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Being put into the lead by America of all people made him first uneasy and then (partially due to Fiona's tired, wordless encouragement, half-chiding, half-bolstering) shyly pleased, with gently teasing comments across the table trying to unravel America's reservations but not, it must be said, too rapidly. Greedy for her and especially for parts of her that other people didn't have, he gave her glances and words full of an affection that grew proportionally with her uncertainty, charmed by the fact that for once he was sure-footed and she faltering. He nearly reached to instinctively take her hand before he thought better of it, withdrawing with a grin instead.

It was a welcome distraction from the pain of being forced, by her reluctance to go ahead of him, to eat. Luckily by its very nature a tasting menu only offered a bite or two before there was time for him to mentally and emotionally recover: the first course came, accompanied by only a brief explanation of what they were eating that Taym endured with polite but strained silence, and it was no more than a mouthful of soup in a shallow bowl ("Look," he whispered teasingly, "they brought you the spoon with the plate so we know which one to use. Very considerate."), as clear as tea and dotted with rings of green onion. It reduced Taym to a broken silence again, but he didn't linger on it, too intent on watching her, too intent on trying to make it look like he wasn't.

The first came and went before there was much time for him to ask her what she thought, but the second--a spoonful of roe and a barely-cooked quail's egg on a bed of pickled bean sprouts that coaxed the kind of involuntary noise out of Taym's throat that America had rarely managed to--was one on which they were permitted ("I saw a restaurant review that said that tasting menus were 'tyrannical'," he told her with a snort) to linger, and he waited until she'd lifted the spoon to her mouth to say: "Tell me you're at least enjoying it." It was as much pleading as it was his usual rude. Part of him didn't recognize the America across the table; the part that did was as desperate as ever for her explicit approval.

It was a relief to talk about something he knew about, something divorced from work and himself: he succinctly explained why all caviar was roe but not all roe was caviar; he touched lightly on the politicization of genuine caviar, tangentially but briefly made an aside about the endangered status of the Beluga Sturgeon and what it meant for the food industry; his starting to lead into a sentence about food ethics was appropriately matched by their being presented with two slivers of grilled apricot in a few drops of dark broth topped with foie gras (he grinned at her, toothy and surprisingly openly, across the table, and mouthed the words liver mush), the plate dusted with what looked like tinted flour and was, they were informed by the ever-helpful server, ground candied ginger.

"Sometimes it helps," he told her, "to think of what it reminds you of. Apple pie with a slice of cheddar on it--" he indicated the plate "--isn't that far off, really. It's good to find analogues. You appreciate it more, and if it's something you aren't sure you like it helps you settle the question, sometimes." He said this as though not being sure whether you liked a food was the most natural problem in the world. Maybe, as with everything else, he preferred to be challenged, to have to earn his pleasure.

He paused, not having yet lifted the little bite to his mouth, and he told her bluntly: "I was worried. I figured you'd saunter in here and leave like a conquering hero like you do with everything else." Afraid to be seen with her, afraid she'd break some unspoken social contract. Afraid she'd embarrass him. Except that it wasn't what he meant at all: "I was afraid you hated it, when you got all quiet." And then, patronizing because it couldn't be otherwise, but sincere, fond, playful: "But it's ******** adorable when you go all Ms. Manners, as you'd put it." He gestured with his fork at hers. "Tell me about your food."

He'd been savoring his own single bite of the course while she talked, rapt to both the food and to everything she was saying, and when she faltered, he swallowed and pointed out: "Not like you to second guess yourself."

"Not like you to lie, either."

"You were embarrassed, so you second-guessed yourself," he corrected her mildly. "Also not like you. No reason to be embarrassed, either. I liked it," he said, quiet as he absently (and rudely, as if to bolster his earlier argument that there was no need to be so concerned) licked a scrap off his thumb. "I always like it when you tell me what you're thinking, even when I don't." Which was almost true--almost, but not quite.

