre’s got his wine before he’s ordered any food.” 

 

“It’s nice, though,” Quatre says, swirling the glass. “Very drinkable. Besides, they know me. They know what I like.” 

 

“Probably took a bottle of cheap plonk and slapped a fancy label on it, then charged you a hundred bucks,” says Duo, the cynic.

 

“No, I don’t think so. Not here.”

 

“It happens,” Wufei says, still examining the menu. “There’s a restaurant on Earth that charges fifteen for a baked camembert, but if you turn the pot over, it’s got a label on it from the discount superstore.” 

 

Quatre tuts into his glass. 

 

“Sneaky,” Duo approves. 

 

“It’s fine,” Trowa cuts in. “You’re having the scallops and then the pasta anyway.” 

 

“I am? Well, actually, that sounds very nice,” Quatre agrees shrugging away the menu. “What are you having?” 

 

“Not decided yet,” Trowa replies, hedging his bets. In reality, he’s waiting to see what the others order. Heero is a fairly safe bet. The man is already staring down the menu like it’s the barrel of a gun, and Duo’s tastes are predicable also. “Wufei?” 

 

“Tarte, Pork,” Wufei reports, just in time for the waiter to arrive. 

 

The waiter is a perky young thing, not quite in keeping with the general gravitas of the restaurant, but certainly capable enough. He rattles through an introduction ‘goodeveningiwillbeyourwaiter, my name is Gavin, areyoureadytoorder?’ and then stands poised like a gundog, pen at the ready. 

 

“Soup,” says Heero, when all eyes pivot on him. 

 

“Soup d’jour, and for the main?” 

 

“Steak,” Heero says, closing the menu. It’s a safe bet. There’s always steak on the menu. 

 

“D’onglet sauce au poivre. And is that with the pomme fondant or the gratin boulangère?”

 

“Uh…” Heero glances helplessly at Trowa, who doesn’t get a chance to inhale much less help, steamrollered by Gavin-your-waiter’s natural good cheer. 

 

“One is like a very fat potato cooked in butter, the other is slicey potatoes baked in a sort of soup.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“They’re both quite nice. Food just sounds better in French, doesn’t it?” 

 

“Can I have chips?” Heero asks slowly. 

 

“And a side of pommes frites a la ‘why not’ for the gentleman. Excellent choice. Who’s next? The man with the very exciting hair? What would you like?”

 

“Me?” Trowa asks, taken aback.

 

“Not to discredit sir’s hair, but I did mean the gentleman on my left who I was looking at.” 

 

“Me?” Duo says, “Oh, uh. Kebab and then meatballs. Bullets.” 

 

“Boulettes?” 

 

“Them as well.” 

 

Gavin-their-waiter scribbles down with aplomb Wufei’s curt repetition of ‘Tarte. Pork’ and then Trowa finally gets his moment to be the man with exciting hair doing the ordering. As promised, Quatre gets scallops and truffled pasta, and for himself, the croquettas de bacalao followed by l’agneau vert pré because after all, it is spring. 

 

“Well, that was painless,” Wufei comments once Gavin has topped up all the glasses that needed topping and glided away. “Is everyone here weird?” 

 

“We’re here,” Quatre replies. “But really, the food is very good, I promise.” 

 

He’s not wrong. When the first course arrives, Heero very nearly regrets ordering the soup, which in credit to it, achieves the most interest anyone can ever wring out of a broad bean. But at the end of the day is still only soup. 

 

Duo and Trowa between them steamroller over all remaining formality, however, by being both generous sharers and shameless thieves. Heero says nothing when a portion of lamb kebab appears at his elbow. A second is dunked in his soup and then inhaled by the man next to him. Only Wufei makes any effort to defend his dish, deploying complaints about manners and elbows until even Quatre says, exasperated, “It is a quiche. No one is that determined about quiche.”

 

“It’s tarte paysanne.” 

 

“That’s the same thing!”  Quatre says, trying and failing not to laugh at Wufei’s disappointment. In the corner, Heero eats his soup in hot spoonfuls, and it must be the vodka kicking in because he’s in danger of looking a little soft around the edges. It’s nice to squabble like this. Quatre slowly unbuttons, fingers caressing the stem of his dwindling glass of wine, sleeves rolled up as he laughingly coaxes Wufei into giving scallops a chance. 

