A NICE PLACE TO VISIT

Chapter Two

Mycroft did not spend the rest of the day hiding in the villa's library. He had important work to do, messages to check and relay, international incidents to plan and thwart. Things he was good at. He called the house manager to provide new instructions for dinner and supper, as his previous vision of a comfortable communal meal seemed unlikely at this point. After a quick and unsatisfying game of computer chess, he rose from the faux Louis XIV fauteuil chair and paced the length of the room several times. He crossed to stand in front of the mahogany bookshelves, at first just reading the titles, then running his fingers lightly along the spines of one row of books, many of which appeared to be rare or early editions. He inhaled the scent of time and timelessness that clung to them—a scent that was usually a comfort to him, but today it just smelled like dust. Tracing the faded burgundy script of the title on one spine, he wondered whether Sherlock had retained any memory of reading Le Petit Prince. He had taken a great deal of pleasure as a boy in questioning the Comte de Saint-Exupéry's premises, Mycroft recalled with some pride.

His removed his hand from the book and confined it to his trouser pocket.

There was no sense hiding, or rather working, in here all day simply because of an awkward scene…and he needed the loo soon. What were his house guests doing now? He resented not knowing with certainty, felt isolated and disadvantaged without his usual sources of surveillance and information. He refused to ask any of the staff. Both lack of information and indication of one's true priorities were vulnerabilities, and there were no vulnerabilities too small to be exploited—Mycroft had learnt that lesson very well from both sides of the transaction.

He made a stealthy trip to the nearest toilet, vigilant for any sign of his guests. Once his bladder was relieved, he padded down the hallway, peering into the salon and dining room and kitchen, listened at the doors of the media room and billiards room. The house was still and hollowly quiet. At the foot of the stairs leading to the bedrooms, he saw a maid cross the upstairs landing. He could hear the whisper of the fabric of her dark skirt as she moved. She did not look at him. Maybe they had all left. Maybe Greg had left. The villa, Mycroft's offering, inadequate, empty, and abandoned.

Mycroft returned to the library and, scowling at his weakness, phoned the driver on staff. Nicolas blandly assured him he had not conducted any guests from the property. Nor were either of the cars missing. Nor had any taxis been summoned to the villa. So...they had not left the grounds. At least not yet. It was clear, however, that no one was interested in seeking him out.

Mycroft retired to his room in the late afternoon with a copy of Voltaire's Candide-in the original French, of course. It had been quite some time since he had read it. Just after dusk, he called for the kitchen staff to send up a tray for his dinner, and arranged his room for dining while he waited. He had chosen the most austere of the villa's bedrooms for himself, but it was still quite comfortable. It had everything he needed, and the walls and fabrics were an unchallenging shade of ecru. He wondered if Greg liked his room. Mycroft had thought it the nicest in the villa, and well-suited to Greg—bright, comfortable, not too fussy, with earthy touches in the wood beams and stone walls. He'd had the fine Persian Abadeh rug from his room brought into Greg's in case the tile floors were too cool in the evenings.

He received his dinner tray, which included a beautifully-presented herb-rubbed steak with olives cassées and sautéed mushrooms, a lovely Syrah, and pot de crème for dessert. It looked delicious and he was not going to concern himself with the calorie count. He was on holiday, after all. He ate in his padded armchair from his bedside table, which he had pulled in front of the casement window overlooking the back garden. He listened to the breeze stir the leaves of the plane trees, trying not to hear himself chewing.

After supper, he showered and changed into the flattering new blue silk pyjamas he had purchased and packed with optimistic thoughts. He smirked as he smoothed his hands over the soft fabric. Very optimistic indeed. How unlike him not to have a contingency plan. They were very comfortable pyjamas, he reminded himself sternly. He certainly could wear them with no ulterior motive beyond his own comfort. He climbed in between the cool sheets of his bed and picked up Candide.

He would not indulge in self-pity. Self-indulgence was what had led to this fiasco in the first place. The appropriate course of action was to realistically assess the current situation, identify a new goal, and formulate a strategy to achieve it. All right then. Current situation: mortified. New goal: attain Greg Lestrade's good opinion (see: original goal). Strategy: … Strategy: … Strategy: Sleep on it. He would come up with something. Strategy is what he did, for God's sake.

