#my braces new color (hot pink) make it look like my mouth is bleeding since i wear pink lip shades all the time

[woahajimes]

its kinda like

[thethrillof]

start of a weird bug tank au hollow knight/undertale crossover thing b/c i am embracing self indulgence! fuck it!

warning for the hollow knight being an absolute wreck and death-related stuff

Do not think.

It fails. The situation is beyond anything it has encountered, has heard of, was warned of.

Do not speak.

It cannot. If it tried, it would choke on meticulous lifetime habit and Her infection. The last words it has heard, shaking its tiny body, meant nothing.

Do not feel.

It does. Terror. Confusion. Terror increasing, in that the confusion does not belong solely to it and that is horribly new.

Do not hope.

That is simple enough. It knows not what could be hoped for, here.

The Hollow Knight drips infection across the strange white cloth beneath it, legs curled stiffly to avoid pressing against the glass wall of its prison.

The holes eaten away in its chest, stomach, and arm are no longer agonizing. Another creature had taken care of that.  Perhaps several. They had been moved between multiple hands. The details were lost in the haze of Her rage; all but the hands each being more than the length of its body. It had nearly fallen. It had tried to fall. Do not feel, do not feel, do not feel.

It is so tired.

She is not enraged. She is not screaming. She is waiting behind its eyes, panic stabbing through its body in a burning rhythm.

She directs its head without care. Face aimed to the side, it can see more than a white blur from above, a pink stripe along the floor outside. A creature, waiting across an abyss.

She unfurls its body. Her chanting direction of slaughter, unceasing for years, is now silent.

The distant creature lies still.

It recalls an impression of what must have been eyes, golden brown, staring into the clear cell intensely.

The creature is not watching now. Quiet. Sleeping.

Its body moves. It resists now that it has space to do so, leaving its single arm uselessly resting against the branch in the center of the cell.

…When had the other been lost?

Do not think. It gives Her purchase.

The stump that is left flares with a memory of its shape, and She grasps the branch, begins to drag its body upward. The Temple contained them both for too long. An echo of Her rage, newly building, blinds and deafens it back to submission. A chance for true freedom is here. She will succeed and it will break, again and again, as it has done before.

It is so tired.

It.

It wants.

It wants everything

to 

stop.

Do not hope.

When it can see through its own eyes once more, the giant creature is within arm’s reach.

^

Frisk wakes up with a tiny white face right in front of theirs.

It’s just luck that they don’t slam their head into the wall when they fling it back, away from something way too close so suddenly.

They stare at each other across the length of their pillow, unmoving, as Frisk starts getting their bearings back. The stickbug, the one they got from the monsters on the side of one of the mountains. It got out. Somehow.

They ask how the heck it did that.

Which, of course, does nothing.

Carefully lifting their head and resting it on their hand, their eyes slide back to the jar on the windowsill. The napkin they’d secured with the rubber band had a hole ripped all the way through, as if their stickbug had jumped straight up and out. And maybe it did. It must’ve taken some pretty big jumps to get all the way from there to the desk to their bed, unless it climbed down and back up. A quick glance at the floor shows that Mom’s pie is there, though a bug-sized bite or several probably wouldn’t be something they can see.

The stickbug sways, twitches, pitches forward, so fast they barely notice. It’s tiny, so it doesn’t have far to fall, even if it did to the blanket, and it doesn’t. It rests face-first against the side of the pillow instead, almost like it’s still standing.

Do bugs breathe? They gotta, since Mom said not to close them in the jar. The stickbug is entirely still when they get in real close, holding their own breath to see if it’ll move. When it doesn’t, they gingerly nudge it into the palm of one hand, where it curls its one upper leg against itself. Arm, maybe. They don’t know too much bug stuff, except that bees don’t sting unless you’re mean first. And that it’s not actually a stickbug. Real ones actually look like sticks. This one looks like it’s made of black wires. Wirebug just sounds weird.

Toriel is the one who knows the bug stuff. They showed the stickbug off to her first, asked her to help it, ‘cause it was bleeding all over. They never actually asked what she thought it was. Didn’t have time.

She’s the one who got the jar and let them decorate it. And she’s the one who told them, very gently, that she didn’t think the stickbug would make it overnight. Her healing magic helped, but it’s not made for fixing bugs. “Bugs rarely live long lives, my child,” she said. “It will be pleased with whatever you give it.” They think she might’ve been lying, but in the end, it doesn’t really matter.

It looks like it started bleeding again after they fell asleep. The orangeness is dripping down its face, uncomfortably warm where it runs down the finger that its head’s propped to rest against. Mom healed that before, they’re almost absolutely sure.

They could put it back in the jar. Leave it. To maybe get better?

Or maybe not. Maybe leave it to die.

Alone.

Frisk’s fingers curl around the stickbug a little more. They’re still pretty sleepy. It’s nowhere near dawn, still sometime after Toriel went to bed. They shift and settle their back against the wall.

It’s just a bug, but it’s still alive now. Even if it won’t be for long. Even if it can’t see, or doesn’t know what’s happening. It might--after all, Muffet’s spiders were smarter than the ones that they’d met on the Surface before. Maybe they hadn’t been paying enough attention.

They sit up better, even though they’re sleepy, shifting their hands to let the stickbug stretch out over both their palms if it wants.

They’d never died alone, of course, but even the company of somebody (or somebodies) trying to kill them somehow seems like a less awful thought. That’s terrifying, though they can’t explain why, even to themselves. Any death sucks (though getting ate is probably the worst).

Mommy! Daddy!

No. They push those thoughts off. That wasn’t alone. He was, they weren’t, game over.

It was almost like dying alone, down in the Lab. Before they got to talk the the Amalgamates in the right way. It was just cold, dark, unsettling, voices dancing around their ears and coming from their own mouth, sometimes. It was terrible.

It was cold. The echoes of air and distant Amalgamates were awful, otherworldly music.

It was cold.

It’s cold.

It’s so cold--

Until it isn’t.

Sunlight scalds their face and circles wheel around their head and they press their hands over their eyes, snarling. Frisk was busy remembering!

Something is above them. It’d be blocking out the light if it had shadow but it is the light, so they get even angrier at it. Her. HER. HER, SHE, THE RADIANCE brands into their brain.

They snap at the Radiance to get away from them.

“Little creature,” she roars sings hums laughs. “Greater beasts have tried to order me away.”

The light ripples underwater. There’s no water.  Her words pump toxin through their skin.

They move their head, cracking their eyes open. The world’s clouds and light and just a bit of stone under their back. They’re lying down. They shouldn’t be.

“Little creature. I wonder your purpose.” She does not. Certainty of a goddess that knows all, unshaken as earth scorched to nothing.

(The thought of a lie does not come to them. Fortunately, this doesn’t matter.)

Moving is painful. The sun beats down on them in waves, hot as fire, sharp as spears, and they have had enough of that.

They are not alone.

“Little creature.” She reminds them of meeting Papyrus, but that’s an insult to him. Overwhelming, alarming. Nothing to hide behind here. Undyne, bellows of justice, cutting through. Asgore, the whispers and rumors, the coffins, the warmth.

None of their sadness. None of the pain. Liar, liar, liar. They want their dagger.

“I am here. Listening. Speak. Stand. Allow me closer.” Burnt sugar sweet. A warm last breath. Love broken, love lost.  

The heat presses down harder.

They remember climbing a mountain. They remember finding a home.

Hissing words that Toriel would ground them a month for, grasping without sight, knowing what they want is right there, right next to them on the stone. A head that’s not a head, a shell, a mask, a face, a little white face with orange eyes that they blindly claw at, spilling the nasty goop to leave the space behind. It’s not a little face, it’s a mask longer than either of their arms, and after they’re done it’s held defiantly against their chest.

She screeches.

They screech back.

“You reach for that empty thing!” Her words vibrate through their teeth. “That lie! That wyrm-born abomination! You know nothing! Not where it comes from, not the shattering of my light! You will release it. You, creature, fragile, pathetic, little CREATURE. Listen! LISTEN. Do not turn your back. Nothing again. LITTLE CREATURE. COME HERE. YOU WILL RELEASE ME. YOU WILL KILL IT. YOU WILL END WHAT REMAINS OF HIM.”

The mask they hold is so, so, so cold, it bites into their skin worse with the orange burning.

A child braces for pain.

A child grits teeth.

Fought a God made of every SOUL of every monster they ever met, built of l-o-v-e, full of LOVE, stars and colors screaming and whirling and ripping them to bits. They died and died and died and refused. Hopes and Dreams and Determination, all swirling and ripping gracelessly out of their chest.

They tell her: no!

They tell her: My name’s Frisk!

They tell her: I don’t care!

They tell her: This stickbug is MINE! They’re mine! Not yours!

They are a Fallen Child even if not The Fallen Child, and they lost their fear the first time they tripped into fire, were consumed and shattered by it, and they prove this by twisting, sliding, leaping off the stone to plummet into the dark under her horrible terrible beautiful screaming--

They land with a jolt in their bed, foggy gray light filtering in through the window.

Blinking afterimages of gold circles from their eyes, they adjust their neck and look at the stickbug still in their fingers. Their stickbug, they think with a shadow of anger that’s already fading with wakefulness.

Their stickbug sits up, staring at them with deep black eyes.

Frisk gives it a tired grin.

Look, they whisper. Survived the night after all.

[ifishouldvanish]

The Boston Hour (20/?)

Avid Antiques Roadshow viewer Belle has a giant crush on one of the program's appraisers– the suave and eloquent Dr Rumford Gold. When she finally scores tickets to the show and meets him though, she finds he's anything but.

AKA: The one where Belle is an Antiques Roadshow super-fan and Gold is her favorite appraiser.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Rumford, Belle, and Neal try to endure their unexpected dinner guest. RATING: T WORDS: 11,368 TMI’s: [boop] A/N: I promised myself I'd get this chapter up before the new year. It's... kind of a lot?

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] [Part Seven] [Part Eight] [Part Nine] [Part Ten] [Part Eleven] [Part Twelve] [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen] [Part Fifteen] [Part Sixteen] [Part Seventeen] [Part Eighteen] [Part Nineteen] [Read on AO3]

Rumford's house was fancy.

This wasn't any surprise. After all, Belle had expected it to be fancy, and she'd been in fancy houses before.

But those houses were new fancy.

Rumford's house was old fancy.

Those houses had had large, oddly shaped rooms, uncomfortable-looking chairs in places she couldn't imagine anyone ever wanting to sit, and often displayed a complete disregard for acoustics in the name of boasting ‘high ceilings’ and an ‘open concept’ floor plan.

But Rumford's house.

