Dolphin-san: Hey again people! Here's the next part in the life of everyone's favourite neko-jin. Hope you enjoy it.

Oh and thanks very much to darksaphire for being my first reviewer on this fic. It really made my day.

Chapter 2

Florence Curtis had led an action-packed life; she had always lived for the day and crammed as much as was humanly possible into each and every one of them. Married at twenty, a mother at twenty-five, divorced by twenty-seven, married again, widowed, married for the third time at thirty-three . . . good Lord, it made her dizzy nowadays just to remember those hectic years when, juggling homes, staff and the needs of her much-loved but incredibly demanding son, she had followed her various husbands all over the world.

Then her beloved Danny, number three, had died of a heart attack on the steps of the casino at Monte Carlo and Florence had decided to call it a day on the husband front. Twice widowed was enough; the pain was almost too much to bear. From now on she would stick to lovers. Apart from anything else, she glibly informed her friends – because sympathy was anathema to Florence – she was tired of endlessly changing her surname on chequebooks.

The next twenty years had been spent in the reckless pursuit of fun, with Florence adoring every last minute. Her motto had always been 'You're a long time dead', and until the first signs of stiffness had begun to seep into her joints, it had never occurred to her that perhaps it should have been 'You're a long time crippled with arthritis'.

It was hard, adapting to life in a wheelchair when your brain sometimes fooled you into thinking you were still as active as you'd always been. Every now and then, Florence dreamt that she had been dancing all night at the Cafe Royal. When she woke up, exhilarated and in the mood to carry on, she would think, That's what I'll do today, go somewhere a bit swish and dance . . .

Until she tried to turn over in bed, only to groan aloud with the pain. These days she was lucky if she could make it as far as the kitchen before collapsing in a heap.

Last year Florence's well-meaning GP had suggested wheelchair ballroom dancing. Every Thursday night, apparently, busloads of disabled pensioners descended on nearby St Augustine's church hall and had a high old time of it, spinning and twirling their partners around the floor.

'What, in their wheelchairs?' Florence had roared with laughter. 'Sorry, darling, not my scene. Sounds like two teenagers with clonking great braces on their teeth trying to have a snog.'

If she sometimes felt a bit down in the dumps, Florence made sure she kept it to herself. What good would it do, after all, to drone on about how depressed you were and how narrow your life had become? That was a surefire way to end up a Nellie No-friends.

Instead, she concentrated on presenting her cheerful, fun-loving self to the world. She also made sure she counted her blessings regularly. She had her home, and no money worries. She had Ray. And her legs might be useless, but at least she still had the use of her hands, which meant she could hold a champagne glass, play a mean game of poker and put on her own make-up. Not always brilliantly, as Florence was the first to admit. But hell, there were worst things in life than a bit of wonkily applied eyeliner.

As the clock on the mantelpiece chimed six-thirty, Florence wheeled herself over to the sitting-room window. She liked to watch out for her lodger. As soon as she saw Ray coming up the street – usually searching in his pockets for his front door key – she would fetch a bottle of lager from the fridge and pour herself a decent measure of dry sherry.

That was another great thing about wheelchairs. If the first drink of the day went straight to your knees – well, so what?

Florence was still tussling with the ice cube tray when the front door slammed shut and Ray yelled, 'I'm home.'

'You're frozen. Go and sit by the fire,' Florence protested when he came through to the kitchen to help. 'I can manage.'

Ray bashed the tray against the top of the fridge, scattering ice cubes in all directions.

'Mt hands are numb already.' He clattered ice cubes into Florence's sherry glass. 'There, done. Now we can both sit by the fire.' He pulled a face. 'And I can tell you all about my wonderful day.'

Sleety rain dripped down Ray's neck as he tipped his head back to drink the lager straight from the bottle. His long black hair, tied back, reaching to below his knees and currently streaked with dark blue and green low lights, gleamed like a magpie's wing.

