Viggo's eyes went wide and half of his sandwich's filling fell limply back onto his plate with a wet *splotch*. He blinked, putting down the empty triangles of bread, and forced down the mouthful he'd been working on.

"What?!" he finally managed, reaching for a napkin.

Elijah, who hadn't touched his own lunch, looked guiltily at him, sitting primly on one of the café's uncomfortable--but pretty!--rough-iron chairs. He leaned in, a light shade of pink spreading across his cheeks and nose. "I said--"

"I heard what you said!" Viggo exclaimed, shoving a hand between him and Elijah, his voice rising an octave at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. He surveyed Elijah strangely, looking like he was trying the concept on for size in his head.

Elijah squirmed in his seat. "Well?"

Viggo opened his mouth, but for several heartbeats nothing came out of it. Just when Elijah was considering either storming off in a huff or simply dying of embarrassment, Viggo asked: "Are you seeing him again tonight?"

Elijah had the grace to look even more sheepish than before, if possible. "Yes."

Viggo considered this, picking up his fork to impale a slice of cucumber from his plate. "You do know he's old enough to be your--"

"Grandfather, I know, I KNOW!" Elijah threw up his arms, stifling the urge to get up and pace the length of the crowded terrace. He looked down at his eggplant sandwich as though it may offer some advice.

Viggo studied the boy, slurping his iced tea thoughtfully. "Alright!" Elijah jumped at the sudden sound of his voice. The ice cubes clinked as Viggo set the his drink back down next to his plate. "Show me your hands."

Elijah stared quizically, clutching his hands to his chest. "What? No!"

"Show me your hands, Elijah!" Viggo boomed, making a few of the other dining patrons look their way curiously.

Elijah whimpered and threw his hands across the table, palms up.

Viggo took them in his own, eyeing Elijah with a downcast look of dark amusement. "I'm not going to *read* your fucking hands, kid."

Elijah made a face. "With you, one never knows," he sneered, waiting for Viggo to do *something* with his hands.

Viggo grabbed Elijah's fingers and curled them inward, yanking the hands closer to his face. Elijah yelped as he was pulled halfway over the table, propped awkwardly over their meal.

"Ow!"

But Viggo shushed him, them smiled, pleased; the tips of each pale spooned finger were trimmed with little white crescents, the half-moons no more than a millimeter, if that, but smooth and round. He let go of Elijah's hands and picked up the less mangled half of his sandwich.

Elijah fell back into his chair, regarding Viggo oddly. 'That man is *so* weird.' "So?"

"You have my blessings," Viggo declared breezily with a sweeping motion of his hand. "You may court him as you please."

Elijah snorted and reached for his beer. "Thanks, Your Highness, but I wasn't exactly seeking your approval."

Viggo smiled at him affectionately, his tone softening. "You're happy. I approve."

"I'm happy? Well yeah, I suppose."

Viggo nodded agreeably, but then something occurred to him, and he brandished a threatening finger at Elijah. "But the second I see a bite mark on a single finger of yours, I'm kicking Sir Ian's ass all the way back to England. Are we clear?"

Elijah grinned. "Crystal."