What he would not do was spend the night hoping to hear footsteps in the hallway and a tentative knock at his bedroom door. He would not think of strong, tan, blunt-fingered hands against a soft white duvet or of bare feet on the wool of an intricately-patterned red and blue rug. He would not envision dark-lashed brown eyes warmed by affection.

The hallway outside his room remained appallingly quiet, and he eventually put his unopened book aside, curled around one of his pillows, and drifted into a miserable sleep.

xxx

Mycroft was still lying in bed blearily watching the morning sunlight dance on the leaves of the tree outside his window when his phone chimed from the bedside table. He flung a pale arm out from underneath his soft sheets to pick it up and read a text from John.

#
Off out for the day!
#

Ah, the exclamation point made it particularly jocund. He glared at it. How aggravatingly vague. Who was "off out?" John and Sherlock? John and Sherlock and Greg?

Mycroft showered and dressed in dark trousers, a pale yellow button-up, and a suit jacket. He felt a little naked without his usual waistcoat, but at the same time he acknowledged that he had been effectively denuded yesterday, so what was the point of the costume today?

He made his way to the dining room, where the chef had left a variety of breakfast offerings in covered silver serving dishes on the buffet—buttery croissants, cured ham, a selection of cheeses, roasted tomatoes, rich-smelling coffee. It didn't look as if anyone else had disturbed the display thus far. Although it seemed a shame to let it go to waste, he hadn't his usual morning appetite and selected only a plain croissant. He prepared a cup of tea and sat at the head of the long dining table.

Strategy. He still needed one, and quickly. He picked at his croissant, frowning. Was the situation truly as dire as he supposed? What had Sherlock really said in his speech that was so incriminating? Suggested that Mycroft wished to impress Greg. Was that necessarily a bad thing? After all, should one not try to impress one's guests? True, Sherlock had alluded to a potentially romantic attachment on Mycroft's part, but such things were open for interpretation, were they not? Perhaps Greg himself was uncertain as to the veracity of Sherlock's observations. If so, therein lay his advantage. The key would be to keep Greg balanced on the keen edge of uncertainty.

There was a sound in the doorway and Mycroft looked up to see the object of his musings walking into the room in a rumpled grey t-shirt with some sort of faded band logo, jeans, and sock feet. You didn't leave! Greg's socks were bright orange. Dazzlingly bright. What clothes do you sleep in? Or perhaps you don't sleep in any clothes at all. "Good morning," he managed to say over the deafening sound of his heartbeat.

"Good morning," Greg returned pleasantly, helping himself to a coffee and pain au chocolat. His expression revealed no notable reaction to yesterday's unfortunate events. What does your voice sound like when you've just woken up? He pulled back a chair noisily and sat down across from Mycroft. The stubble on his unshaven chin matched the salt-and-pepper color of his hair. Mycroft's fingertips itched to touch it. A thin leather cord circled his neck and disappeared into the neck of his t-shirt, and Mycroft wanted to find out what sort of charm dangled there against the warm skin underneath. Stop this madness.

Greg was licking little flakes of pastry crust from the tips of his fingers when Mycroft finally realized he was openly watching him in return, his eyebrows raised inquisitively.

Mycroft sighed and placed his tea cup carefully in its saucer. He lifted his chin. Showtime. "All right. You have questions."

Greg popped the last, large bite of pastry into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. Mycroft folded his hands in a flawless simulation of serenity while Greg took a sip of coffee. "Just one."

He nodded beneficently for Greg to proceed.

"Would you like to join me for a hike?"

Mycroft blinked. "A hike?"

"Yeah. A hike. It's when you, you know, traverse a distance on foot. Outdoors. In nature." He gestured toward the window. "There's some of it out there now."

"I know what a hike…that's your question? Would I like to go on a hike?"

Greg took another sip of coffee and offered him a small, amicable smile. "Yeah. I had a chat with Mateo—that's the groundskeeper—yesterday. He told me there's a good view past the gardens of a medieval town at the bottom of the valley."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and peered at Greg, grimacing. Was this some sort of joke? A hike. Mycroft Holmes…traipsing about ruggedly in nature. No. Most definitely not. "All right."

"Good. Can you be ready in about…" Greg checked his watch. "Twenty minutes?"

"I…yes."

"See you then." Greg gave him a jaunty wave, stood, and carried his breakfast dishes through the archway leading to the kitchen.