Rumford's house was cozy; Function still present beneath the decadent flair of luxurious rugs, inviting loveseats, and dainty window dressings. There was nary a fluorescent light bulb to be found in any one of the several sconces and table lamps, nor a single white wall in any of the tastefully decorated rooms he'd walked her through.

...Rooms that included a guest suite, which he’d informed her she'd be sleeping in tonight.

Now, normally Belle would be delighted to spend the night in a canopy bed fitted with satin sheets, surrounded by period decor, fresh flowers, and jewel-toned damask wallpaper– but not when there was another bedroom right across the hall that would have a Rumford in it!

That was the room she wanted to sleep in tonight! So they could cuddle! And kiss!

She couldn't possibly impose now, though. Not when her Rumford was so upset! Flitting about the kitchen, clearly trying to distract himself with preparing dinner! He'd waved off all of her offers to help and insisted she make herself at home, but oh! How could she?!

Not even his study– full of lovely, lovely books– could keep her away! Instead, she'd spent the past twenty minutes awkwardly standing around the kitchen, half following him from one cupboard to the next, half keeping her distance so as not to crowd him.

But soon the potatoes were roasting, and the pork chops were cooking, and there wasn't any more flitting about for Rumford to do.

He stood by the oven, checking the clock, checking the potatoes, nudging the pork chops around their pan on the stove, checking the clock again.

That was her cue, Belle decided.

“Dinner smells wonderful,” she told him, coming up behind him and curling against his side. She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze and he returned a weak smile, his brown eyes big and lost and sad– like a puppy!

“I-I'm sorry, Belle,” he mumbled. “This isn't how I wanted our evening to… it was supposed to…”

She turned to face him better and took his hands. “I'm here to spend time with you,” she said. “And that's what I'm doing. Even it means I have to spend a little time with her, too.”

He sighed. “I'm sorry I didn't warn you.” His thumbs rolled over hers in little circles, and Belle smiled at him, recognizing the worried gesture for what it was. “But she told me she was staying at a hotel and that she'd stay out of my hair, ye know? I-it wasn't supposed to be an issue, and now–”

Belle cupped his face. “You worry too much,” she said, reaching up on her toes to give him a quick kiss. “Silly man.”

He nodded, and a proper smile bloomed across his face. “I do.”

There was a terrible urge to squish his cheeks and give him a big kiss!– but Belle managed to fight it.

“When's the last time you saw her?” she asked softly, taking his hands again to squeeze instead.

They could talk through this, she knew. The waiting was always the hardest part, and if Rumford couldn’t get his mind off of what burdened him, then she could at least listen, and bear the weight of them with him! They were a serious couple now, and serious couples supported each other through thick and thin and unwanted visits from exes!

“Oh, she visits every year for the holidays,” Rumford said. “T-to see Neal.”

“Oh, that's nice.”

That didn't sound so bad!

Couldn't be!

He and Neal were probably making things out to be worse than they really are. Letting the color of their past experiences with the woman bleed through into the present.

“How is she, really?” Belle asked. “Should I brace myself?”

Rumford managed a little huff of laughter. “Oh, I expect she'll be perfectly gregarious with you. It's me she doesn't like.”

Belle pouted her lips and looked him over, tucking a lock of hair behind his precious little pixie ear. Oh, to nibble it!

“Well, she clearly has very poor taste,” she assured him.

After all, what kind of woman landed herself a total dreamboat like Rumford and then just threw it all away!?

The oil began to sizzle and crack in the pan, and Rumford turned away to check on it. “It's fine,” he dismissed. “She'll give me a few backhanded compliments, spew some thinly veiled insults... I'll pretend not to notice in the interest of avoiding an argument, and in a few hours she'll be on her way.”

Belle frowned.

Well now, that sounded so terribly sad! Was that the sort of treatment he was subject to every time he saw his ex-wife?

No wonder he had such poor self-esteem!

“Well, this time you won't have to face her alone,” Belle said, rubbing his back.

He lowered the heat and spun back around, leaning against the countertop and folding his arms over his chest.

“Yes, I suppose that's true.” he admitted, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as he smiled at her.

And oh my! He looked like he belonged on the cover of Good Housekeeping, Belle thought! A cover line to the effect of, Rumford's Recipes for Late Regency Romance: How to Add Antique Splendor to Any Space! She'd definitely buy that issue! And then she'd eagerly turn to page forty-eight, or seventy-three, where a full spread photo of him posed invitingly on a carved mahogany sofa awaited her! Maybe with his tie loosened up a little and a button undone?

You know, to make him look more… approachable?

Belle wet her lips and splayed her hands over his chest, smoothing out his shirt.

Any excuse to touch him, really.

He blinked down at her hands on him with his mouth hanging open.

“For every ornery thing she has to say about you, I'll have three lovely things to say,” Belle promised, lifting her chin.

The corners of his mouth tugged upwards again. He wet his lips, and kiss? Could they kiss again? A hot, steamy thing that would give him a taste of what he'd be missing after they went to bed tonight? In their separate rooms?

Instead he just scoffed and broke eye contact.

“What?” Belle asked.

“I just lo…” he shook his head, and brought one of his hands up to lay it over hers. “I'm very lucky to have you, is all. Sweetheart.”

Belle bit back a smile and slung her arms around his neck. “I think I'm the lucky one...” she murmured, fingering at the hair on his nape.

His cheeks turned pink, and squish, squish, squish! she thought! Kiss, kiss, kiss!

“You've settled into your room just fine?” he asked. “Have everything you need? Toothbrush? Hair brush? Slippers? Enough pillows?”

Belle hesitated. She was certain she hadn't forgotten anything. She'd made a spreadsheet of everything she would need for the weekend, including her cutest pajamas and her most fetching bra and panties– which were to be slipped into before they made love for the first time under the guise of “freshening up”.

They might not have been ready that night at home in Storybrooke, but that was before they'd become serious, and Belle was feeling quite ready now. She wouldn't rush Rumford into doing anything he didn't feel ready to do of course– but maybe being serious had him also feeling ready, like she was!

So, no no. Nothing forgotten.

Belle did suppose though, that now was the best chance she'd get to express her disappointment with the proposed sleeping arrangements. Because if you wore cute, matching pajamas and your boyfriend wasn’t around to see them and tell you how cute you looked– thus prompting you to them tell him how cute he looked– what was even the point?

Belle leaned into his ear.

His cute little pixie ear.

She would tell him she wanted to cuddle. But in a sexy way.

“There is one thing I’m afraid I might not be able to sleep without...” she whispered.

There was a pause– a slight twitch of his shoulder– before Rumford pulled back, furrowing his brows.

“What's that?” he coughed. “...Pads? Tampons?” he whispered, “A heating pad? A-anything you need, sweetheart. I-I can run up to the store right after dinner–”

Belle laughed and shook her head. Sweet man, him! “No, silly!” she said. “Nothing like that, I just mean–”

Ding-dong!

They both turned their heads towards the foyer, following the loud ringing as it carried through the house.

Rumford dropped his hands to his sides. “That must be her.” he said, the warmth in his voice gone. “I'll... go get it.”

He gave her a tight-lipped smile and started for the door, and Belle bit her cheek. She watched him disappear into the foyer, and soon there was the sound of the front door cracking open.

She couldn't help eavesdropping.

“Milah. Please, come in. Here, let me take your bags.”

“Oh! Rum, I like what you've done to the place.” she said, and she had an accent. English.

“Oh. Thank you. Did a spot of cleaning a few weeks ago, so.”

“Looks nice. Very nice.” she said. “You know, I don't think this house has been this tidy since I was living here,” she laughed.

“...Aye. Seems like it, doesn't it?” he chuckled stiffly. “Well, ah… Neal's hiding upstairs. Belle and I are working on dinner–”

“Oh! Belle!” she gasped. “Is that her name?”

“Aye. Aye, why don't I get you a glass of wine and introduce you?”

“Oh, that would be lovely.”

Belle permit herself to relax a little. His ex-wife seemed pleasant enough– so far. She decided to step up to the stove and nudge the pork chops around, so that she might look busy when they came in.

Heels clunked across the wood floors, and Belle looked over her shoulder as Rumford returned to the kitchen a few seconds later.

The woman trailing behind him was… taller, to start with. Taller than her, taller than him. In fact, Milah towered over him in the heeled boots she was wearing, and would probably still have an inch or two on him without them. Thick, wavy, raven hair cascaded freely over her shoulders, framing a face with heavily made-up, piercing blue eyes. She was intense-looking, a little intimidating, and Belle couldn't help thinking that standing next to her, Rumford looked even smaller and cuter than usual!

“Belle–” Rumford said, “this is Milah, Neal's mother. Milah, this–”

“Lovely to meet you, Belle.” Milah cut in, stepping forward and extending a hand with a smile.

“Oh.” she chuckled awkwardly and nodded. “Likewise.”

Milah wore a large, beaded necklace, with heavy earrings to match. A wide, black leather belt with large rivets cinched her waist, giving shape to the flowing wrap blouse she wore– its plunging neckline exposing a tanned chest. The whole ensemble was equal parts bohemian and rock and roll, and Belle found it hard to imagine that the two people in front of her had ever crossed paths, let alone been married.

She cleared her throat and finally let go of Milah's hand. “Nice to meet you,” she said again. Awkward– but polite!

“Ah… the wine!” Rumford blurted, starting toward the counter.

“Oh, don't be daft!” Milah scoffed and beat him to it. “You don't have to wait on me, Rum!” She looked to Belle and winked. “As if I don't know where the alcohol is around here…”

Not quite sure what to make of that remark, Belle managed a chuckle and stepped aside so Rumford could return to the safety of the stove. He poked at the pork chops again, prodded at the potatoes. Grabbed his own neglected glass of wine and took a deep breath.

“Okay?” Belle whispered, rubbing his back.

He took a swig and nodded. “Aye. M'fine.”

She smiled sympathetically at him, and at last they spun around to face Milah together, shoulder to shoulder.

“So…” Milah began as she poured herself a sizeable glass. “Neal tells me you two met on the show?”

Belle looked up at him, smiling. She could remember the first time she looked into those big brown eyes like it was yesterday! Rumford looked down at her, smiling too– and was it possible that he was having the very same thought? That the memory was bringing him a much-needed morsel of comfort at this trying time?

“...We did,” Belle answered.

“So which is your area of expertise, then?” Milah asked, leaning against the island. “Fine art, like Rumford? Or, let me guess– Deco arts? ...Those creepy dolls? No, wait–”

“Belle's... not an appraiser.” Rumford mumbled.

“Oh,” Milah blinked. “Production team, then?”

“No…”

“I'm studying to be a librarian,” Belle said.

She raised her brows.