He lifted his eyes over her shoulder to the next approaching dish, the corner of his mouth curling up into another lopsided smile as they were presented with an elaborate and tiny dish of attractively-heaped pasta flaked with langoustine and covered in shaved truffle and chanterelle, and he barely took his eyes off America as they were given a somewhat lengthy discourse (the dreaded food lecture, alluded to so often) on the origin of what they were about to eat, with an aside as to the methods of preparation. He reacted exactly often enough to be polite, and then when they were left alone with their plates (finally), he pointed out lowly: "I like hearing you talk about it more than him, anyway."

But he didn't ask her to again: not for the bone marrow and sea urchin (unassessed by Taym, as well, due to his utter distraction, his obvious bliss, a teasing move as if to steal a bite from the meagre two or three provided on her plate that naturally he did not make good on) or for the paper-thin slice of beet drizzled in balsamic syrup and smeared in goat cheese ("safe," he said, not displeased, "and a lot ******** better than when I make it"), not for the "palate cleanser" of lightly-dressed salad that apparently failed to impress him ("too substandard to justify being predictable" was his brief assessment), not for the lamb, when it made an appearance ("I shouldn't have tuned out the lecture this time," he said mournfully, puzzling over what it was that they'd pureed into the potato.)

Partly he didn't ask because he was busy asking her other things (curtains, countertops, birthday cakes, gifts), obvious attempts to put her at her ease and draw her out when he wasn't rapt in silence over the food; partly he didn't ask her because the next time she gave the waiter that polite Aunt Prudie smile she'd abruptly found herself with Taym's toes at her ankle, his face an utterly placid picture of good behavior. Apparently he was extending his ban on uncertain smiles to other people, as well, and disciplining as required.

"Dessert next," he pointed out, as the empty plates and lamb chop bones were swept away. "Three of them, I think. And I wish you'd tell me about them, but I won't ask you if you're going to get embarrassed again. Even though it's awfully ********' novel, seeing you embarrassed. I didn't think it was possible."

Taym would have been reduced to a state of near-total happiness by either America's enthusiasm or the three odd and delicious offerings, and the fact that he had both simultaneously had replaced the usual cringing feral animal with a boneless, slinky tomcat, more comfortable in the seat across from he'd possibly ever been, his hands no longer restless and agitated, the usual wire-sharp line of his jaw relaxed, little silent hidden laughs coming easy now (and he'd maybe try to make her a cake and it could maybe say "Congratulations on the promotion" this time, and she could see what he got her at the party and he hoped it was better than a favor). Even the easy, lazy set of his eyes was feline. If he could have purred, it looked very much like he would have.

They were presented, at the end (after Taym had succumbed to the pleasure of a wafer-thin slice of chocolate cake garnished with a twist of candied chili pepper while listening to America talk about it, a combination that probably lowered his blood pressure a solid 20 points--nearly enough to compensate for the rise caused by watching her eat it) with two copies of the menu describing what they'd just eaten (Taym was quietly delighted at having a solution to the Mystery of the Pureed Potatoes) and an elegant white paper box with a gilded lid, a cellophane window revealing two rows of the tiny macarons they'd enjoyed just before in a half-dozen flavors.

The selection was red (cherry-rose) and white (pear and bleu cheese) and blue (lavender and lemon peel): the polite introductions at the beginning of the meal must not have gone unnoted and the server, Taym observed with approving cynicism, must have been angling for an even more exorbitant tip than he was already planning on leaving. "And a good job of it," he said, apparently having decided he'd get it.

(He did: the tip Taym left was as much as the bill had been, and more, and let them, he thought, wonder what I do for a living now.)

"Wood countertops," he opined again as they retrieved his checked bag. He held the door for her, and it was raining once more but slightly, window signs and streetlights reflected metallic on the wet pavement. Maybe it was sincere thoughtfulness and maybe it was Taym's sentimental streak (considerable at the worst of times and inflated by his current rare good mood), but he shrugged his jacket off to offer it to her without comment. "But I meant it when I said I'm not touching the curtain debate with a ten foot pole." A pause: "You had a good time." It was and wasn't a question, an edge of tension and unease creeping back in, as was the followup: "And you'll--spend some more time with me for a while."

He threaded an arm around her waist to capture her hand, to share the pocket of his jacket, and he didn't immediately go clawing for his cigarettes as they stepped out of the awning, instead answering, as was his habit when he was feeling close and affectionate, against her hair: "Always."