[It's taking a great deal of restraint to keep from leaning back. He's a captain. He has the honor of the Landau family to think about. He's on a very strange man's couch, in a bad part of town. The hour is late. No one knows where he is. If Serval was here- no, Serval never would've played along with things to get to this point. If Serval had been the one handling this, there's a decent chance that they'd all be in her workshop right now - him, his sister, Figaro - and Serval would be telling him that he's a blood donor now.

...that's besides the point. Gepard's aware that if he had been born a woman, this would absolutely be the set-up for a half-Shield romance novel, one of those painted on paper so cheap they're practically translucent. He takes Figaro's hand, Figaro shoves him against the couch, things happen.

But that's not going to happen because- because. Criminal and officer of the law; guy who needs to eat people, and his blood donor. He takes Figaro's hand - firm, confident, not at all out of his depth - and then Gepard blinks at him like he's a startled child.]

My...preferences?

[What?]

You want to- [What?] You want to know what I like to eat? [Nobody asks him this. Gepard ever so slightly scoots in, because he's confused-yet-transfixed, transfixed-yet-confused, peering at Figaro curiously, with slight wonder, because what a strange question. What a strange question!] I don't think anyone's ever asked me this before. At least, not unless I'm ordering and I have to choose between two types of meat skewers...

[What a strange question...oh, wait. He knows why.] I'm not a picky eater. Don't worry, I'll eat whatever you bring.