“Belle was a guest, actually.” Rumford finally said. “She ah… brought something in for me to look at.”

“...Huh.” Milah said, eyeing her up and down curiously. “So she did.”

Belle quickly glanced down at her chest. Had she not done enough buttons on her blouse? Did she look too approachable?

“A book.” Rumford clarified, and took a long sip of his wine.

“Yes, let's go with that.” Milah said, taking a sip herself. “Spread her pages and cracked her spine, I'm sure.” she added under her breath and swept her eyes over Belle's legs again.

Belle froze for an instant, and Rumford shrank beside her.

Just what was that supposed to mean!?

Was it–?

Was she–?

Did she think Rumford was going through some kind of midlife crisis? Becoming some kind of skirt-chasing creep!?

Or perhaps that she was some kind of hussy, using her sexual wiles to prey on a sweet man like Rumford!? That she was after his money, or the thrill of being able to tell all her friends that she once dated one of the most esteemed figures in the antiques and appraisals industry!?

“Oh, no!” Belle laughed belatedly.

Three lovely things, she'd promised.

“That would damage the binding! One should always break in a book one leaf at a time, starting from the cover and working their way in.” She wrapped an arm around Rumford's waist and propped her chin upon his shoulder, smiling up at him again. “I've long admired Rumford's book-handling technique, so suffice to say, he was um… very gentle.”

Rumford seemed puzzled. “Your book was perfectly broken in long before I ever touched it.”

“I know...” Belle brushed his hair out from his collar and smoothed a hand over his chest. “I make sure it gets taken care of myself, but… it's always nice to see a man who knows how to handle a book with the proper care.”

He blushed again, and oh, someone was definitely going to be getting their cheeks squished tonight if they kept that up!

She gave him a little pat and looked back to Milah. “My mother always told me you can tell a lot about a man by how he treats his books,” she said. “And well, how big his–”

“Hey, I guess this makes you some sort of Antiques Roadshow groupie!” Milah realized, giving her a playful swat on the arm. “My kind of girl! You know, the summer before I started my Master's, I got to go backstage at all sorts of concerts– and let me tell you, it wasn't because I paid for VIP passes.”

“Oh.” Belle said, and she could feel Rumford’s body tense up again. “That… must have been fun.”

“I guess you could say I was sewing my wild oats…” Milah sighed fondly. “Met this wet blanket a few months later,” she gestured at Rumford, “and… Well, I don't know what I saw in him then exactly.”

Belle's lip twitched.

Didn’t know what she saw in him?

How about handsome?! Brilliant! Sweet! Thoughtful! Gentle, with precious, squishy cheeks!? Perfect pixie ears  and a tight little–

“I guess it was the shy, aloof thing,” Milah shrugged. “Always good to have a challenge, you know? Most of the boys at University follow you around, panting like hungry dogs, but not this one,” she pointed. “Suppose I found that endearing at the time.”

Rumford coughed. “Neal mentioned you've been seeing somebody as well?”

Milah paused, mouth hanging open as she thought about it. “...No, not really,” she shook her head. “But you know me, I do like my fun.”

Rumford anxiously tapped a finger on the rim of his glass and took a heavy swig.

“But a librarian!” Milah said. “That's… something,” she said. “Where do you think you'd like to work? I bet Rumford could get you an in at quite a few places. Cambridge, Oxford, Cornell…”

“Well actually,” Belle said, “I was thinking… someplace... less academic.”

“Oh?”

“I’d like to direct a public library.” she said. “I… well, I like working with children, families... engaging with the community, you know?”

“Hm.” Milah shrugged. “Well, suit yourself, I guess.”

“I think that's wonderful, Belle.” Rumford assured. “I-I think you could make a real diff–”

“I'm just saying, she shouldn't settle.” Milah interrupted. “I speak from experience when I say too many women settle, and then they wake up one morning, look around, and think, how the bloody hell did I get here? ”

Belle managed to keep a smile plastered on her face, but Rumford was staring helplessly at his glass, avoiding eye contact.

Such a terribly insensitive thing to say, given the circumstances!

This was her chance to really stand up for Rumford, Belle thought. To set some boundaries around what sort of comments would be tolerated and which would not. Rumford might be afraid of geese, but in this moment, Belle realized, she had to become one with the geese. Fiercely protect her territory– her man– from anybody who dared to threaten or get too close. Let it be known that any further attempts from this woman to assert her dominance would be met with angry honking and aggressive wing-flapping.

Belle cleared her throat.

“Actually, the role of the library in the community is what's most important to me,” she said. “I wouldn't want to compromise on that for the sake of prestige or a bigger paycheck. To me, that would uh... be ‘settling.’”

Milah scowled at first, then let out a bark of laughter. “You know Rum, I'd ask where you found this one, but we already covered that!” she clucked.

He looked up at her with a put-on smile. “Aye.” he chuckled uncomfortably. “We… sure did.”

“Well,” Milah sighed, “I will say that I admire your… sense of virtue.” She shrugged and took a slow, careful sip of her wine. “I suppose I'll go see what our boy's up to, then. Lovely to meet you, again, Belle.”

The heels of her boots clunked across the floor as she left, and slowly receded up the stairs.

Rumford sighed in relief once she was out of earshot. “That wasn't as bad as I ex–”

“‘Shouldn't settle?!’”

Rumford flinched back, blinking in surprise.

“Who does she think she is!?” Belle asked. “And the way she kept interrupting you like that!? That's just rude! And don't even get me started on that comment about liking her fun!”

“Belle.” He set his glass down and rubbed a hand over her arm. “Belle, it's… fine,” he said. “Honest. I-I'm used to it. It no’ a big deal.”

“I beg to differ! I mean, where does she get off, calling you a wet blanket!?”

“Well...” he shrugged, “I can admit that I am–”

“Talking about my Rumf– talking about you like that!” Belle huffed. “And a good challenge?! As if you were nothing more to her than some… some sexual conquest!?”

Rumford was sweet! And sensitive!

He had feelings! And cheeks that were just begging to be smushed and smooched!

He didn't deserve to be spoken about in such a way! Of course, no one did– but especially not her Rumford!

“Oh, I'll have her waking up and wondering what happened, alright,” Belle muttered under her breath. “...in the hospital!”

Rumford carefully gripped her shoulders. “...Belle? Are you alright?” he asked, darting his eyes over her face with concern.

She took a deep breath– then another, and another.

It wouldn’t do to lose her cool. Not now, when it was clear that Rumford would need her more than she had initially thought.

Besides, there were other, more effective ways to handle people as unpleasant as Milah.

Belle's anger was a wave that she was going to let crash over her, and it would carry with it all its ilk in her chest when it receded back to the sea.

When those waters ebbed back onto her shores, they'd be replaced with calm determination.

“It’s okay.” she exhaled. “I'm okay now.”

“...Good.” he smiled in relief. “Please don't send my ex-wife to the hospital.”

Belle nodded. “I won't send your ex-wife to the hospital, Rumford.”

Oh! But she could!

“But I cou–”

“I know, sweetheart. But look–” he nodded toward the stove. “Dinner's about finished. You could help me set the table, aye?”

“Oh!” Belle perked up. Yes! Helping Rumford! she thought, bouncing on her toes. “Okay!”

“Are you sure you're up to it?” he asked. A little smirk spread across his face, and he took her hands. “Because it's a very important task,” he whispered. “You see, I'm having the most amazing woman in the world over for dinner tonight, and I need everything to be just right.”

Belle gave him a sidelong look. She was far from impressed by Milah!

“I don't understand…”

“It's you, sweetheart.” he explained. “The most amazing woman in the world is you.”

*****

The dining room table looked beautiful, if Belle dared say so herself. Sure, they were Rumford's placemats, and Rumford's plates, and Rumford's silverware, and Rumford's glassware, and Rumford's napkins– but she'd laid every piece out with tremendous care, and she was confident that anyone who stepped foot in the dining room would immediately recognize that they were looking at a table that had been set with love.

Neither Milah nor Neal had commented on the table as they took their seats, but that was fine! Sometimes a beautiful table was invisible– so that it hadn't caught their attention, Belle decided, was actually among the highest of compliments. (Besides, once Rumford had finished carrying the food in from the kitchen, he'd given her a kiss on the cheek and told her it looked perfect!)

The table seated six, but they were only four– leaving the armed chairs on either end of the table empty. She and Rumford occupied one side, while Neal and Milah occupied the other. Glass, silver, and porcelain clinked and clanged, and everyone must have been really enjoying the meal Rumford prepared– because no one had spoken a word yet!

That was, until Milah set her fork down, dropping out of their delicate percussion ensemble.

“So, Belle.” she said, “You're… younger than I was expecting.”

Belle stopped in the middle of cutting her food, her hand tightening its grip on her knife.

“Oh.” She slowly resumed her sawing at the piece of meat on her plate and popped a forkful into her mouth, buying herself a moment to think how best to respond.

You're younger than I was expecting...

On the surface, the comment did nothing more than admire her youthful appearance. But beyond that surface? Lied the scathing implication that she was too young for Rumford. That she must be a mere plaything for a lonely, older man. That her motives for being with him were questionable.

But none of that was of any consequence.

Mama always at told her that the best way to deal with backhanded compliments was to ignore the “backhanded” and accept the “compliment” graciously.

Belle finished chewing and swallowed.

“Oh, I get that a lot,” she nodded. “I'm told I have a very young face? I'm twenty-eight, but a lot of people still mistake me for a teenager sometimes! I suppose it doesn't help that I'm only five foot two, but as my friend Ruby says: I'm not short, I'm just fun-sized!”

“Oh, fun-sized!” Neal said, forcing a laugh. “Like the little candy? That's clever.”

A tight-lipped smile spread across Milah's face, but it didn't meet her eyes, which were leering. “Yes, well, I was only twenty-three when Rumford here got me knocked up with Neal. He was twenty-eight at the time? It seems you like them young, dear,” she told him. “Because you–” she turned back to Belle, “You would have a been what, then? Ten? Eleven? A child!” she laughed.

Neal's eyes bulged, and Rumford dropped his knife– the heavy silver handle smacking the edge of the table and clattering onto the floor.

“I-I–” he stammered and began scooting his seat back to pick it up.

Oh no, Belle thought. She couldn't let Milah get away with that! Painting Rumford like some kind of lecher? Cradle robber? Dirty old man?

She was the dirty one! Belle French! A dirty girl, with one thing on her mind: making her Rumford feel loved and supported!

And sexy!

“I got it, baby,” she whispered, setting a hand on Rumford's thigh and bending under the table.

So Milah wanted to make comments about Rumford's age? How ‘old’ he was?

