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library-ghoulette · 2 days ago

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Chapter 7/?

(You can also read this and my other fics on ao3!)

Pairing: Copia (Papa Emeritus IV) x Original Female Character

Rating: Explicit, MDNI

Tags: Third person POV, original female character, slowburn, workplace romance, idiots to lovers

Words: 4132

Summary: In which Sister Beatrice attempts to ignore her growing feelings during her second clandestine budget meeting with Copia, and the seeds of two interesting new possibilities are planted.

Wednesday evening finds Beatrice cloistered in her office, agonizing over the latest draft of a grant proposal, confident that she can charm the funding organization out enough money to buy all the book scanners she could ever want, if only she can find precisely the right wording. She starts at the sound of the library door opening, her heart leaping into her throat.

At the sound of Copia's curious "helloooo?" ringing through the seemingly empty library, her heart executes an entirely different maneuver, a swoony, swoopy little loop-the-loop that Beatrice absolutely is not going to examine right now. Or ever.

"In here!" she calls, and soon Copia is filling the doorway, looking happy to see her and hefting two carryout bags in his hands.

She's suddenly all too aware of Copia taking in her office, eyes sweeping over the little personal touches she's given it so far, and she tries not to feel self-conscious. It's not much, just a small space with a slightly battered old desk and a book cart for her cataloging projects, a chair for visitors, and not much else. But she's hung her diploma on the wall behind her—with great satisfaction to finally have somewhere to display that very expensive piece of paper—and on another wall a framed danse macabre print, with cheery medieval skeletons that always made her smile. She's draped a fuzzy purple throw over the back of her desk chair, because the temperature in the old building is unpredictable and sometimes chilly. Her favorite mug—a chunky, fat-bottomed thing impervious to being knocked over accidentally—sits close to hand, the dregs of a citrussy Earl Grey drying in the bottom.

"Want me to set up at our, ah, usual table?" Copia asks, and she nods.

"I'll be out in a minute. "She nods toward her computer screen. "I just need to save this."

"Okie dokie," he says with a smile, and turns away, leaving her to save her draft—and to wonder how that's the same man who leads mass with such imposing authority. The contrast is entirely too endearing, and does nothing to assuage the uncomfortable feelings she's been trying to ignore since Sunday.

When she gathers her things and walks out to the reading room, she finds that Copia has laid out another spread of the surprisingly delicious takeout from the Abbey dining hall.

"Something healthy," he says, pointing to the salad with grilled chicken, "and also fries. As requested."

He had messaged her earlier to ask if she would like anything in particular. Normally, she would have said she didn't care, anything would be fine. She was nothing if not amenable to whatever everyone else around her preferred. But this time, she had surprised herself by asking for exactly what she wanted. Maybe it's a side effect of this new life she's started, some domino effect set off by actually applying for this job.

Or maybe it's just because the food is legitimately so much better here. As she bites into a perfectly seasoned, perfectly crispy french fry, she remembers the soggy fries, scorched coffee, and bland casseroles in the cafeteria at Infernal Heart. Despite the constant stress, there are definitely some perks to working somewhere as prosperous as Ministry headquarters.

"Thank you," she says, trying not to moan. "I needed this."

"Hard day?"

"Kind of? It's just…" Beatrice sighs and trails off. How to even explain it? It's not like anything bad actually happened, but she's bone tired as usual, and… "I hate that the library is closed," she says, putting words to the frustration for the first time. "It makes me feel like I'm not doing anything."

"But you are," Copia reassures her.

"I know! But there's so much to do, and it feels like I'm getting more behind every day, somehow. If I had staff, someone to help, I could dig myself out of this mess, but…"

She viciously spears a piece of chicken breast with her fork, getting more frustrated with her situation the longer she talks about it.

"I need to hire people, already, and the applications I'm getting are horrible," she continues. "But I'm probably going to have to interview everyone, anyway, because I'm barely getting any applications at all."

Copia listens, chewing thoughtfully, then asks, "Have you considered using a ghoul to fill one of the positions?"

"Do you… have a spare ghoul?" Beatrice asks, incredulous, and laughs softly. "With a degree in library science?"

There are ghouls who perform various jobs around the Abbey. Most notably they perform as part of the Ghost Project, but she has also glimpsed them working in the gardens and running to and fro in the infirmary. Some of them do taxes, or so she's heard. She doesn't have any experience with them, though—ghouls are not common, to say the least, especially outside of Ministry headquarters.

"I don't mean one of my ghouls, sorellina," Copia gently corrects her.

She cocks her head in confusion. "Then what do you mean?"

Copia reaches forward and steals one of her fries. Before she can protest, he surprises the words right out of her mouth by saying, "I mean that you could summon a ghoul of your own."