Mycroft frowned at his tea cup while he replayed the brief conversation in his mind several times, examining its nuances, analyzing it for hidden meanings. The results were highly unsatisfying. It made him uneasy.

He hastened to his room to examine the contents of his dresser. He'd instructed his PA to supply only "suitable attire for Provence" and—given her insight—should not have been surprised to find she had thought to include a sufficient selection of casual attire. Much more casual than his usual definition of "casual," but suitable for a "hike."

He changed into a pair of dark jeans, brown suede trainers, and a light green checked cotton button-up shirt over his vest. He examined himself in his full-length mirror, rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, and tucked a pair of sunglasses into the vee of his shirt. It took him thirty-five minutes to dress, but he thought the final ensemble made him look quite…fit, actually. He was ready for a pleasant stroll, a civilized conversation, and a recapturing of his advantage in these maneuvers.

xxx

John gripped the wheel of the BMW sedan and tried to keep his attention on the narrow, tree-lined road in front of him instead of the face hovering in his peripheral vision. "Sherlock, I told you to stop staring at me. Look at the scenery."

"I am."

"I mean the countryside."

"It's boring. I'd rather look at you."

"You're distracting me."

"I'd like to be." Sherlock brushed the back of his hand over the top of John's thigh. "Tu me rends fou."

"Stop that, too." John knocked his hand away.

"Si grognon ce matin," Sherlock said in a mournful tone.

"And what did that mean?" John asked curtly.

"It means you should improve your French, mon cher râleur," Sherlock grinned wickedly.

"Stop calling me French things."

"Si tu insiste…ma petite théière."

John spared a glance away from the road to assess Sherlock's self-delighted expression suspiciously. "You aren't saying nice things, are you? No, of course you aren't. What was that one, then? The 'little' one?"

"What do you think?"

John frowned thoughtfully. "Some kind of animal?"

Sherlock snickered. "Wrong!"

"No. I'm not playing this game. You know I don't drive often and I'm in the wrong side of the car, on the wrong side of the road. I have to concentrate."

"We've only met three other cars so far."

"That's not the point. And are you ever going to tell me where we're going? I hope you're not leading me into the remote countryside to murder me and leave me in a ditch. That's what my mother always told Harry strange men were up to."

"You think I'm strange?" Sherlock asked, his pout evident in his voice.

"God, of course I do." John looked over to confirm Sherlock's artfully jutting lower lip and twitched a grin in spite of himself. "I just don't think that's a bad thing."

"Oh," he accepted, perking up again. "If I murdered you, John, I would never leave you in a ditch. There would be far more clever and interesting ways to dispose of you."

John glanced over at him and saw the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "That's very reassuring. I'm surprised Mycroft hasn't used any of them on you after your little speech yesterday."

"I thought they'd be pleased," Sherlock insisted petulantly after a dramatic sigh.

"How could you possibly think that? No, Sherlock, they weren't pleased. I still think we should have just gone home today."

"Why? You said you wanted a holiday, mon…lionceau."

"Because, Sherlock, it's…" John sighed and then scrunched his forehead. "Lion?" he hazarded.

"Good, John, very good!"

"Oh, that's…not so bad." John arched a little in his seat, stretching his shoulders back, and then settled back in. "I'll need one for you."

"You've favored 'Oh, God' in the recent past."

"And it suits you perfectly. You do realize I'm not actually calling you God when I say that?"

"If you say so…mon marteau-piqueur."

"'Idiot' always has a nice ring to it. I like calling you that, I may as well stick with it."

"If you're going to be rude, I'll have to cancel our date."

"Date?"

"It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun."

"We've never actually been on a date, have we?" John mused.

Sherlock's hand returned to his knee and slid inward so that his fingers brushed up John's inner thigh. "That's why we're going on one." His hand moved a couple inches higher, his little finger grazing John's crotch.

John felt a flush of warmth in his groin and firmly returned Sherlock's hand to his own thigh, because he was not getting a hard-on right now. What if another car passed and he had to…steer…or something? "Okay. Look. If you will sit quietly, look out your window, behave, and let me focus on driving, I do solemnly swear I will let you distract me properly at the next available opportunity."

"You'll do that anyway. You can't resist me for long."

"Oh, can't I? Have you already forgotten who won our Valentine's Day bet?"

"You cheated!" Sherlock insisted with vehemence, straightening in his seat.