That was fine. It was nothing dirty girl Belle French couldn't handle. This dinner would be like their first date, she decided. Except this time she wouldn't be drunk! (And she and Rumford were serious!)

She resurfaced with the knife in hand, tossing her hair out of her face and over her shoulder.

“Th-thank you. Belle,” Rumford managed in a whisper.

“Mhm!” She smiled at him as she placed the knife in his hand, letting her fingers linger longer than they needed to before turning back to Milah.

“What can I say? I've always had a bit of a thing for an older man,” Belle said. “There's something about a guy with a few lines in his face and greys in his hair that just… mmph! You know?”

“Oh, most definitely,” Neal said and began gulping down his soda, watching for his mother's reaction from the corner of his eye.

Milah sat up and smiled. She gave Belle and Rumford a knowing look, sweeping her eyes back and forth between the pair of them. Something in her demeanor was changing, but all she had to say was: “I see…”

Belle wasn't sure whether to let her guard down or keep it up.

Neal and Rumford had stopped eating. Their eyes darted back and forth between the women at the table, watching, waiting– the younger with amusement, and the older with apprehension.

“Besides, age is just a number,” Belle said to placate him, setting her hand further up his thigh and giving it a squeeze. “Right, Rumford?”

He swallowed hard and shifted in his seat. “Yes. Yes, I agree, sweetheart.”

“Aww. ‘ Sweetheart’…” Milah sighed. “That's nice. You know, you look happier, Rum. That's good. I'm glad for the two of you.” she said, raising her glass.

“Ah–” Rumford tilted his head and furrowed his brows. “...thank you...” he accepted cautiously.

“But just give him a few more years, Belle,” Milah winked. “He'll have more than a few grey hairs and wrinkles for you.”

Belle opened her mouth to speak, but stopped short of it.

Of course he'd have more grey hairs and wrinkles! And he'd still be sexy! That's what she just said!

Milah had to be playing a new angle now– but Belle still couldn't figure out what it was.

Was it possible that she was actually being genuine?  That instead of making a jab at their age difference, she was just playfully suggesting that if she found Rumford irresistible now, then she ought to buckle up for one sexy ride?

Belle supposed that in case it was the former, she ought to make it clear to Milah just how much she'd be barking up the wrong tree. Because Belle French!? Finding grey hair anything less than distinguished and sexy? Not a chance!

“...Oh, I know!” Belle giggled. She brought her hand up to stroke the greying hair at Rumford's temple, and the corner of his mouth tugged upwards ever so slightly in response. The bit of sideburns hiding beneath were the greyest, and she'd probably have a perfect view of them in bed, Belle thought– looking over him while he lied on his back and she rode him like a bull.

She continued to gently comb his hair, and he seemed to lean into her touch. “I can hardly wait to see Rumford age into a full-on Silver Fox…”

Rumford turned to look at her with wide eyes.

Belle wet her lips, and he swallowed.

Neal dropped his silverware onto his plate. “You know, on second thought…” he reached across the table for the bottle of wine and began pouring himself a glass, “I think I will try the uh… peanut... noir…” he said, squinting at the label.

Rumford coughed, tearing his attention away from her. “One glass,” he said. “And only fill it a third of the–” he sighed as his son filled the glass more than halfway to the brim. “Or that's… fine too, I suppose.”

Belle gave his hair a finishing pat before returning to her meal. How was that for three lovely things?

“Tell me, Belle–” Milah said, “does he still like to have his ears played with in bed?”

Neal almost spit out his wine. “Mom. What the fuck.”

“Language.” Rumford cut in.

“Oh, come on, Pop!” he whined, gesturing at his mother. “I did not need to know that!”

“It's fine, Neal.” Milah scoffed. “Odds are, he'll have passed the taste for it onto you. Have your girlfriend try it next time.”

“I don't even–” Neal cut himself off and shook his head. “Just– ugh!”

“Oh, relax!” she laughed. “I'm only trying to lighten the mood! You and your father look so serious!”

But oh, that louse! Belle thought. Asking a question like that!? As if what Rumford liked in bed was any of her business anymore!

She couldn't answer yes or no. And to say, “I don't know, ” would be admitting to having a lackluster sex life where she and Rumford couldn't even be bothered to explore each other's erogenous zones properly!

“I don't think that's appropriate,” wouldn't work either. That would be admitting to being uncomfortable around the topic of sex– which dirty girl Belle French most certainly was not. (Unless her father was in the room.)

No, no. She couldn't let on that Milah was getting under her skin in any way. She and Rumford were serious– a unified front– and if Milah was getting under her skin, that meant she was getting under Rumford's, too!

Belle decided to do the only thing that felt right– tell the truth.

“Well, um…” she looked down at her plate and nudged her food around. “Rumford and I haven't, uh…”

“Oh, you're waiting!” Milah smiled. “That's nice. You, my dear, are made of far stronger stuff than I,” she winked. “...Afraid I'm quite easy.”

“Well, I wouldn't say we're waiting…” Belle said, her eyes drifting to Rumford's. “We just haven't… gotten there yet?”

“We're… taking things slow.” he explained, sliding a hand over hers.

Belle smiled at him, feeling her chest flutter at the simple gesture. “He's actually the patient one.” she admitted with a chuckle, turning back to Milah. “I um… well, if it were up to me, I'd have taken him to bed after our first date!”

“Ah, I see!” Milah said. “Perhaps you and I aren't so different after all,” she laughed. “Well, don't keep her waiting too long, Rum…”

“We're just waiting for the right moment.” Rumford said, lacing their fingers. “First time together should be special, I don't want to rush–”

“See, that's where you and I and very different.” Milah cut in. “I say it's best to see if the sexual chemistry is there as early as–”

“I'm sorry–” Neal interrupted, setting his glass down. “Am I the only one who thinks this is like, really weird?”

The table fell silent for a moment.

Rumford coughed.

Belle remained quiet. She could admit it was a little strange to be speaking about her and Rumford's sex life in front of his family– but not without also admitting that Milah was winning at whatever game this was.

Milah cleared her throat. “Anyway, Belle. When the two of you do get there, you should reach out!” She leaned across the table and lowered her voice to something resembling a whisper. “I was married to Rumford for almost five years, you know– I have all kinds of little tricks he likes that I could share with you,” she winked.

“ Mom!”

“What?!” she shrugged.

“That's gross!”

“A healthy sex life is an important part of a relationship!” she argued. “Nothing to be ashamed of! Nothing dirty! I wish Belle and your father the best!”

“Doesn't mean I wanna hear you talk about…  dad's kinks while I'm trying to eat!”

“Sex is a beautiful thing, sweetie,” Milah said. “It's how your father and I got you.” she added, and gave him a doting little poke to the chest.

“Yeah, I know where babies come from, mom. Thanks.” he muttered, shoving a wedge of potato into his mouth.

“And don't be ridiculous– having sensitive ears isn't a kink.” she laughed. “Anyway, Belle,” she half-whispered again, “you're lucky in that Rumford here is quite gifted with his tongue.”

“Oh.” Belle giggled and snuck a glance at Rumford, but his reaction consisted of nothing more than raising his brows and blinking.

“What the absolute– fuck shitting ass hell.” Neal said, setting his fork down again and pushing out his chair.

“Neal…” Rumford warned.

“I know, that was a terrible outburst.” he agreed, already starting to get up. “I'll go send myself to my room so I can think about the consequence–”

“Sit. Down.”

He rolled his eyes and plopped back into his seat. “Fine.”

Rumford squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. “You know, your mother has a point,” he told Neal. “I'm sure all of that raunchy music and reality TV you're on would have you believe that sex is just about… being randy, and... getting each other off–”

“Please stop talking.”

“But in a real relationship, built on love and trust– which your mother and I used to have in spades, believe it or not– it's so much more than that. It's truly one of the most beautiful things two adults can share together.”

Belle nibbled her lip and rubbed his arm. Her Rumford was such a romantic!

“For all that happened between your father and I,” Milah weighed in, “I cannot deny that he always was an exceptional and selfless lover.”

Rumford laid a hand over his chest. “Why thank you, Milah. That… I appreciate that.”

Belle blinked and looked him over curiously. “Is that right?”

“Oh, believe it.” Milah nodded. “But ultimately, we just lacked that… fire for each other. Even the best technique is no substitute for true, unbridled passion, you know? But let me just say that I can already see it broiling between the two of you. If there's an earthquake sometime in the next few weeks–” she paused, “I'll know why.”

Neal dropped his loaded fork onto his plate. “And I… don't know why I'm still trying to eat at this point.”

“Thank you!” Belle smiled. “That's… such a lovely compliment. Isn't it, Rumford?” she asked, reaching for his hand.

He took it, and began brushing his thumb over hers. “Aye. Lovely compliment, Milah. Thank you.”

Neal blinked owlishly. “...Seriously?”

Rumford pressed his lips into a thin line and sighed. “Look, son. I know it can be be jarring, and… unsexy to think about your mother and I being intimate–”

“Oh my God.”

“But sex isn't like what you see in all those... pornographic films. It's–”

“Though certainly it can be,” Milah chimed in.

Rumford shot her a scolding look and continued. “It's a whole language of love one must learn anew with each partner,” he explained, and Belle had never felt so close to literally swooning in her entire life. “You should know that on the afternoon you were conceived, Neal, your mother and I were… truly connected. Mentally, physically, spiritually–”

Milah scowled and tilted her head. “Pretty sure that was just the five mimosas I had at brunch,” she whispered across the table to Belle.

He gave her another sidelong look. “When you make love, it's–”

“Beautiful.” Neal finished for him. “The miracle of life. Got it. Now can we please talk about something– literally, anything else? For the love of God?”

“Well… I do suppose we've exhausted the topic,” Rumford said.

“You think?”

There was another beat of silence, and everyone reached for their glasses all at once.

But a language of love, Belle thought! How beautifully put!

She wanted to learn how to speak it with Rumford! They could practice every day, and cover every dialect!

She was pretty sure she and Rumford were already truly connected mentally and spiritually– but physically? Oh my, yes! She was ready for that! For them to share one of the most beautiful things together! To make love, because she was in love!

“Fantastic job on the potatoes, Rum,” Milah said. “Perfect amount of crisp.”

Rumford looked up from his plate. “Thank you,” he nodded. “Trick is to soak and dry them first.”

“Is that right?” she said, studying the wedge speared on her fork. “...He's a great cook, you know,” she told Belle. “Never a disappointing meal to be had in this house.”

“Mm,” Belle agreed, swallowing her food. “Everything's delicious, Rumford.”

“This is actually Neal's favorite dish,” he said– and oh, that smile! His cheeks always looked the most squishable when he did that! “I make it for his birthday every year.”

“Hell yeah,” Neal confirmed, popping a forkful into his mouth.