A cold wave of shock washes over her. "I couldn't do that."

"Oh, come on." Copia eyes her shrewdly. "You expect me to believe you don't know how?"

She looks askance, immediately betraying herself. "I've… studied the theory, of course. In my ritual magic classes."

In truth, she's read much more than the cursory and not at all instructive explanation of the theory of ghoul summoning that is part of the standard curriculum Sisters of Sin are expected to learn. Even in the more advanced elective classes she had taken, Beatrice had proven a bit of a nightmare for her professor, who tired of her questions regarding supplemental reading to the supplemental reading. Finally, she had been left to her own considerable devices. It's amazing what you can get through interlibrary loan, if you know how to look for them.

"But I'm unfamiliar with the practical aspects," she continues, in a futile effort to defend herself against the all-too-knowing look in Copia's mismatched gaze, which is still a bit intimidating to her, even when it's also warm and teasing. It's the white eye, she thinks. It always sends a bit of a thrill through her, no matter the topic of conversation…

Nope, she thinks. Not thinking about that.

"I could help with the, ah, practical aspects," Copia says.

The prospect is more tempting than Beatrice wants to acknowledge. A ghoul, who would be summoned especially for her, with all of the skills she requires and more experience than any human could possibly have. Who in her position wouldn't want that?

"But only upper clergy are allowed to perform summonings of that caliber," she protests. "I'm not clergy at all. I haven't even taken my final vows."

"Hmm. I believe that there is a loophole in that rule. Something about obtaining permission from upper clergy, under extenuating circumstances?"

"Really?" She considers this. There isn't a level of clergy above Papa, after all, so she can't imagine that anyone would be able to put up much of a fight against his permission in this scenario, but—

What if she fucks it up, somehow? Insecurity slashes through her consideration of the possibilities.

"No," she decides. "I should— I should do this the normal way."

Copia studies her face, and for a moment Beatrice thinks that he's going to press further, but he relents. "Okay. Well, in that case, we'd better get cracking on our plan…"

It's a relief to Beatrice to settle back into their project, to focus on their common goal. It's comforting to her to take action and to be in control, and lately, nothing has made her feel more in control than this.

But while the numbers and spreadsheets make her feel in control, her body is less cooperative. Copia moves to sit in the chair next to hers, all the better to see each other's work… and all the better for their arms to accidentally brush against one another. At one point he leans in close to examine something in her notes, and their knees nudging against each other under the table sends a jolt through her, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. She's mortified that their proximity to one another turns her into a live wire, and she prays that it's not obvious.

Even with Beatrice's worries and jumpy distraction, they make good progress, formulating a plan that reallocates enough funding for the library to make its necessary upgrades and doesn't negatively impact any vital functions of the Ghost Project. (Although it does cut into wardrobe, just a bit, with Beatrice unable to restrain herself from exclaiming, "That much money? For a sparkly jacket??" and, "You want how many of them?")

Eventually, it's just down to finishing touches, double-checking math, and subjecting the project to a thoroughness that seems to Beatrice to be one part anxiety and two parts killing time. Which is silly, of course. Why would she want to drag this out any longer than she needs to, when she's been at work since early that morning and needs to get back to her apartment to… to sweep the kitchen, plan her outfit for tomorrow, something.

Surely there's plenty that she needs to be doing in her empty apartment, alone, away from Copia and the rich, spicy scent of his cologne and the way he smiles at her, looking proud and almost even affectionate, when he says, "I think that should do it, don't you?"

"Oh," Beatrice says, startled out of what she realizes was a brief reverie, "yes, I— I hope so, anyway." She gathers her work and her wits. "It shouldn't take me long to put everything together to present at the next admin meeting."

She lets out a little sigh of accomplishment and pushes her chair back from the table, rolling the tension out of her shoulders before turning to Copia. "Thank you. I— I'm used to trying to get by on my own, but I don't know what I would have done without your help."

For a moment, Copia looks flustered by her sincerity, the tips of his ears flushing pink, before he regains his composure.

"Don't mention it," he says. Then, thinking for a beat: "No, really, don't mention it. Maybe it's best to let this be a big surprise for Sister Imperator, huh?"

"Not a word." Beatrice smiles conspiratorially, and a spiteful note creeps into her voice when she says, "Let her spend the next few weeks thinking I'm panicking. She won't know what hit her."

Beatrice snaps her laptop closed with a satisfying little click. It is profoundly satisfying to have gotten this far, and she feels much more hopeful than she did leaving that disaster of a meeting… But she can't help but feel a tiny pang of sadness. There won't be any more long nights in the library, she supposes, now that they've finished their scheming.