"I won," John corrected smugly. "Are you feeling confident about a rematch?" He didn't need to look to know that Sherlock was scowling at him.

Finally Sherlock turned his head with a flounce of curls to stare out the passenger window. "Oh, look, what a lovely tree we've just passed."

"That's better." John enjoyed peaceful driving for the next forty seconds before he made the mistake of saying, "And tell me well in advance when I need to make a turn."

Sherlock shifted in his seat and his fingertips brushed the hair at the nape of John's neck softly and his thumb traced the back of his ear. "Oui, mon tireur."

xxx

Hiking was a miserable activity clearly invented by masochists, Mycroft determined as he trailed after Greg across the manicured lawn, along the edge of a cedar forest, and through a flowering apple orchard. Greg was setting a punishing pace, and of course Mycroft refused to raise any objection, even though he was damp with perspiration and his feet were starting to hurt and his illusion of fitness was firmly dispelled. Also, he thought he might have a blister on his left heel.

Greg was the picture of vibrant health, striding along in his cargo shorts and a pair of rugged-looking shoes. Uncomfortable as he was, Mycroft's gaze still lingered inappropriately on the well-defined calves of the man in front of him. Mycroft hoped he wasn't breathing too loudly.

They hiked—with occasional stumbling, in Mycroft's case—out of the orchard and farther away from the villa, along a path littered with rocks and through an overgrown grassy expanse of field until they came to a dilapidated stone barn perched on the crest of a hill.

"There's our view!" Greg exclaimed triumphantly as he put his hands on his hips and regarded the pleasant disarray of tiered clay-tiled rooftops of the bright little village below, nestled in between rolling green and gold fields.

"Lovely," Mycroft said breathlessly as he leaned against the shady side of the stone barn. He scowled, counterproductive to his effort to calm his heart rate, and furiously resented the view and the fresh air and the sweat he could feel starting to dampen the back of his shirt.

Greg turned to look at him over his shoulder, and a corner of his mouth quirked up at the somewhat disheveled sight he knew he must be presenting. "You don't want to have a look?" He walked toward Mycroft. "Then what did you come for?" When Greg stepped into his personal space, Mycroft's pulse was pounding so loud that surely they must be able to hear it in the village below. He rested a lazy hand on the stone wall beside Mycroft's shoulder. "You know what, Mycroft? I've thought of another question after all."

Mycroft's world, which usually consisted of the entire world, shrank momentarily to the space in between his mouth and Greg's. How had he ever thought he was in control of himself? Or anything around him? His legs felt a bit wobbly. "Yes?"

"That was it." His voice was soft now, his dark eyes searching. "What did you come all this way for?"

He could deflect the question with a witticism. His response could easily evade or misdirect. He could flatter. He could lie. He took a long breath and opened his mouth, with no idea of which option he was about to choose. "Inspector…Greg." He sighed. "Greg. I owe you an apology. I believe I gave you a certain impression during our time together on New Year's Eve. I am also keenly aware of the distance that has developed between us over the course of the past several months." Greg was not very distant from him at all right now. If he leant forward…tilted his head…. "Whatever your perception and opinion may have been of that evening, I acknowledge that my own response was…inappropriate. I made a mistake. I want to rectify it."

"So you leased a villa in France? You could have just phoned me."

Mycroft's lips twitched. "Yes. One might think I'd have learnt that particular lesson by now."

Greg tilted his head and chewed briefly on a corner of his lower lip. "So what impression is it you think you gave me?"

"That I was interested in a less formal relationship with you than we had previously enjoyed in our dealings pertaining to Sherlock's affairs."

Greg snorted a laugh. "Less formal relationship? What does that mean, exactly? Because it seemed like you suddenly decided you wanted to be best mates, drink a pint or six, stay up all night and listen to music, have a chat about the scores?"

Mycroft considered, and finally forced himself to meet and hold Greg's gaze steadily, with both the memory and the prospect of thousands of nights of solitude behind his eyes. "Yes."

The mockery, gentle as it may have been, faded from Greg's face. "Oh. Mycroft, I…really?" He dropped his arm from the wall and took a small step back, and Mycroft's stomach fell. Greg shook his head bemusedly and moved his hand to rest lightly on Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft's heart leapt. "I thought…well, I thought you wanted…something else."