With Milah’s prodding questions and comments off the table, Belle eased her shoulders and let her elbows take their place.

Neal, she thought.

Milah was here to see Neal. Rumford adored his son. She herself was here to get to know Rumford better, and by extension, his family. After all, if (when) she and Rumford got married, she would technically be Neal’s stepmother. She wouldn’t expect him to call her mom or anything, of course– but she could still do motherly things, like tell him to eat more whenever he stopped by for dinner, or buy him socks and new slacks for Christmas.

Goodness! They should have been talking about Neal from the get go! None of this how'd you meet, how's your sex life business!

“Are you excited for college, Neal?” Belle asked.

“Huh?” Neal blinked. “...Oh. Uh, yeah,” he shrugged. “I guess.”

“Your father told me you're going to be studying graphic design?”

“Yeah.” Another shrug.

“Is that something you've always been interested in? Or when did you decide you wanted to major in that?”

“Eh,” he shrugged. Again. “I always liked to draw and stuff when I was little. And I always thought like, concert posters and stuff were cool.”

“Well, I think that's great.” Belle smiled. “If you want a creative career, I hear graphic designers are among the most in-demand.”

Rumford cleared his throat. “He used to draw on everything when he was a boy,” he said proudly, pointing with his fork. “Teachers used to complain he was always doodling all over his work. I'd come in for those parent-teacher conferences, and they'd show me all these worksheets he'd drawn landscapes and cars and fantastic creatures on the backs of– as though they were such a terrible thing.”

“Because it meant I wasn't paying attention in class,” Neal said bitterly, rolling his eyes.

“Well, I'd tell them–” Rumford continued, “My son's marks are just fine, and unless you have some proof that his doodling is impacting his performance in class, I'd appreciate it if you let him be.”

Belle found her gaze stubbornly fixed on his face as he spoke. She'd seen him talk about his son before, but the sparkle in his eyes was even brighter now, with his boy sitting right across from him.  

“...I don't remember any of that,” Milah frowned.

And just like that, the sparkle was gone. Rumford slouched and stared down at his plate, his lips twisted into something uncomfortable.

“...Yeah, it's almost like you weren't there,” Neal deadpanned, and took a swig of his soda.

“Neal…” Rumford warned, and Belle lightly rubbed a hand over his back. He said he wanted to avoid an argument, and here his son was, looking to start one!

“I'm just saying,” Neal shrugged. “She wouldn't know because she wasn't around.”

“Yes. I suppose not.” Milah sighed, reaching for her wine glass and taking a swig.

Rumford rested his fork on his plate. Did that cute little thing where he brushes his knuckle against his cheek. “I used to tell you over the phone,” he reminded her gently. “When we'd talk and you'd ask about him? How he was doing in school? I'd always say he reminded me of you with his talent.”

Now Milah was the one staring down at her plate. “You know, you’re right,” she nodded, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I do remember that.”

“Aye,” Rumford smiled ruefully at her across the quiet table. “You know, I started going through all my photo albums last week. There's so many pictures of Neal– you really ought to take some home with you.”

She nodded again. “...Yeah. I'd like that.”

Milah didn't look so intimidating anymore, Belle thought. Just sad and lonely. The way her father used to look after mom passed. How far away he always seemed across their kitchen table set for two every night.

“Lots of pictures from Halloween,” Rumford continued. “Dressed up as Batman, Spider-Man, one of those turtles…”

A smile spread across Milah’s face, and regardless of how she felt about the woman so far, Belle was happy to see it.

“You know, one year he actually picked out a suit because he wanted to look like his papa,” Rumford chuckled.

“Oh god,” Neal groaned, burying his face in his hands.

But oh no, Belle couldn't help it.

“Aww!” she went, because just imagine! Answering the door on Halloween to find Rumford and his little boy in matching suits! She'd crouch down and go, “Who are you supposed to be, handsome?” and little Neal, knee-high to a grasshopper, would answer, “I'm wearing a suit just like my papa!”

“Gosh! To hell with a handful of candy–” Belle said, “I'd have given you two the whole bag! ...And um, maybe my phone number, too…” she murmured in Rumford's ear, if for no other reason than to see him blush again.

Milah scoffed. “Good luck with that,” she said. “Took him months to realize I was interested in a bit more than just sharing lecture notes.”

“Yeah,” Neal said. “He'd just convince himself it was some kind of mistake. Like little scraps of paper with cute girls’ phone numbers on 'em grew on trees, got swept up in the wind like dead leaves and fell in people's laps all the time.”

Rumford tutted at him, cheeks pink and ripe for pinching again.

“Well, I think it's sweet,” Belle said, rubbing that hand over his back again. “My mama always used to say that if a guy doesn't get shy and nervous around you, it's because he can't see how wonderful you are– and if he can't see that, then he isn't worth it.”

“Rumford must be worth in his weight in gold then,” Milah said.

“Seriously, Belle,” Neal said. “It's a miracle you were able to convince him to go on a date with you at all. He's got a total blindspot for anyone flirting with him.”

Rumford scowled. “Based on what evidence, exactly?”

“The museum lady,” Neal supplied readily. “When she gave you her personal number? Also, I'm still pretty sure that guy Je–”

Rumford suddenly grew tense. “I don't know what you're on about,” he cut him off, his voice higher than usual. “I do plenty of work for museums, son, you'll have to be more specific,” he said, and quickly grabbed his wine glass, taking a heavy swig.

Neal huffed and rolled his eyes. “You restored a set of old chairs for the museum! It was back when you used to work late all the time. And it was a Saturday, and I rode my bike to the shop and brought you lunch, and she came in to write you a check or something, and she was all, ‘Here–” Neal spoke in a high, feminine voice, batting his eyelashes, “this is my personal number. Do give me a call if you need anything, doctor– and I mean anything.’”

“Please,” Rumford scoffed. “That was Cora Mills! For heaven's sake, she's the mayor's wife!”

“Oh, I don't know,” Milah said. “She always looked the sort in those terrible campaign commercials, if you ask me.”

Neal snorted. “Takes one to know one, ma–”

“Well, it doesnae matter,” Rumford interrupted. “Because I never would have wanted to...” he trailed off and took another sip of his wine.

“...Never would have wanted to what?” Milah asked. “Be the other man?”

Belle stopped chewing on her potatoes at that. Swallowed hard.

“Whoa, mom. Too far.”

“Well, I can't imagine it would be any worse than the alternative!”

“Seriously?”

“I'm just saying. After what I did to him, it'd be quite the boost to the ego, I think! As they say, one person’s trash is another person’s–”

Belle couldn’t hold her tongue any longer.

“I don’t think there’d be anything flattering or glamourous about that,” she said, wrapping her hand around Rumford's arm. “Being second to somebody else, having to sneak around, knowing you can or will never have all of that person? Not being chosen?”

“Oh, no, no!” Milah shook her head. “See, when you have an affair, that person is… your escape,” she explained. “An oasis in the arid wasteland of your life. A beacon of hope that lets you know that you’re still capable of... feeling, and–”

Neal scoffed. “Gee, thanks, ma.”

She slapped her hands on the table in exasperation and glared at him. “Oh, do you have to take everything I say so literally?!”

“I dunno,” he shrugged. “Do you have to talk about how great fucking somebody else was when dad's sitting right there!?”

Belle took her elbow back off the table. She tightened her grip on Rumford's arm and rubbed her thumb over his sleeve, hoping to assure him that she was still there, hearing this– even if she was at a loss of what to say or how to make it stop.

“All I'm trying to say, is that I know I hurt your father, but if a married woman wanted to do some escaping with him, perhaps he should have–”

“Married or no, I never would have done any sort of escaping with her because she’s not the one I was interested in!”

The table fell deafeningly silent.

All eyes turned to Rumford and his cheeks burned red– the reddest Belle had ever seen. It wasn't the good sort of blush he wore when she told him he was handsome, or that she was lucky, or after they'd shared a kiss. No, no. This blush didn't make her want to squish his cheeks at all. It was the blush of a man who was feeling embarrassed, frightened, humiliated, and Belle just wanted to rush him away someplace quiet and hold him and tell him everything would be okay.

“That... insufferable… shrew of a woman...” Rumford tacked on weakly. He swiped his napkin from his lap and tossed it on the table. “I think we're all ready for dessert, no?” he asked, rising from his seat.

Neal and Milah blinked up at him in shock, and he left the room.

Belle hurried to do the same. She followed Rumford out of the dining room and into the kitchen, finding him standing in the corner, staring at the pantry door. She shifted on her feet and wrung her fingers over her belly, once again torn between giving him space and just scooping him up in her arms.

“Are you alright?” she softly asked from across the room.

He clenched his jaw, but nodded.

Belle stepped over to him and tentatively rested a hand on his shoulder. He slowly spun around, and she wrapped her arms around him. When his arms came around her a second later, Belle couldn't help noticing how clammy he felt.

“I know...” she whispered, holding him tight. “I know.”

He heaved a sigh and burrowed his face in her hair, and she began rubbing his back.

“I'm sorry,” he mumbled.

“No, no…” she hushed, petting his hair. “You don't have anything to be sorry for. It's hardly an appropriate subject for the table and you have every right to be upset.”

“Mm,” he grunted, and shook his head.

“No?” Belle asked. If not for the upsetting conversation, what could possibly have upset him so?

His thumb rubbed back and forth along the seam on her shirt, and he let out a sigh. “...What have I done?” he asked, his voice small and weak.

“Oh, Rumford,” she hushed, “you haven't done anything wrong.”

“But I said that I– do you think they'll know now?”

Belle furrowed her brows. “Know what, Rumford? I don't understand.”

He didn't answer her. Only sighed and shook his head.

Belle tried to replay the conversation in her mind, to isolate just where things had gone wrong. There were so many things that could have upset him, but what was it that Neal had said? That had made him so tense?

“What is it?” she pleaded. “You can tell me, Rumford. You can tell me anything.”

He was still for a long moment, and Belle let him be, offering all the comforting words and touches she had.

It wasn't the museum lady, no. There was someone else his son was about to name before he cut him off– A man’s name.

At last, he took a deep breath. “Not now,” he mumbled against her shoulder, shaking his head again.

That explained his behavior at the table, Belle thought, but not his reticence now, alone, with her. Unless she hadn't made her acceptance clear enough that night he'd told her? Had her forgotten about that?

No, no. There had to be something more. Something he still carried close to his chest.

“Okay,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple. “That's okay. You don’t have to tell me now. You can tell me when you’re ready.”

He nodded and nestled against her more tightly.

She might not have been able to protect him from the pitfalls of having dinner with Milah, Belle thought. But she was still here now, loving him, supporting him– and that was just as good, she decided.