 

Wufei’s grousing turns from genuine to just a facade. He rises to accept a spoonful of the soup from across the table, threatens to tip it into Duo’s beer, and sits down saying, “That’s very good, actually.” 

 

Duo has fingers in everything, finding combinations of lamb and bacalao that the chef never thought of. He dangles one arm across the back of Trowa’s chair at intervals, gesturing with the other as he talks. 

 

Trowa catches Heero’s eye over Duo’s head and they share an understanding. 

 

We should do this more often. 

 

They almost forget their surroundings. Not forget, exactly, but they cease to matter. Each has a peripheral awareness of the other customers, of the staff passing their table on route to other diners. Duo’s head pivots to track each one as they pass, quick assessments of Trowa’s six o’clock, though he never pauses in the conversation. He has to wave a waiter away twice with a grin, when the staff thinks he wants something. 

 

The first course is reduced to smears and crumbs when the hostess approaches, not to take the plates but to duck and speak to Quatre in quiet tones. His face lights up. “Yes, no, hold it until after the mains,” he says, loud enough for them to hear. 

 

“What are you up to?” Wufei wants to know once she’s left. 

 

Quatre hums, running a finger around his glass and chuckles. “Wait and see,” is all he’ll say. 

 

“Dark horse,” Duo complains. He prods Heero under the table. “And you. How long were you plotting this?” 

 

“Weeks. But blame those two,” Heero says, indicating the other end of the table. Quatre and Wufei look suitably called out. “They’re too busy. I had to speak to your secretary,” he adds, like it’s a dirty word. 

 

“Guilt, guilt,” Quatre admits. “You know you’ve got my private line.” 

 

“Yes, but I told you twice to give me a date and you forgot.” 

 

“Oh, Heero, I’m sorry.”

 

“Ah, no, don’t guilt trip Quatre when he’s drinking,” Duo intervenes. “He’ll go all apologetic and soggy. And lame. Save it.”

 

The plates are taken and replaced with a spread of food, hearty and magazine cover quality. 

 

“You’ve got half a cow,” Duo says admiringly of Heero’s steak, helping himself to the pommes frites a la why not and nearly burning his mouth on them. The pepper sauce fires fresh heat across Heero’s soft palate,  soothed down with a liberal amounts of butter. 

 

Heero points out that Duo isn’t exactly suffering either. Each meatball is the size of small fist, shiny with a coat of dark gravy. On Duo’s other side, Trowa fidgets his cutlery around a complex tower of lamb cutlets, each one blushing behind a green crust of herbs. He nudges it with his fork and they swoon on to the polenta, at which point Duo purloins one, and they’re off again. 

 

The conversation stalls completely. Even Duo can’t yak and keep up with the pace of consumption. Food passes from plate to plate, fork to tongue. It’s important, this ritual of sharing. It is an act that says ‘family’ and ‘hospitality’ in the same breath. It is, primarily, a currency of exchange from Duo to the rest of them, loud and stubborn; you’re all in my gang, and nobody here goes hungry. And you have to give back, for the desperate part of him that needs to be demonstrably cared for. 

 

At other times it’s Quatre who instigates. It’s second nature in him to break bread and pass the larger half to someone else. It makes Wufei hark back to old codes of conduct as well, when he wasn’t so alone. It’s the social memory of pouring for the other glass first, and remembering meals taste better when eaten together. It reminds both of them they have, or have had, more than the others and sharing becomes a simple act of bridging the differences between them. On one level, a baked fig is nothing more than a fruit, truffle just a mushroom, but on another, it’s choices that Heero would never make by himself. It’s an experience passed along.

 

“I’m going to find you somewhere where they do roast pork properly. This is good, but it’s nothing on L5 style barbecue.” 

 

“What’s the difference?”

 

“Fat and flavour.”   

 

“Come to ours,” Trowa counters. “We’ll dig a pit barbecue and see which is better. Real pit barbecue, cooked all night.” 

 

“Next dinner’s at yours then,” Duo agrees. “Don’t be late.” 

 

Trowa just laughs. 