"Yes," Mycroft's voice sounded ragged to his own ear on that simple, single syllable.

Greg's eyes widened. "Okay. Wait. I need to be absolutely clear on this," he said slowly. "You wanted to be friends."

Mycroft nodded once.

"And also you wanted to be…lovers?"

It was becoming more and more difficult to speak. "Yes."

"I see." Greg's posture shifted as he processed this information. "And now?"

"And now."

"I see." A slow, lazy smile spread across Greg's face. "All right. Come on."

"Where?" Mycroft breathed. Anywhere.

"Have a proper look at this view. Then we can take our time a bit more back to the villa." Greg grinned a little wickedly. "And have a nice, long talk about that Arsenal match on the way."

Mycroft looked at Greg uncertainly. "Friends, then?"

"Yeah, Mycroft. Friends." Greg clapped him on the shoulder.

"Greg?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't really want to 'have a chat about the scores'," Mycroft admitted.

Greg nodded understandingly, eyes twinkling. "That's fine, mate. You can just listen."

Mycroft smiled down at the village below, wondering if anyone had ever called him "mate" and actually meant it in a friendly way. Friends. Friendship was good. Friendship was a good place to start, the foundation of a strong relationship, yes? He could work with that. Lovers, no, of course not, that was too much, too soon. But he was a patient man…or he could be. It was lovely view, at that. He could smell the apple blossoms on the breeze and he could hear warblers calling to one another from the surrounding scrub. It was turning into a beautiful day.

xxx

"Ville-en-Violet?" John squinted at the purple-lettered wooden sign welcoming them to what was apparently their destination as they walked from their parked car into town. There was a rather startling amount of purple on display in every street. Doors and shutters of the low stone houses were painted in various shades of purple. Awnings over the windows of shops were purple, the umbrellas over the outdoor café tables were purple. John looked up at Sherlock, who was looking around the little village almost proudly. "Okay, why so much…purple? Something to do with lavender?"

Sherlock bounced on his heels as they walked. "No, murder!" He took John's hand in his.

John almost stumbled on the cobblestones, because Sherlock had never once shown any interest in holding his hand when they were out together. "Murder?" he asked distractedly.

They ambled under a stone archway onto a quiet, shady street where purple-flowered vines clung to the walls. "There was a string of murders committed here in the mid-nineteenth century over the course of several years. Eight apparently unrelated victims, different ages, genders, occupations, even nationalities, found with multiple stab wounds and their clothing removed and burnt next to them. No one could find any common link until a local amateur chemist, Antoine d'Achille, collected the clothing that the police were about to cast aside as irrelevant."

"What did he find?" John smiled up at Sherlock's animated expression.

"Nothing of consequence at the time, but he recorded his results, and performed a similar analysis several months later when the next victim was killed. There was one obvious commonality." He beamed at John. "Not pink this time, but purple!"

John's brow furrowed. "All the victims were wearing purple? You said their clothes were burnt."

"At least two of them were wearing the exact same shade of purple. Monsieur d'Achille conducted chemical analyses of the charred remnants of the clothing and was able to determine the chemical structure of the fabric incorporated a new synthetic dye, a very specific purple, only recently invented."

"How did that lead them to the murderer, then?"

Sherlock shrugged and rubbed his thumb over the back of John's hand. "Well, that part was a bit of luck. The police noticed a local man, already known for some rather odd behavior, with a particularly unpleasant reaction to the color. He tried to attack a swatch of it one afternoon when a clothing merchant was accepting a delivery of new merchandise. Under questioning later, he claimed it was screaming at him. "

"Synesthesia?" John guessed.

"Gone horribly wrong, apparently, in this man's case. In any event, the town began to pay tribute to the victims with a display of purple in their homes and shops each year. Gradually it became the, as you see, rather romanticized theme of the village. They officially changed the name to Ville-en-Violet in 1927." They began ascending a small hill where the street opened into sunlight. "Murder, chemistry, and sentiment! I thought you'd like it?"

"Sherlock." John stopped walking and tugged on Sherlock's hand, intending to pull him in for a hard kiss.

Sherlock was peering over John's head, however, with an expression of dismay. "It's not here!"

John turned. "What? What's not here?"

Sherlock pointed at a flower shop across the street. "There used to be a restaurant here. We were going to have lunch."

"Maybe you got the street wrong?"