It was tempting to say those words to him now– I love you. But saying them for the first time was such a big step– just as spending the night was a big step, and meeting his son was a big step, and seeing him like this was a big step. Belle wanted to comfort him, but what if it only overwhelmed him? Having to process just what it meant to be loved after being alone for so long? Feeling pressured to say the words back when he might not be ready to?

She dismissed the idea. Surely she could show that she loved him, make him feel loved, without having to be so bold as to say it.

So she just held him, and pet him, until Neal and Milah’s voices began rising on the other side of the wall.

“I can admit to what I did!” Milah squawked. “Should I pretend it never happened!?”

Belle chuckled. “Are you sure you don't want me to send her to the hospital?” she whispered.

Rumford huffed a little laugh and finally pulled away, smiling weakly at her.

“There's a line between ‘okay’ and ‘not okay at all’ mom, and you overshot it by like, twenty miles!” Neal shouted. “No wait, I’m sorry– kilometers!”

Rumford smiled at her. “No. No that won't be necessary.”

His terrible red had gone back down to a sweet pink, so Belle indulged herself with a big smooch on the apple of his cheek.

“Oh, come on! You know your father! He's oversensitive!”

“All the more reason to not embarrass him in front of his girlfriend!”

“I'm not trying to embarrass him! I'm just trying to be forthcoming! Candid!”

“He’s a private person, mom! He doesn’t need you being candid and forthcoming about… that!”

“You stay right here,” Belle said. “I'll clear the table.”

Rumford nodded, and she spun on her heels back toward the dining room.

“God, it’s like you get some kind of weird, sadistic pleasure out of making everything as awkward as possible for him!”

“Now why would I do that?!” Milah snapped.

“I dunno!” Neal said, and Belle hovered by the threshold, waiting for an opportune moment to step in. “Maybe you're just jealous because you're getting old and you're alone and–” Their eyes met and he cut himself off.

“Oh, don't be ridiculous!” Milah said. “I can admit: I was a bit skeptical as to what a girl her age in shoes like that could possibly want to do with–”

“Mom.”

“–a weak-willed forty-five year old man who just so happens to have money.”

“Mom.”

“But she seems like a lovely girl, and if they’re happy–”

“Mom!” Neal nudged her with his elbow and raised his brows.

Milah stopped talking and turned to look at Belle, her mouth hanging open.

Belle approached with a polite smile, doing her best to ignore everything she’d just heard, as it clearly hadn't been meant for her ears. “Are we all finished?” she asked, gesturing at the the table.

“Uh... yes,” Milah said, rushing to gather all the plates for her. “Yes, I believe we are, thank you.”

Belle collected every plate, fork and knife, and stood tall at the end of the table.

She couldn’t ignore it.

“If you must know, my interest in Rumford is that he's a good, sweet, intelligent man who makes me feel special– and I'm pretty sure I make him feel special, too,” she said, lifting her chin. “I think he's brave and strong where it counts, and um… well, I meant every word I said before about his grey hairs and wrinkles, so.”

The pair of them blinked up at her in stunned silence. Not sure what else to say, Belle looked back down at the pile of dishes and secured her trembling grip on them.

“And for what it’s worth... the reason I wear these shoes is because I think they're cute– but also because I'm a little self-conscious about being fun-sized.”

With that, she hefted the pile of dishes off the table and made her start for the kitchen.

An unexpected, “Belle?” stopped her in her tracks, and she nearly twisted her ankle on those shoes when she spun around to look.

Milah’s lips were pressed into a thin line. After a beat of hesitation, she sighed. “I meant what I said before,” she told her. “He does look happier.”

Belle swallowed. “...Thank you,” she accepted stiffly.

“I mean– he did. Before I… ruined everything again with my mouth.”

Belle bit her cheek.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry,” Milah finished.

Belle thought out her next words carefully. Rumford was the one who was hurt and upset. He was the one whose happiness had been rained on. “Then perhaps you ought to apologize to Rumford, and not to me,” she said, finally leaving the room behind her.

Minding her shoes this time, Belle carried the dishes over to the sink, careful not to make them clatter as she set them on the counter.

“You know you wind up apologizing every time you come here, right?” Neal told his mother. “Like you could avoid all this by just… not saying weird, humiliating shit all the time?”

Rumford came up behind her, heaving a sigh and rubbing his hands over her arms. “He’s a fair bit more like his mother than I care to admit sometimes,” he said. “...Frank, outspoken, I mean. Potty mouth.”

With a chuckle, Belle spun around to look at him and took his hands. “He loves you, though,” she told him. “Been sticking up for his papa the whole time.”

That precious pink rose to his cheeks again and he looked away, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards into a timid smile. “Ye both have,” he said quietly.

Belle nibbled her lip. “Well… you’re worth sticking up for.”

His thumb brushed over her knuckles. “And you do ,” he said. “Make me feel special.”

Belle felt herself blush, and Rumford must have thought she had smushy, smoochable cheeks too– because he planted a kiss right on her face, where she was certain it was the pinkest.

“Come,” he said. “Let's get dessert out.”

Belle narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s for dessert, anyway?” she asked.

He grinned and led her over to the fridge. “Why, Neal's favorite, of course.” He cracked open the door, and after moving a few things around, produced a pie. “Chocolate cream,” he said. “Homemade, with my Auntie Edith's crust recipe.”

Oh, he looked so proud! With a gleam in his eyes that told her he just couldn’t wait for her to try it!

“Sounds like quite a treat,” she smiled, and she fetched the dessert plates while he topped it off with a heavy dollop of whipped cream.

If Rumford’s enthusiasm wasn’t enough, there was Neal’s too, as they carried it out to the table. They doled out once slice at a time– Rumford cutting and plopping each piece onto a plate, and Belle passing them along.

The table was quiet while everyone dug in, and Rumford had every right to be proud of his pie, Belle soon confirmed. The chocolate cream was rich and melted in her mouth, and there was definitely some kind of secret ingredient hiding in his auntie’s pie crust! She couldn’t put her finger on it, but it complemented the flavor of the chocolate beautifully enough to make her moan at the table, and suddenly there were three pairs of eyes on her.

Belle swallowed. “It’s um… very, very good,” she mumbled in her defense.

“It’s fuckin’ amazeballs,” Neal corrected her, shoveling another forkful into his mouth.

She looked to Rumford, waiting for him to scold his son’s language, but instead he just smiled.

“Sweetheart,” he chuckled– and in a moment of beautiful déjà vu, Rumford swiped his finger along her cheek, wiping off a bit of whipped cream and sucking it off his finger.

Oh, yes. This casual intimacy shared over sweets was definitely their thing, Belle decided. From her churro, to their chocolate chunk almond cookies, and now to his pie?

Rumford stopped suddenly as though he'd been caught, and that was a terrible shame, if ever Belle had seen one. Because boy did she like his mouth. And having excuses to look at it. While he sucked on things.

“See, we never looked at each other like that, Belle,” Milah said.

Rumford startled and knit his brows at her, dropping his hand into his lap. “Looked at each other like what?”

She scoffed and shook her head. “You see, Belle, sometimes I regret ever getting divorced– for Neal's sake, you know, not–” she trailed off and gestured dismissively between herself and her ex-husband, “but then I remember how much happier I am, and I see the two of you, and I'm reminded that it was worth it– To give all of us a chance to be truly happy with someone else.”

“Yeah,” Neal said. “Only you like to be truly happy with a different guy every–” “Neal!” Rumford cut him off.

“Sorry!” he whined. “Sorry, I’ll just... eat my pie.”

Belle stifled a giggle.

Rumford pinched the corners of his mouth and sighed. “That's… a lovely sentiment, Milah.” He said, giving her a tight-lipped smile.

“I thought you guys got divorced because mom did it with the pool guy, though.” Neal said.

“Roofer.” he corrected him. “And not at the table.”

“Oh, right. ” Neal scoffed. “That's not appropriate dinner conversation. What was I thinking?”

Rumford pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Eat your pie, son.”

Belle surveyed the table, and decided she’d definitely serve herself another slice of pie once she finished hers. She scooped another mouthful onto her fork and brought it to her lips.

“Actually–” Milah said, “the first time I was unfaithful was with one of my colleagues at a dig in the Atacama desert in Chile back in 2003.” She paused and smacked her lips. “...Had a great ass.”

Belle’s forkful fell back onto her plate.

“And… there you are again with ‘shit no one needed to know’ for one thousand, mom.”

“...what? I was a terrible, unfaithful wife! I know that!” she said, throwing her hands up. “But I can't help it that your father held about as much sex appeal for me back then as a runny bowl of oatmeal!”

“Christ, mom! Cut Pop some slack! He’s just an art historian !” Neal said. “You can't hold his quads and glutes to the same standards as one of your glorified grave robbers.”

“Glorified–!?” she cut herself off with a huff and took a swig of her wine. “I'm just saying. I think I knew we were done when I started imagining it was Sean Connery all hot and sweaty on top of me instead of your father.”

“Seriously, mom?”

Belle cleared her throat. “Well, I happen to think that Rumford is much sexier than Sean Connery,” she cut in, rubbing his arm and giving him a little squeeze. “And let me just say that I used to date a guy who did bodybuilding, and I think all that bulk is overrated! A soft physique like Rumford's is much better for cuddling up to at night than all those muscles...” she said, splaying a hand over his tummy.

“See? That's wonderful. Just wonderful.” Milah smiled at the pair of them. “You see, the thing about cheating is that…. Well, it's like they always say in those documentaries about serial killers– you don't mean to do it the first time, but next thing, you've got a taste for it, you know?”

“...Wow.” Neal deadpanned. “You actually just did that.”

“Did what?”

“Compared yourself to a serial killer.”

“Oh, that's not what I meant and you know it.” Milah shot back. “I was gone three months for that trip! At the time I told myself it was just a moment of weakness. That I just missed my husband's touch so terribly!”

“What you told yourself?” Neal scoffed.

Rumford dropped his silverware and coughed. “It's… so nice to have all of us together for dinner, isn't it?”

“I’m sorry–” Neal said, ignoring him for his mother.  “Are you seriously looking for... sympathy? Right now?”

“Neal…” Rumford warned.

“You know what, mom?” Neal said, pushing his plate away, “I'm gonna say it. Because while dad's cool with just rolling over on his back about it, I'm not. And while Belle doesn't know you well enough to see what you're fucking doing, I do.”

Now that didn’t sound good at all, Belle thought. She scoot closer to Rumford, wrapping an arm snugly around him and bracing him for the verbal onslaught that was surely coming.

“I'm sorry–” Milah's eyes darted back and forth between father and son, and now it was her turn for her cheeks to turn a terrible red. “Have I done something?”