'. . . so I missed my lunch break and by the time I left the salon, he'd gone,' he concluded, unaware of the rim of froth on his upper lip. 'Poor guy, I feel terrible letting him down like that.'

'You know your trouble,' Florence said comfortably, 'you're a soft touch.'

'I just worry about him. What kid of life does he have? I mean, imagine not having anywhere to live.'

Florence snorted into her sherry. 'Ha, feeling sorry for him's one thing. Just so long as you don't bring him back here and expect me to feel sorry for him too.'

She wouldn't put it past Ray to give it a go, to try and persuade her to allow some smelly old tramp to move in with them.

'You're heartless,' said Ray.

'I'm not a pushover, that's all. Anyway,' Florence grew serious, there's something I have to tell you. It's not good news, I'm afraid.'

'What?' Ray's light eyes widened in alarm. 'Are you ill?'

'I'm not, but my bank account's feeling pretty sick. You heard about the stock market crash last week?'

Ray hadn't, but he nodded anyway. Matters of high finance tended to pass him by.

'Well, my accountant phoned me this afternoon. My shares have gone down the toilet. Basically, I'm skint.' Florence paused and looked embarrassed, 'The thing is, I'm afraid I'm going to have to put your rent up.'

Ray swallowed. He began to feel queasy.

'Oh. Okay. Um . . . by how much?'

'Well, double it?'

Good grief.

The look on Ray's face was a picture. Florence roared with laughter and clapped her hands.

'Ha, April Fool!'

Ray's mouth dropped open.

'You mean . . . my rent's not going up?'

'Of course it isn't!'

'You aren't broke?'

'There hasn't been a stock market crash. You should try reading the paper occasionally,' Florence cackled, 'then you'd know.'

Ray breathed again.

'It's after midday,' he protested. 'April Fools don't count after midday.'

'I didn't get a chance earlier. Anyway,' Florence's grin was unrepentant, 'still worked, didn't it?'

'That's cheating,' grumbled Ray.

With an air of complacency, Florence said. 'Ah well, I'm allowed to cheat, I'm a batty old woman in a wheelchair. That means I can do what I want.'

Hiro wasn't due back from work until eight. Feeling that an extra-special dinner was called for, Max marinated the chicken breasts and mushrooms in garlic and olive oil, tossed the tiny new potatoes in butter and made sure there was enough blackcurrant sorbet in the freezer before running his bath.

He pulled his hair back with the diamante clips Hiro had bought him last Christmas and put on the red satin shirt and black leather pants he had given him for his birthday. He outlined his eyes with kohl to make his blue eyes stand out sharper, determinedly ignoring how it made his eyes itch.

Every little helped.

He hoped.

And let's face it, thought Max as he began – albeit shakily – to head back down the stairs, tonight I'm going to need all the help I can get.

Twenty-five past eight.

Still no sign of Hiro.

God, the one time I desperately need a drink, and I can't have one.

By eight thirty Max's nerves were in bits. When he heard the click of Hiro's key in the front door, he catapulted out of his chair as if he'd been zapped with a cattle prod.

Appearing in the living room, loosening his tie, Hiro let out a low whistle.

'I say, what's all this in aid of? It's not our anniversary, is it?'

Max began to tremble. He'd overdone it. Now he was going to want to know right away why he'd made such an effort.

'I just felt like dressing up.'

He managed a bright smile. Telling Hiro was going to be so much easier once he had a good meal and the best part of a bottle of wine inside him.

'Leather pants.' He tilted his head, observing the tight leather that fit Max like a second skin. 'This is the kind of dressing up I like.'

Hmm, maybe dinner followed by sex, then tell him. That might be better.

That is, if Hiro didn't fall asleep and start snoring like a rhino within six seconds of rolling off him.

It had been known to happen in the past.

'Is that garlic?' Hiro sniffed the cooking smells wafting through from the kitchen. 'I'd better give that a miss. Big meeting first thing tomorrow – don't want to knock the clients senseless.'

