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Anthy is cradling a mug of hot chocolate between her hands, and slowly unwrapping some green tea candies; it's a lazy afternoon -- her day off -- and she's enjoying the cold pale sunlight, so different from Houou's.

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"Chef Anthy!" It's a cheerful sort of voice from about the level of her knees.

Anthy looks down.

And beams.

"Alf-san! It's good to see you."

"How goes the cooking?"

He has a personal interest, you see.

"I've brought you something!"

It's a kitten.

It's still alive.

They're better fresh.

"Oh, it's adorable!" says Anthy, cheerfully ignoring the part where he thinks of it as a meal. She offers it a hand for sniffing.

"I haven't cooked anything recently, but maybe I could ask Bernard if I can use the kitchens."

The kitten looks at her with wide, innocent eyes, completely unaware it is being offered up to the great god of the stomach of ALF.

ALF, for his part, grins. "How could he refuse?! Anthy, baby, you've got a gift. It's got to be shared with the universe."

"He doesn't like curry," she says doubtfully, but brightens, after a moment. "Oh -- I do have a small --"

"Would you like some cat curry now?"

She scoops up the kitten with one hand, and scritches it behind the ears.

"Do opera singers tend to be overweight?!"

Pause.

Doubtfully: "If they eat a lot of cat curry."

"I won't be long!"

Up the stairs. Kitty is regarding her with some confusion.

Its real name is Prudence.

Sucks to be the cat, don't it?

ALF, for his part, is trying not to drool.

Drool makes his fur knot.

She returns. (http://community.livejournal.com/milliways_bar/10694540.html)

"YOU are an angel. A mistress of the culinary arts. You are, in fact, a cooking mofo."

ALF ain't in the 80's anymore, yo.

He knows what a cooking mofo is.

Oh yeah.

"Oh," says Anthy. Bewildered.

Anthy is.

Also please keep the word "motherfucker" away from her 'verse, because there it's often literally true.

Something wrong happens now.

Something horribly wrong.

ALF eats the curry.

ALF eats the curry and relishes every moment.

And when he's done, ALF just looks...like he's in heaven.

"How would you like a job? Personal chef to a hit talk show host!"

ALF should just be glad he was the only one eating from that plate.

"Oh, I'm happy to cook for you whenever you like," Anthy assures him, beaming. "It's my pleasure -- consider it a gift."

His eyes are wide.

She's...wonderful.

No one's been like this since...Rhonda.

ALF lacks words.

Anthy smiles cheerfully at him.

And bows.

"I'm glad to have met you, Alf-san."

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