“Yeah, actually. You did. And maybe making light of what you did helps you sleep at night, maybe living on another continent makes it easier for you to forget– but it hurt. It hurt dad and it hurt me and–”

“Neal...”

“No, let me finish.” he said. “'Cause it pisses me off, alright? It pisses me off, mom, that you cheating on dad is all some hilarious joke to you. That you can sit across the table from him in his own house and make jokes about how he wasn't hot enough or manly enough or adventurous enough for you. And you know you can get away with it because you know he's too afraid to say anything and rock the boat around the people he's close to. And that's okay– because he has every right to be afraid. His own dad didn't think he was worth a damn and he's had to live with that his entire fucking life– but then you come here, every year, and you have to drill it into his head even more, how apparently worthless he was to you, too.”

“That's not true,” she argued weakly, pointing a shaking finger at him. “I never called your father worth–”

“You never loved him? Fine. I get it. You guys were young and you got pregnant and that must have been scary, so you got married because it seemed like the right thing to do. I don't care. But at some point– hopefully– Belle, or somebody , is going to tell Pop they love him, and there's a huge part of him that's going to doubt that that even fucking means anything, and you did that.”

“Neal.”

“You took that from him. You took it when you cheated and every little comment about… calling him oatmeal, or weak-willed is just setting it on fire and pissing in the ashes.”

Rumford sighed. “Neal, please–”

“So honestly, you can take your I’m so happy for you bullshit and shove it up your ass because the only reason you give a shit is just so you can feel absolved of the guilt I'm hoping you have over what you did to him. To us. Because if you actually gave half a rat’s ass about Pop’s happiness, you–” Neal hesitated. “...You wouldn’t keep acting like it’s nothing!” good voice cracked. “Why do you keep doing that? It’s not nothing!”

Milah curled into herself, unable to meet anyone's eyes. “...Of course it’s not nothing,” she croaked. “And I feel terrible about–”

“Admit it: You're not happy for him. You're just relieved,” Neal finished– and with that, he stood up and shoved his chair in. “Belle–” he addressed her, “I’m sorry for making this like, even more awkward than it already was. And Pop? ...I'm sorry for the language.”

He stormed out of the room and Rumford hunched over the table, rubbing a hand over his mouth. Without a word, Belle ran her hand up and down his back in soothing strokes.

“And there it is,” Milah said, with a hollow, self-deprecating chuckle. “Always wondered when it would all come out. His sixteenth birthday, his eighteenth, graduation...”

“I'll… go talk to him.” Rumford said, pushing his plate away and getting up. “You know, h-he’s at that age, he's got a lot of anger, h-he’s… I'll talk to him.”

Belle wanted so badly to go with him, but knew that she couldn’t.

He made it halfway to the stairs before Milah spoke up.

“Rumford, wait,” she said. “I'll talk to him. It's… it's my fault. Let me– let me be his mother. For once.”

He hesitated, and let out a sigh. “I'm not sure that's a good idea.”

“Please?”

“I… I know my son.” he said. “He's not going to want to– I'll talk to him first.”

A/N: I hate to leave you guys with this ~cliffhanger, but... otherwise this chapter would have been another like, 4k. Everything is gonna work out and be fine though!!! There's gonna be lots of emotions and talking about feelings!!!!! From everyone!!!!

Also I really really need to work on my Rumbelle Big Bang fic from here on out. So probably no update on this until late February. Thanks for being so patient and good to me, y'all. :**

[swishandflickwit]

Lucifer — The Simplicity of Weaving 1/1

Summary: Trixie gets herself into a tangle. Good thing her Devil babysitter is no stranger to a bad hair day.

Rating: General Audiences

Words: 3.5k+

Warnings: Established Deckerstar (but no appearance from Chloe). Future fic. Step-Satan shenanigans. Kinda.

AN: Oh look, I wrote another Lucifer & Trixie bonding fic. What a surprise not!

Hahaha, but a little break from The Devil's Lucky Number series for some family fluff, yes? Hope you enjoy this one!

Also on: ff.net | AO3

Other writing

“With your mum in court for the remainder of the day and it being so hot and all—seriously though,” he huffs. “These scorching temperatures could put even Hell to shame. I mean, contrary to popular belief, it isn’t even that hot down there, you know? It’s all dark and ashen and about as ‘fiery’ as a drenched skunk—which sounds and smells as bad as you’re imagining, nay—worse. So if you think beige is a drab color…”

He’s fiddling with his cufflinks, toying with the idea of foregoing aesthetic for once (not that it would ever leave him, not even if he tried; he couldn’t, after all, be faulted for his effortless beauty no matter what vestments he may—or may not—be wearing) and opting for a more casual attire to battle this steady onslaught of a heat wave cresting over Los Angeles with no immediate end in sight.

It’s probably why he isn’t prepared for what greets him when he opens the door to Beatrice’s chamber—

“Anyway, I was thinking we head on down to Lux and grab ourselves some ice—"

—and expels a rather undignified shriek as a result.

“What—!”

“Listen,” she starts, her tone measured and her hands held out in front of her in calm supplication. Like he is some rampant, skittish animal that has somehow wandered from home, and needs to be returned to its natural habitat. “It’s not… that… bad…?”

Lucifer shuts his gaping mouth with an audible click, only to dissolve into spluttering speech instead.

“Beatrice, child—what have you done to your hair?” he exclaims, loftily musing that if there ever is a question between them both of who, in that moment, most resembled a wild animal, it certainly isn’t him.

“I swear I was following the instructions!” she waves towards her phone screen, propped upon the mirror of her dresser and opened on a Youtube tutorial for—

“A French braid?” he cries, voice dripping with incredulity.

“I just wanted to look like Elsa!”

“I do hate to break it to you,” he says, mouth puckered in a grimace. “But it’s looking more Grand Pabbie Troll than Majestic Ice Queen right now.”

He stands corrected. The frost to her glare could restore what little remains of the polar ice caps and freeze him on the spot if she possessed an affinity for such gelid destruction. But she didn’t, and being the sire of a Miracle could not gift her even that.

Small mercies and all.

“I’m in so much trouble,” she wails.

He sighs. It is his turn to appeal to her with more than a modicum of wariness as he meets her eyes in the looking glass and approaches her from behind.

“It can’t be much worse than the chocolate cake incident or the doll debacle.”

With soothing hands, he takes her by the shoulders and eases her back onto her chair, though he needn’t have bothered with the gentleness. As she lists against the wood with all the dejectedness of a usurped sovereign, he surveys the damage. At first glance, it does look quite atrocious—her coffee-colored locks teased and twisted into gnarly knots so they look more bird’s nest than actual, human hair. But further inspection shows it not so unsalvageable, her grubby, ten-year old hands thankfully still inexpert to inflict any lasting harm. At least she didn’t cut anything—then they’d have both suffered the wrath of the detective.

He shudders, before realizing he is the Devil and he cowers before no one that isn’t a slight but tough blonde, blue-eyed, five foot six inches badass cop. He squares his shoulders—a soldier bracing for battle.

“Right.”

From the array of headdress materials spread atop the vanity, he selects his weapon—the sturdiest-looking comb, or as sturdy as plastic can be. He would prefer one of silver or at the very least wood. This pink, sparkling, wide-tooth monstrosity would have to suffice, he laments.

“Now,” he grabs another stool and situates himself to his task, his figure a tower at her back even when seated. “Let’s see if we can’t sort this out, hmm?”

Her eyes widen with desperation.

“Oh Lucifer, you have to fix it,” she practically screams. “You have to!”

“Alright, alright,” he pitches his articulations low to convey his reassurance. It doesn’t erase his bewilderment, however, and at the quizzical brow he directs at her through the mirror she clams up.

Her reticence is an unusual occurrence, but the silence that trails in her wake is no less comforting as it allows him to dedicate his full attention to wrangling her wavy mop into some semblance of order.

He forges a meticulous path from her scalp to her roots, prying tangles apart before smoothing them over with the comb. His hands are light and dexterous as only a skilled piano player can be. Not once does she cry out in pain, of that he makes certain. With every knot unraveled, the panic in her gaze recedes, till every wavy strand is restored and her breathing is even in near repose from his ministrations.

“See?” he murmurs, returning the comb before resting his hands on her shoulders once more. “All better. Nothing a little Devil’s touch couldn’t fix.”

Her relief is palpable in the way she leans into his touch.

“Thanks,” she sighs.

“So what’s this about looking like Elsa?” He rubs kindly at the spot between her shoulder blades when she tenses. “I thought we were on a Moana bender this week.”

Her cheeks blotch with the strain of her blush.

“We are,” she asserts, a little too quickly. “I guess it isn’t really about Elsa. I just… wanted to try a French braid.”

He hums and lets more than a couple of heartbeats pass before replying.

“You know perfectly well Elsa’s from Norway. Do you honestly expect me to believe she’d go for a French braid instead of a Dutch one?”

“But all the Youtubers say—”  

“Oh, yes, because anyone willing enough to saddle themselves with the internet persona of ‘TwinkleTendrils87’ is such an authority on the conversion of animation to reality hairstyle. No,” he rolls his eyes. “Don’t think so.”

Her protest withers on her tongue. He smirks, waiting for her own orbs—which she had averted once he began his inquisition—to meet his.

“So do you want to try that again?”

“You can always tell,” she grumbles, unable to abate the accusation that bleeds through her intonations.

He grins.

“The title of Prince of Lies does hold true to some extent,” he drawls. At her pinched visage, he gives her an encouraging pat. “Well, go on. Tell Lucifer what ails you.” His face suddenly hardens. “Is someone giving you trouble at school again?”

She groans.

“If I tell you, do you promise you won’t get mad?”

“Darling, you know I don’t get mad,” he grins, all teeth and bite. “I get even.”

She narrows her eyes at him.

“Okay, so… maybe I do both but if it means all that much to you then yes, I solemnly swear not to get angry at or even with you.”

He raises his hands in surrender, humor returning as the edges of his mouth soften with fondness. She returns it with a radiant one of her own, swiveling on her seat so he receives the full wattage of her smile.

But as quickly as it comes, it dims too.

She lifts her legs and tucks them crisscross beneath her to prop an elbow on her thigh. She rests her cheek on a fist as she tilts her chin up and arrests him with her molten, solemn stare.

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

He blinks, slowly… deliberately.

“Is this a trick question?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I!” He shakes his head, baffled. “Aren’t you a little too young to be concerned about this?”

“I’m almost eleven,” she protests.

“Case in point, you haven’t even reached your teen years, for Dad’s sake! You could at least wait till your face is a Jackson Pollock of acne before getting all angsty. Not that you should be worried about such things.” He waves a flippant hand. “You are a Decker woman, hooker name notwithstanding, and all Decker women have clear skin.”