'Oh.' Max's face fell. He'd put garlic in everything. That meant dinner now consisted of blackcurrant sorbet.

'Is everything okay?' Sensing his anxiety, Hiro moved towards him. 'Sweetheart, you're shaking. Is something up?'

'I'd better turn the oven off.' Max heard his own voice echoing in his ears. It was like listening to someone else talking. He hadn't wanted to launch right in and say it, he needed time to gear himself up, run a few more practice lines through his head.

Then again, was it really going to make it any easier?

'Max?' Hiro's hands were on his shoulders, gently massaging them. 'What is it?'

'Oh Hiro, we're going to have a baby.'

There, he'd done it.

Blurted it out.

Like Bambi's legs collapsing on the ice – whoomph – Hiro's hands slid off his shoulders.

'What?'

Another deep breath.

'A baby. We – we're going to have a baby.'

He took a step back.

'You mean you're pregnant?'

With an effort, Max stopped his smile from wobbling, though his knees carried on regardless.

'Well, we didn't win one in a competition.'

'Is this a joke?'

'No! I wouldn't joke about something like this!'

Hiro gave him an odd look. A not very encouraging one.

'How long have you known?'

Max's heart was flapping around in his chest. It felt as if it was trying to get out.

'Seven hours.'

'Max. This can't happen. You know it can't.'

'But it has happened,' Max protested, dry-mouthed.

'We agreed. No babies. We don't need them. I don't want them. I don't even like them.'

'I know, I know,' he pleaded, 'but it's happened. It was an accident but now it's happened-'

'Sure about that?' said Hiro coldly. 'Are you sure it was an accident?'

'I swear to you!' Oh God, this was awful. 'I'd never do anything like that. It was just as much of a shock to me-'

'Good. So all we have to do is sort it out.'

Max stared at him, unable to speak.

'Don't look at me like that.' Steadily, Hiro held his gaze. 'What did you seriously expect me to say? Max, you are not going to have a baby. We'll get it taken care of. It's no big deal, sweetheart, it won't even hurt.'

Fear was replaced by fury. Max felt his fingernails digging into his palms.

'We aren't talking about a . . . a wisdom tooth . . .'

'It's smaller than a wisdom tooth.'

'It's a human being!' Why couldn't Hiro understand how he felt? He fought back the urge to scream at the top of his voice. If Hiro truly loved him, why couldn't he understand how he felt? How could he just reject the idea out of hand?

'I'm not being brutal,' Hiro said, 'just realistic.'

'But it doesn't have to be the end of the world!'

'No, just the end of our marriage.'

Max reeled back as if Hiro'd hit him. He felt physically winded.

'So that's why you made all this effort,' Hiro drawled, gesturing at Max's clothes. 'Oh, I get it now. Slap on some leather and eyeliner and that'll do the trick. Just the idea of no underwear under those pants and you'll have me at your mercy, gibbering, "Darling, how wonderful, you've made me the happiest man in the world, of course I want a baby."'

Max looked away.

Well, yes.

Basically it was what he had hoped would happen.

'Sorry, Max. I can't do it. I told you before we got married how I felt about children, and I'm not going to start changing my mind now. See?' Hiro waved an arm in the direction of the window. 'No flying pigs.'

No, thought Max, just one two-legged one right here in the living room.

'I can't get rid of it,' he whispered, 'I just couldn't.' Hating himself for being so feeble, knowing it was a waste of time, he begged.

'You might change your mind.'

'No.' Hiro picked up his car keys, his grey eyes cold. 'No, no, no. By the way,' he added dismissively as he made for the front door, 'don't worry about saving my dinner for me. I'll eat out.'

Dolphin-san: Lord, isn't Hiro such a bastard. If you haven't guessed, there is going to be a lot of Hiro bashing in this fic, because I don't like him. Well, R&R people, if you liked it, and if you didn't, review anyway, cause i don't mind constructive criticism.