Hank's fine, but has lost her mind, in case anyone was curious.

You Are Fruit Salad

You are a light-hearted and carefree person. You see the happy, colorful side of life. You are naturally sweet and kind. You believe it's important to be easy on people. Even when you have to criticize, you try to be as gentle as possible. If you ended up hurting someone, it would hurt you just as much. You're very sensitive.

What Kind of Salad Are You?

[MM] Jan. 2.3.4: Paint

ooc: backdated to before all TEH DRAMAZ, obviously. Julian Sark is elementof_risk and is used with permission and love that shines and brightly as the power of a thousand suns. Or something.



Every woman knew the sort of faces they were prone to make when they did their makeup. In Baileigh’s experience, those hideously odd contortions were a necessity. Here eyeliner and mascara never looked right unless she twisted her lips to the left just so while she applied it, and she had a tendency to poke the tip of her tongue out the corner of her lips while she painted her toenails.

Apparently men were just as prone to those look as well, except her husband’s expression was more akin to that of someone holding down the pin of a grenade, or dismantling an atomic bomb.

With a soccer ball sized belly wedged between her upper torso and her toes, she’d been rather neglectful of this particular vanity, and anyone that knew Baileigh knew she was incredibly picky about her feet. There wasn’t much point in having awesome shoes if the feet they were on weren’t pedicured. After she pouted about the chipped polish for long enough, Julian volunteered to repaint them for her.

It was sweet, and cozy, to curl up on the couch with her feet in his lap, but she hadn’t been able to stop giggling since he started painting. She’d never in her life seen someone so particular and fussy and focused on perfecting nail polish before. He shot her a glare every time she giggled and jostled her feet, which only made her laugh harder, arms wrapped around her stomach to minimize the motion’s effect on the baby. Something that should’ve taken all of five, ten minutes took much longer because he insisted on starting over every time she made him smudge the paint, despite her insistence that it was okay, she wasn‘t that particular.

She made an effort to press her lips together and look repentant when the top of the bottle met the glass lip with an irritated clack. “Do you to walk around like this, love,” he drawled, indicated her one finished foot, the other still bare, the cuticle stained pinkish from multiple polish removals.

“I’ll be good,” she promised, pulling her most innocent look, and smothering a grin behind her hand as he glared at her before going back to work.