The rustling of a plastic bag distracts her, and she looks over to see Copia pulling out a clamshell holding a thick, dark slice of chocolate cake.

"It seems we forgot something."

The lid springs open, releasing a sweet aroma that makes Beatrice's mouth water. She's always had a bit of a sweet tooth, and even used to bake as a hobby. At her old public library job, she made it a habit to bring in homemade cupcakes for staff birthdays, which they had joked wasn't the only reason she was their favorite supervisor, but it didn't hurt. She hasn't baked anything in a long time, she realizes.

She watches as Copia slides a plastic fork down through the creamy frosting and perfectly firm sponge. He holds the fork up to her.

"You have the first bite."

"Oh— no, thank you. I shouldn't."

He cocks an eyebrow at her word choice, the baggage in shouldn't. He doesn't comment, but he doesn't have to, his expression alone saying it all.

"It wasn't a request, sorellina," he says instead, tone playfully serious. "Are you refusing a direct order from your Papa?"

Beatrice bites her lip, gaze bouncing between Copia and the bite of cake.

"It's devil's food, you know. Think of it as communion." He gives her a wry smile before affecting the solemn expression he wears during mass, holding the cake up as though consecrating a host, then offering her the bite again. "The Body of Satan."

Beatrice feels a hot flush creep up her neck and over her cheeks at the words and the memories they evoke of the recent mass.

She tries to shrug it off, rolling her eyes and dutifully playing along. She stops short of folding her hands in prayer, but supplies the expected response of "nema" and leans forward, letting her mouth fall open to accept this sacrilegious sacrament.

Copia holds her gaze as he slides the fork into her mouth, watching her close her lips around the cake, the way her eyes involuntarily slide shut with pleasure at the taste.

"Good, right?"

She nods, holding a hand over her mouth as she chews. "Very."

Copia takes a bite of his own, savoring it slowly, before offering her another.

"You know," he says, as he slides the fork out of her mouth, "I noticed that you left mass in a hurry on Sunday."

"Oh?" It comes out cake-muffled, and she's glad to have an excuse to stall before she has to say anything more articulate.

Beatrice is well aware that she left mass in a hurry. Frankly, she ran out of the cathedral like her habit had caught fire, practically elbowing other congregants out of her path the instant the service concluded.

"I was worried something might have been wrong?" Copia asks carefully.

"No. Nothing was wrong."

Except that every second of mass had been torture, and none of them worse than taking communion. As she stood in line, waiting for her turn to accept the host, she had felt like a giant beacon was flashing over her head. Neon lights spelling out HORNY for everyone to see, with a little arrow pointing helpfully down at her, lest anyone be confused.

Her knees had been shaky when she knelt before Copia. From that vantage point he had towered over her, impossibly regal, and when he brought the host down to place it gently on her tongue, his white eye had seemed to bore directly into her soul. She had felt stripped bare, as though her mind were an open book and he was reading every unprofessional thought she had ever had about him off the pages.

It was mortifying. To make matters worse, Sister Imperator had seemed to give her an odd look when Beatrice accepted the wine from her. A knowing look.

It was too much. Beatrice simply had to escape, couldn't bear the thought of facing anyone for small talk after the service. Couldn't bear the thought of facing him. So she had fled at the earliest opportunity, pedaling back to her apartment at double her usual speed, all too conscious of the desire kindling inside of her the entire way.

She can't tell Copia any of this. And she especially can't tell him what she had done once she made it back to the safety of her bedroom. That she hadn't even bothered to remove her habit before spreading herself over her bed, just pulled her panties aside in a feverish haze and got herself off rough and fast, letting her mind conjure up images of her kneeling in front of him again, lifting his chasuble out of the way and—

"Good," he says, bringing her back to the present.

"Yeah, I, uh, I had to help my landlady with some things back at my apartment." Beatrice blushes more fiercely with each word, but can't stop herself. "She's older, and, you know… needs help with things. Sometimes."

She winces internally. She hates lying, in no small part because she's really bad at it if the lie involves actually speaking instead of just letting someone believe whatever they want.

"That's nice of you to help her with… things."

His smile is soft and clearly says that he knows what she's saying is bullshit, but he's going to kindly refrain from pressing her on it. For which she is grateful.

"I enjoyed mass," she says, which is a slight lie, then, "Especially the choice of reading," which is not.

"I thought you might."

The words carry implications that are not lost on Beatrice: Copia thought she would enjoy the reading. He had considered her reaction. Had he been thinking of her when he wrote his homily? Had… had the entire service been designed with her in mind?

But there's little time to think of a way to voice these questions or even decide whether it's smart to do so, because at that moment Copia's gaze lands on the corner of her mouth.

