If anybody had asked Jonothon even yesterday what his feelings were about Emilio Pucci, he probably would have stared blankly at them and asked them to repeat the question. He might have guessed, under duress, that perhaps it was some sort of fashion label. He never would have guessed that Hannibal would manage to talk him into wearing it. Especially a dress. In public. Which he was reasonably certain was made up of black duct tape and gauze. Not to mention the underthings that he'd gotten to wear with it. The less said about those...
Because really, one didn't need to discuss underwear when it was somewhat clearly visible through one's dress, and all.
Not that Jono was feeling shy, really. Hell, no. He was bloody gorgeous today, and feeling confident about being seen in public for the first time since he was a stupid bloody teenager back in London, and if he had to have a woman's body in order to manage that... he'd cope. He wasn't thrilled, but sitting down to dinner, actual dinner, in a restaurant that wasn't frequently patronized by fellow freaks of nature or Fandomites just so that he could be positive that nobody was going to spit in his food? That was pretty priceless.
Of course, if anybody spat in this food, Jono was fairly sure there would be somebody in the kitchen, claiming it was a delicacy and then charging an extra fifty dollars for the addition of such carefully prepared garnish. Jono appreciated fine dining, but what was on the menu here bordered on couture itself. Maybe he could supplement his strappy gauze dress with it...
//Those are forty dollar crab cakes, aren't they? I'm reading the menu properly? Perhaps it's a typography error...//
Telepathy came in handy for moments when out-loud incredulousness would go over poorly. Thank god.
[OOC: NFB for distance, for the date!]
- A Fancy Restaurant on the Mainland, Saturday Night