 

Dessert at the Jacque Vert is more limited; a choice between a chocolate ice-cream sandwich or a lemon tart. They order three of the first and two the second, coffee, tea, more water, and when it comes to the table, it comes all at once topped with four long-stemmed roses. 

 

“What’s this?” Duo asks, when it’s laid on the table beside him. He picks it up, touching the crumpled folds of the petals, eyes so wide it makes Quatre laugh behind his hands. He’s the only one without a flower. 

 

“They’re from me.” 

 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Heero says. He holds it carefully, and only by the ribbon. 

 

“I know I didn’t have to,” Quatre replies. “I wanted to.” If only to see them be tender and bewildered. Duo’s pulling a smile that goes up on one side and down on the other, lips pressed together. Quatre can’t reach, but Trowa nudges him under the table until both sides of his mouth equalise. 

 

“So that’s what you were up to,” Duo says, clearing his throat. “You big sap.”  

 

As if he weren’t the one going to mush over it.

 

The flowers are a red so deep it is nearly purple, and nothing like the standard valentine’s offer. Each one is a shallow cup with an open face full of whorls. Old-fashioned, and scented. 

 

“Old English,” Wufei says, lifting his nose from it. 

 

“Mm,” Quatre replies. He touches the stem with one fingertip, so that the edge of the flower brushes Wufei’s jaw. “I think it’s pretty.” 

 

The subsequent high spot of colour on Wufei’s cheekbone nearly rivals that of the rose. 

____

 

The pre-theatre rush is nearly over. The Jacque Vert takes a breath as one by one the tables pay and leave. Table nine leave it until nearly the last minute, much of the time wasted on the inevitable quarrel over the bill. 

 

“Can we just split it?” Duo asks, despite having seen the total and felt his whole soul recoil in disbelief. 

 

“I said I was paying,” Heero counters, stubbornly. He’s holding his credit card in one fist and the bill in the other. 

 

“You’ll blow up your overdraft, don’t be stupid,” Wufei argues. 

 

Gavin-who-has-been-their-waiter hovers awkwardly as they end up in a four-way impasse with everyone insisting on paying, except for Quatre, who has slipped away from the table on the premise of going to the bathrooms. 

 

When he comes back, he simply picks up his jacket with a smile and says, “Ok.”

 

“You paid, didn’t you?” Heero demands at once, outraged. 

 

“Yes,” Quatre says, “Because you already paid for the theatre tickets, and besides, I’m a regular here.” He gives them the most blue-eyed look of beguilement that he can, which is convincing. “I get a discount and cash-back and all sorts. Really, it made much more sense. And Wufei paid last time.” 

 

They all narrow their eyes at the lie, but then it might not be a lie. Quatre has uncanny methods and means. He looks back at them, innocent as pie, and adds, “Don’t forget your roses.” And really, how’s anyone supposed to argue with that? 

 

Duo gives it one last go, grumbling as they leave. “I could have paid.” 

 

“You can pay me back some other time,” Quatre says, leaning on him. The wine’s left him a little merry. “Or some other way. My car needs souping up.” 

 

“Is that what the kids are calling it?” Trowa leers and then coughs and composes himself on finding the hostess stood right beside them. 

 

“Your car is ready,” she says. “At the front.” 

 

She stands back and waves them goodbye, Mr. Winner pinkly waving back. The rockstar winks, the policeman just looks briefly apologetic and then notices that the rockstar is helping himself to the driver’s seat and goes away at a sprint. 

 

The elf, last to arrive, is the last to leave. He pauses by the mirror, buttons his jacket and then with careful deliberation, covers one of his eyes with his hair. The car honks wildly, and a radio booms. The elf leaves. 

 

Michelle exhales. It is over.

 

“Well, we have survived,” Henri remarks. “Chalk one for the annuls of the old place. Did they make any other reservation?” Henri adds, bracing himself. 

 

“No, they left a tip,” Michelle says, showing him. It’s a very, very generous tip. She could very nearly bury her face in it and cry a little, except she’s still on the clock and that wouldn’t be professional.  

 

“Eh,” Henri says, nonplussed. “They could have just ordered more wine.”

____

____

​

END