“Pretty sure I only understood half that sentence…”

“What I’m trying to say, rather poorly I suppose, but what’s new, eh?”

He waggles his eyebrows and though slight, it coaxes a smile to curl at the corners of her lips.

“You shouldn’t have to be thinking about this, much more be bothered by it.” He frowns. “What’s brought this on?”

With her free hand, she picks at the laces of her sneakers so intently, he thinks she won’t answer. His heart starts thumping to the beat of anxiety as he realizes that providing comfort to a ten-year old isn’t exactly part of his skillset and he is severely out of his league on this. But just as he’s about to suggest Beatrice speak with her mother once she returns, words trickle out of her mouth with all the ferocity of a broken dam and he is powerless against the onslaught of her unveiled insecurities.

“It didn’t used to, honest. But all my friends…” she sniffs and to his mounting terror, a suspiciously wet gleam fills those chocolate-molten orbs. “It’s all they ever wanna talk about anymore. It’s always make-up this or hairstyle that and all the latest fashion trends and how to get more followers on their Snapchat.” She throws her hands up with such awkward abruptness, Lucifer must lean back to avoid being casualty to her ire. “I just wanna play hopscotch and talk about Barbie Dreamhouse and fangirl over Rapunzel and Eugene! Is that too much to ask?” she blows a stray tendril from her forehead. “Well I guess so, since the only thing that matters to them is who the prettiest one in the group is.” And with that remark, all the vexation drains from her mien, till only a sadness that should have been foreign to her at such a tender age, remains.

“But one thing’s for sure—it’s definitely not me,” she sighs, a couple of teardrops hugging the curve of her cheeks, “which they love to point out.”

At the sight of the droplets coursing her face, he sees red. He has to remind himself that these are children, and the detective will not approve his slaughtering of the youth—no matter how justified it may be.

Squalid miscreants, he inwardly fumes. Vapid, insolent, pediculous, scalawags! Who do those brats think they are? How dare they—

Ensconced as he is in his rising fury on her behalf, his attempt at comfort is thwarted by the growl in his throat as he utters, “Dry your eyes, Beatrice.”

Unperturbed, and most probably used to his mercurial mood swings (and isn’t that a marvel that she doesn’t run away each time?), she does as told—albeit, the gloominess in her countenance remains.

“I take it these are the same birds from your last sleepover? Mary Beth and the two other ones? Bethany with the y and Bethanie with the i-e?”

Ridiculous, he scorns. Just as Lucifer has an abundance of Brittany acquaintances, Beatrice is saddled with multiple companions whose monikers involve some form of ‘Beth’ in it. At least his duplicates’ names had the same spelling!

Her hesitance is a palpable energy in the quiet that follows, but at his prodding scowl she eventually nods her affirmation.

With lightning heat boiling in his blood he doesn’t trust himself to issue any wholesome advice, so he bids her without speaking to face the mirror again.

“What are you doing?” she braves to ask through watery inflections as he begins dividing her hair into three parts.

“I won’t lie to you by feeding you some sentimental drivel like ‘it’s what’s on the inside that matters’ because humans are fickle things and only few have been exempt from such norms—humans such as your mother and yourself.”

He ignores the crease between her brows, his explanation in the way his hands are intent on their unceasing rhythm of weaving her tresses into a proper Dutch braid that starts on one side of her head and continues to hug the curve of her nape.

“Not to say that the idea is totally unfounded, mind. Beauty, true beauty, lies deep within a person’s soul. I should know,” he winks. “I’ve glimpsed into many a repugnant soul in my time, after all.”

She sticks her tongue out in disgust. He returns the gesture till her expression dissolves into chuckles. With a satisfied nod, he clears his throat before resuming.

“But there is a certain… power in making an impression with the use of one’s appearance. Exhibit A,” he smirks, briefly retracting a hand to gesture at himself. She giggles again, but it quickly fades at his considering perusal.

“Those girls,” a generous term, he thinks with a sneer. “Your so-called ‘friends’? Well, you don’t have to be Dr. Martin to discern that those cads are jealous of your beauty—the natural and inherent kind. And let’s not forget your quick wit. Top of the class, are you not?”

She neither confirms or denies, but she blushes and it’s all the answer he needs.

“Course you are!” he heartily praises.

Not that he can take credit, but his grin is smug enough for them both all the same.

“While I would love to march right into your classroom and give those bloody Beths a piece of my mind before decimating those shallow cows on the spot—”

“Lucifer,” she scolds, reminiscent of the detective, right down to the infinitesimal twist to her lips that betrays her mirth.

“I realize it won’t exactly win me any favors with your mother, so—hand me that elastic, would you, love? There’s a good girl—” he binds the end of the braid. “Here’s a lesson from Old Scratch—the greatest revenge is to be the best version of yourself, especially when you don’t even have to change a thing. Well…”

He cannot help the flourish of his hand as he trails it along the length of her hair, a ripple of stardust in his wake. Beatrice gasps.

“Maybe a little one.”

His beam could power the whole of Los Angeles along with the awe in her scrutiny as she spins at all angles to admire his work.

Ah, he always was a prideful one.

“W-where—how?”

“Who do you think Mazikeen got her styling tips from when we first got here?” he claims with hues of incredulity, as if it ought to be common knowledge that Demons, unless taught, had atrocious fashion sense when left to their own devices. “And when you have as many sisters as I do, and they all pester you at any given hour of the day because, and I quote, ‘no one does it better’,” he preens. “You learn a thing or two about coiffure, or rather, they learned and I got a lot of practice.”

“It’s beautiful,” she cries, her twisted russet locks the color of a dusk-ridden sky. The tiny drops of effulgence he had woven wink faintly at first glance but then burn with the resplendence of a thousand suns when they lace with the natural light.

“No, dear heart.”

When she turns to him, he holds her gaze steady so she cannot doubt his sincerity.

“You are.”

“But—”

He shakes his head and leaves no room for argument.

“I only enhanced what was all ready there. Have you ever known me to lie?”

“No,” she states simply, a small smile stealing along the breadth of her lips.

“Besides,” he lets his warmth diffuse into her dainty hands as he engulfs them with his own.

“I was the spark that set this universe and the ones after it ablaze. All that is light—within and without, between now and beyond—once lived, and continues to ignite, through me. So believe me when I say that of all the suns and stars in the whole of Creation.”

His lips find the crown of her head.

“You shine the brightest.”

He vowed not to be angry nor to get even with her, and when it comes to the Devil, his word is his bond.

A new school day dawns and with it, Lucifer styles her a new plait but the artfully streamed rivulets of stardust along the length of her auburn hair are unchanged.

And when he picks her up from school later on, he expects the envy that oozes out of the trio of Beths—the imps glaring longingly with all the subtlety of a stampede, as they first narrow onto the shimmer of Beatrice’s braided mane, then at him and his conspicuous show of wealth.

She kicks into a run when she sees him leaning against the hood of the ‘vette, and it is a testament to his fondness that he no longer flinches upon the collision of her svelte frame into his legs nor does he retract from the winding of her gangly arms around his waist.

With her face buried into his suit and the girls’ stares still trained on them, he takes this opportunity to brandish the sunglasses from his eyes. He purposefully allows the brown to fade to red, as his eyes flare with the fury of the million pyres of Hell, and he meets each dirty look with a glower of his own.

To their merit, they do not scream (he blames the distance), but their blanched faces and quaking limbs are a balm to his petty, petty soul—however temporary or minuscule. They ought to be grateful for their naivety and his leniency. Still.

“Good day?” he inquires sweetly as he returns his sunglasses to their perch on his face before opening the passenger door for her. She waits till he is seated behind the wheel before she answers.

“It was great!”

He passes her another pair of shades that he only ever reserves for her. She puts them on with a flourish.

“Even better now that you’re here!”

Unbeknownst to the detective’s daughter, he shoots one last devilish grin at the cowering trio of caked-faced-trying-too-hard swines. His canines glint with malicious glee beneath the simmering L.A. sun.

He did vow not to be angry nor to get even with Beatrice.

“Excellent.”

Such a shame that the same promise does not extend to her friends.

At her insistence, he tucks her in that night.

They don’t say anything once the evening’s chapter is finished, but it is as he folds her into the blankets that she murmurs, “You are too, you know.”

He quirks an amused brow.

“What are you on about now, child?”

She smiles, delicate fingers cupping at his cheeks when he leans over to unnecessarily fluff her pillows. He freezes at her touch, even when he is tickled by her digits scratching nimbly at his scruff. There is such innocence in the gesture, he is suddenly filled with shame to be at her presence.

“Beatrice,” he whispers, breath tinged with perplexity.

“You’re beautiful, too. Has anyone ever told you that?”

He wants to riposte with an arrogant quip or a jaunty remark, but finds he cannot speak through the lump in his throat nor the leaden weight on his tongue.

“Can’t say that they have,” he tries though it sounds more whine than tease. “But I am a fine specimen in human standards—”

She shakes her head. “I mean, even with your other face.”

He laughs, a tinge of hysteria to the sound. “Now I know you’re pulling my leg.”

“Don’t think I didn’t see what you did to my friends,” her hands tighten around his cheeks in a show of gratitude.

“No one is allowed to hurt you,” he says easily.

“Not that you could control that, but that’s what I mean. You are beautiful, inside and out, and I hope you know it. ‘Kay?”

She lets go, and he inhales greedily at the air like a drowning man who’s broken through the ocean’s surface. It is how he finds the strength to reply, softly, as her eyes droop and her breathing evens into slumber.

“Thank you.”

It is as he reaches the frame of her door that she delivers one final blow that tips him over the edge and straight into this little girl’s heart, obliterating whatever chasm he might have fooled himself into believing he ought to maintain between them.

“I do love you, Lucifer.”

“I know,” he avers, all the while denying the waver to his speech. How wonderful, he muses, swept by the tranquility of her acceptance and awash as he is in the grace that her love reinvigorates in him. It is why he is only a little surprised, when he searches within for the torment and self-loathing and finds himself absent of both in lieu of the hope and faith and incandescence her presence has gradually pervaded him with, to discover—he believes her.

He believes in the veracity of her pronouncement. He believes in the purity of her caress and he believes in the ardor behind his own pledge when he avows, “And I you, Beatrice.”

His voice is the melody that carries her to the land of dreams, the carillon that will henceforth guide her to sanctuary as he intertwines the part of his soul that doesn’t belong to Chloe, to hers.

“And I you.”

AN: HAHAHA. WHAT EVEN.

(It wasn’t supposed to be feels-y at the end but Trix had a mind of her own smh)

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