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Takes place during the masquerade at the taver, some insight into Gio's views on his relationship with Gwen
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The night of Fall sixteenth found one frustrated Amando Cedric Giovanni sitting slumped at the bar while dressed in a pair of red overalls, a yellow long sleeve, a quirky blue and yellow bow tie, and clown shoes. Even more, a white rabbit mask with large ears was sitting next to him. And he appeared to be cursing at his hand. To the citizens of Azeri though, this was nothing new. They had come to accept their mayor, yes, mayor, and all of his quirks some time ago.

What was new however, was the bottle of scotch he cradled like a precious infant against his chest, a full glass sitting in front of him. And not just a couple fingers of the amber liquid, the glass had literally been topped. He had been known to break out a vintage red from home on occasion, but had never been seen with more than that. Tonight however, he had thrown a large number of bills down upon his usually loud entrance in exchange for a bottle of the liquid gold. He knew it would take more than a bottle of red to make it through the night. One look down the bar however had him slamming his forehead against the wood for several moments as he downed his glass, muttering Italian curses at his free hand again.

For, sitting down several seats away from him was his very own secretary. Off the clock of course, but wearing a coordinating costume to his own Roger Rabbit for the masquerade. When she'd turned up in costume though at the office where they'd agreed to meet, he'd immediately regretted strong-arming her into donning the costume. Well, not immediately. Initially he had a little trouble breathing and speaking as he congratulated himself on winning at their rock paper scissors gamble, then he grew slightly...uncomfortable. It was after that though when he realized the horror of what had been committed. Gwen, his Gwen, would be going out in public dressed as a very...realistic, Jessica Rabbit.

It had sounded like a good idea when he'd first thought of it, but looking at her, and what heterosexual male wasn't at this point, he wished he'd made her come as that detective guy instead. She wouldn't even take his jacket! Her whole body was exposed to every male, and some females, in the establishment. And that first look at her had shattered pretty much all of his intentions to maintain a familial relationship with his secretary. Every argument he'd ever held against pursuing some sort of intimate relationship with Gwen had been effectively wiped from his mind the moment he'd seen those gorgeous legs of hers part the slit running up her thigh coupled with her generously endowed breasts barely covered by her form fitting red gown.

He'd known before she had an attractive body, but she'd never paraded it around in front of him on a silver platter. It was hard to remind himself that she was thirteen years younger than him when her body was so obviously quite fully matured. And despite what the citizens Azeri might think of him now, two full glasses into a bottle of scotch, and pouring a third was a hardly the most alcohol he'd ever consumed. Though it was evidence in itself that he had no problem tossing the liquor back that he had once been very used to consuming it. It would take the bottle yet before he was truly stumbling around drunk, and the bottle was a fresh one, chilled for the occasion.

Pillowing his head on his arms he stared down the way where Gwen was seated, legs crossed and one long leg bare through the high slit in the dress. Was this some sort if divine punishment? Or did she just simply enjoy torturing him? Considering she had the body of a goddess he had to admit it was definitely some sort of divine retribution for all the suffering he had ever put her through with the endless list of errands, having to hunt him down every day, and usually being forced to do his work in the end anyways. Yes, perhaps is was her own form of revenge on him, it would certainly make sense looking back on it all.

Tempting him, trying to break his will, his self control. What was a thirteen year age difference n the face of her body in that gown? The gown, he'd told her just before entering, that if she didn't go home and take off, he'd end up doing it himself. Luckily she had misunderstood her temptation and simply shook her head stubbornly, claiming it was too late to find a new costume. He took it as a sign that it wasn't meant to be that she had not understood he'd meant he'd be taking that dress off of her before doing a great deal many more things to the sinful body underneath.

But that wig, ugh. He hated that wig. It hid her beautiful chocolate brown locks and made her look so completely different that it was nearly impossible to reconcile her appearance tonight with what she usually looked like. From Gwen to Gwendolyn. She didn't know it, but Gwen, and farfalla, and all of his other pet names had acted as a barrier of sorts, between the two of them. Gwen was young, childlike, made him remember her age every time he said it. Gwendolyn was a full grown woman, mature and sexy, and he could barely remember his own age when looking at her.

Music began to play, softly, slowly. Couples drifted together, he floated on the music, swayed a little. Turned to see Gwend- Gwen! Turning down advances from different suitors for a dance. I am only helping her get away from them all, he rationalized in his mind as he set his class down carefully, eyes sharp but making the room glow. She looked like some sort of hellish angel as he offered a hand to her. She looked up in surprise, his own Gwen peeking through as she blushed. She stammered and tried to get out words he didn't care to hear. Not tonight. Tomorrow he might regret it, not the dance itself, no, but, the feelings such intimate dancing would evoke. Because any Italian man will tell you, a proper slow dance is nothing but foreplay, sex with the clothes still on.

But he allowed himself this one small pleasure as he twined his fingers through the hand that tried to usher him into sitting, yanking her up so she fell flush against him. His fingers laced with hers, firm but not to hurt her, refusing to let her escape his grip when she tried to pull away in surprise. His other hand skimmed her side, lighting at the top of her hip, careful not to offend, but drawing a lazy circle there as he swept her onto the small dance floor. "You are beautiful Gwen," he murmured against the crown of her head. She flushed and thanked him, and he knew by her grin that she thought he meant in her costume. But it was enough that he had said it, told her, without a shadow of a doubt what he had always thought of her, even if she didn't quite get it.

When she pressed her face into his shoulder, tucked perfectly under his chin, he smiled down at her sadly and with a fondness no boss should ever look at his secretary. This was the last thing he would allow himself he promised, tipping her chin to look at him as he pressed a quick, sweet kiss to her lips. No doubt she would chalk it up to the scotch, and he would never correct her as he spun her out of his arms to another waiting man, one who looked more her age.

"Goodnight Gwendolyn," he said, stepping out for air, his resolve already beginning to crumbles the sharp wind slapped his face. He stared at his hand again and sighed before he began the walk home, the warmth of his dance with Gwen slowly fading.