Sherlock shot him a scathing glance before his expression wilted again into one of utter betrayal. "It was an important part of the date! You like food. We were going to share the Charlotte à la Framboise!"

John squeezed Sherlock's hand and then brought it to his lips to drop a kiss on it. "When were you last here, then?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I passed through briefly seven, almost eight years ago."

"Hm."

"Why?"

"Because you've brought me on a date based on my interest in crime, sentiment, and food. I was hoping you'd know of a more private spot somewhere nearby where I can snog you to bits. Right now. It's important."

Sherlock shifted his attention from the offending flower shop to John's face, and regarded him closely for several moments. "This way."

John almost had to break into a jog to keep pace with Sherlock's long strides as he led John by the hand through another sequence of narrow stony streets with picturesque archways and flowering balconies until they came to a large church. John thought he heard singing inside. They made their way into a small courtyard at the back of the structure, to an old wooden door at the base of a bell tower. Sherlock tried the door handle, and it clicked open. "Excellent!" he grinned with a triumphant look.

The inside was bright but dusty, lit by a pair of narrow windows set high in the tower. A simple wooden floor was free of furniture and a staircase curved up to the top of the tower. The singing was much louder here, starting and stopping on parts of the same piece. "It sounds like…choir practice?" John murmured.

"Yes, I believe you're right," Sherlock replied in a low voice, maneuvering John into a space behind the staircase. "They're just in the next room. You're going to have to be quiet." He pressed John to the wall and dropped to his knees.

"Oh, God," John whispered as Sherlock deftly unfastened his belt buckle.

"See?"

Sherlock tugged his jeans and pants down together and closed his lips around the head of John's cock, teasing the foreskin with his tongue. "Oh…God," he sighed again, trying desperately to keep his voice down. He felt Sherlock's lips curve into a smile. "Oh, you're a bad man," John breathed, curling his fingers into a handful of Sherlock's hair as his head began to move slowly back and forth, the inside of his mouth slippery and hot.

The choir's voices swelled.

xxx

Mycroft emerged from his post-perambulatory shower refreshed, relaxed, and cheerful. He dressed in his yellow button-up from the morning and a daringly-fitted pair of dark jeans. He rolled up his shirt sleeves and combed his hair into place.

Greg was waiting for him in a sitting area at the edge of the back gardens where there were a pair of loveseats and a stone-topped table placed under a wrought iron ivy-covered arbor. A tray with a selection of tartines—Mycroft identified chive with smoked salmon, avocado, goat cheese, honey—had appeared on the table along with a chilled bottle of Petit Chablis. Greg, still in his hiking attire, but minus his heavy shoes, had turned sideways on one of the loveseats to stretch his legs out along the cream-colored cushions. He was looking into the garden and munching on a brie and berry-covered tartine.

Mycroft smiled, he feared a little shyly, as he sat down on the other loveseat, but Greg didn't look up at him. "This is…not terrible," Greg mused serenely. "You chose a nice place here, Mycroft."

"Thank you." Mycroft tried not to preen at the simple praise. He reached for the bottle of wine, examined it, and then poured glasses for himself and Greg.

Greg turned to face him as he accepted his glass and leaned forward in his seat a little. "Did you really know this would remind me of my grandfather's house?"

Mycroft looked down uncomfortably. "I was not unaware of the possibility."

"So," Greg mused, "you really did have a whole seduction scheme planned, then?"

Mycroft looked away, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"Mycroft," Greg said gently, "answer me."

"I wouldn't call it a 'seduction scheme.'"

"What would you call it then?"

Mycroft took a sip of his wine. It was light with a noticeable citrusy note—lemon—and a touch of saltiness.

"Mycroft?"

Mycroft swallowed and finally met Greg's eyes. "Yes. I had a seduction scheme planned."

"All right then."

"I beg your pardon?"

Greg leaned back in the love seat and stretched an arm out casually along the back. "Go on. Let's see what you've got," he challenged, eyes dancing with mischief. "Impress a lad."

xxx

Tu me rends fou = You drive me crazy
Si grognon ce matin = So grumpy this morning
mon cher râleur = my dear grouch/whinger
Si tu insiste…ma petite théière = If you insist...my little teapot
mon…lionceau = my...lion cub
mon marteau-piqueur = my jackhammer
Oui, mon tireur = Yes, my marksman

xxx