It was a perfectly fine peach.

It was a perfectly fine peach. The perfect shape, beautifully coloured, its flesh sun-warmed and just soft enough to the touch. It was perfect, and if he hadn't wanted to give it as a gift quite so much, Ciorrnaich would have eaten it himself.

He did, though. And Xolotl was having none of it.

Ciorrnaich just didn't understand.

It didn't look quite so...offensive if you held it upside down.

It didn't look quite so... offensive if you held it upside down. But he'd hardly be able to get any work done that way. And given that the little figure within the pen was three-dimensional, and wore no underwear beneath its dress, there were limits to how unoffensive the thing could get.

"Why?" Kondekir demanded in a plaintive whisper, though Sanga only laughed.

When Landre walked through the door in a suspiciously similar dress a few minutes later, it was all he could do not to snap the pen in half.

There was something to be said about strange smelling tea.

There was something to be said about strange-smelling tea. Namely that it contained a narcotic of some kind, which meant that D was going down.

"This is pretty good, D," Leon said, trying not to grin too hard. "Mind if I take some home?"

The coquettish look and being embarrassed out of the shop for such a comment would be worth it as soon as he got this stuff to the crime lab.

Although not usually a fan of overtime, Scarlet found herself staying late one evening.

Although not usually a fan of overtime, Scarlet found herself staying late one evening. Not too late, though, and not for anything that could be considered work. Not when it was so easy to slide onto the edge of Reeve's desk and make distracting, throaty sounds of interest while Reeve tried desperately not to let his eyes fall on her looming cleavage.

He was such a gentleman.

Far too much, if she were perfectly honest. Perhaps this would be more work than she'd thought.

There's a simple rule that everyone must follow.

There's a simple rule that everyone must follow. British Rail places plenty of strictures on its passengers, but this rule is not documented on any of the helpful and informative panels on the walls of the carriage, which makes them a good deal less helpful to the British youth.

The rule is this: Be Polite to Your Conductor and Your Guard.

Because if you're rude to one, the other will slug you in the stomach and then apologise - to his companion, not to you.

And if you're rude to the other, god, it's so much worse.

She did tell him it was a bad idea, but of course he didn't listen.

She did tell him it was a bad idea, but of course he didn't listen. Never listened, in fact. Story of her life.

Story of his life, too, actually, although the ducks were an interesting addition.

"Shut up and help me carry these," Leon snarled on his way up the stairs. "There's another one in the car and it's channelling fucking Daffy."

Sanga was left speechless.

He'd done it; Griffith had accomplished his life's goal - the mustard...

"Oh, f'chrissake, stop flopping all over each other and get into the dingy!"

brb, trying to figure out what would actually leave Sanga speechless, other than a really fantastic recorder session, wink wink, nudge nudge, knowwhatImean.