Ira Almasy tossed her head back in high laughter as she leaned forward, elbows resting against pristine tablecloth.

A light rain was coming down on Slandermouth that evening, ocean waves rising on the rippling waters above which the restaurant floated. The pair did not have a view of the sea. They shared a small round table in one of the private dining rooms - gold rimmed china, white embroidered curtains and carpets plush enough for an undiscerning wizard to use as a bed. A small chandelier cast a warm light as they picked their way through after-dinner drinks.

"-- and it bloody nearly hit me, too!" Balfour continued in a diverted voice. "Thought she was going to scratch my eyes out.""

Neither were dressed as themselves tonight - her in a black knit dress that dipped low to the chest, him in a rust jumper over dark jeans. The dress code was less consequential when one wasn't in full view of other patrons.

Smiling loosely at her companion, Ira took a leisurely sip of her coffee. Her legs were brought up on to the chair and folded to the side girlishly. "Not a worthy path to blindness, for a handler of beasts..." she addressed pointedly and placed her hand on his. "It was beastly of you to lie."

He grimaced at the word - it was her favourite thing to call him - before attending to a glass of red wine.

"So I've learned," his expression brightened ever so slightly. " You've been in high spirits, I must say. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Admittedly this had been their first pleasant interaction in months, now. Events had been unfavourably tense until quite recently. Ira sat back, taking her cup and saucer on to her lap. "Only the efficient administration of my affairs. We cannot all be miserably in love with brave German boys."

"Excuse me!" Balfour objected, crossing his legs as he recovered his hand. "Getting ahead of yourself there, and he's hardly a boy."

"They're all boys, who have lost a father."

"Not you, now. I've been lectured plenty on the subject, thank you very much."

Ira made an amused sound and eyed him with a patent fondness she usually conserved for clan members. "Oh, I have no intention on interfering in your hobbies." A hint of condescension laced the statement. ""Do carry on with him."

There was the slightest trace of annoyance in his expression, and she knew that he only repressed it to avoid the implication of not appreciating Storm's ranking as a hobby. He reached into his pocket to retrieve a cigarette, gingerly. They had been friends long enough to let the little remarks slip.

"I'm thinking of airing an episode on the fourth. Something sportive about Guy Fawkes, you know." Balfour tasted the joint and let her light it, the two leaning into one another across the table. "Don't think anyone's going to fancy tuning in on Bonfire night itself."

She watched the end burn, embers glowing, and smelt the acidic fragrance of treated tobacco. "After, I think."

"Sorry?"
            "After Bonfire night.
"That would be rather anti-climactic."
             "I doubt it."


Balfour sighed, a trail of smoke dissipating through his nostrils like the very image of a displeased dragon. His eyes didn't leave her mouth. It was daring him to ask. And if he Asked, then he could never unAsk. The temptation was real. Always was. Perhaps one day he might have courage enough to walk the other path.


"After, then. If you think it's best."

Ira finished her coffee and met his gaze with a friendly, unassuming countenance. "I do."

It would be inconvenient for the wizard if something terrible were to happen on the fifth, so soon after a rousing tirade in favour of stronger political activism.