"You have a bit of chocolate," he says, gesturing. "On your cheek, just—"

"Here?" She licks in the direction he's indicating but misses entirely.

"No, a little to the right— Here."

And before she knows what's happening, Copia pulls off one of his gloves and reaches out to her, cupping her face in his palm and gently wiping the smear of frosting away with his thumb.

"Got it." His voice is soft, barely more than a whisper. Beatrice is suddenly aware of the cocoon of silence around them, of how very alone they are together. Her heart beats loud in her ears and it's not from fear, or not entirely, and Copia doesn't let her go, and she doesn't want him to. Time slows, a tether drawn between them that neither seems willing to break.

Copia's touch is soft and warm, and Beatrice finds herself leaning into it. The pad of his thumb traces along the edge of her bottom lip, slow and exploratory, and then he looks down at her mouth and that's all it takes for time to begin moving forward again. For them to fall toward each other.

The first kiss is brief, tentative, little more than an unsure press of lips together before drawing back. But then Copia's hand slides around to the back of Beatrice's neck and she lets herself be drawn back in.

It's been a long time since she's kissed anyone, and she worries that she's forgotten quite how to do this, that she's doing something wrong and that he'll be able to tell. But his lips are soft against hers, and for a moment she forgets herself, lost in the way his kiss makes her entire body feel warm and pliant and needy.

If they could somehow have kept kissing forever, everything would have been fine. But as soon as they break away from one another, the dreaminess suffusing Beatrice is replaced by panic. By What the fuck am I doing?

"I—" There are infinite ways to continue that sentence, and although she doesn't know what the right one is, she knows that she's picked the wrong one as soon as it's out of her mouth: "I should get going. It's— It's getting late, and— Yeah. You should go— I mean, I should go. Now."

Stupid.

There's no getting around it, no other word for what he pulled back there with Beatrice. Stupid Copia, fuckup Copia, getting it wrong and embarrassing himself once again.

He leans over the sink, splashing water over his face, rinsing off the last of the cleanser before regarding himself in the mirror, searching for any of the paint he's missed. He wipes away an errant bit of black from beside his temple and sighs unhappily.

He looks as tired as he feels, without the forgiving black that hides the dark circles under his eyes. It's always a little bit of a letdown to see his own face, these days.

He turns away from his reflection, turns on the shower. As the water warms up he strips off his shirt and trousers, tossing them in the direction of the hamper before stepping under the hot spray. Steam fills the bathroom; the heat feels good, easing some of the tension from his tight shoulders as he lathers himself.

He had been feeling good about things with Beatrice, had felt like he was actually doing something worthwhile with her, something that mattered. He had liked being around her, and at least for a short time, he had thought that she liked being around him, too. There were moments when her reserve had relaxed, when the rapport had felt easy in a way that hinted at greater closeness to come. That's what makes this, this fiasco, all the worse.

As he works shampoo into his hair, an image of the way she had looked after they kissed flashes through his mind. She had looked panicked, desperate to get away from him. Just like she had been desperate to get away from him after mass. She had barely made eye contact as she left, declining his offer to walk her out and practically running away. She had rushed them out of the library and then bolted so quickly that he hadn't even had a chance to apologize.

He needs to apologize, he thinks, needs to find her first thing tomorrow and make this right. Or as right as it can be. Even the idea of bringing it up with her makes him cringe. Maybe they can just pretend it never happened?

Maybe that communion bit had been too much, had hit too close to how he had felt during mass, when she had knelt for the sacrament and he had been sure everyone in the sanctuary could see his hand tremble when he placed it on her tongue. The kind of horny that at some point, any self-respecting person in his position either learns to channel productively or gracefully ignore, and he had failed at both. He had barely been able to keep his eyes off of her the entire service, seeking her out in the crowd again and again, wanting to see her reaction to the words he had written with her in mind.

Stupid.

He's too old to be acting like this. Fuck, he's too old for her. What must she think of him, some creepy old man who comes to her, offering her help, only to put the moves on her the first real chance he gets?

He genuinely had wanted to help her.

But he had genuinely wanted to put the moves on her, too. There's something about her that he just can't shake, that he hasn't been able to shake since the day they met. It's only become more undeniable, more clear that something like this would happen the more time he spent around her.

Even now, in the midst of his self-recrimination, he still can't escape the memory of how she had leaned back in after that first kiss, how her lips had parted so easily beneath his, so eager. How he had been close enough to smell her perfume, red roses and something dark, earthy. How soft the hair at the nape of her neck had felt, and how a wayward curl had fallen out of her bun, making him imagine loosing the rest of it, letting it tumble down over her shoulders so he could tangle his fingers in it…

He closes his eyes and dips beneath the spray, as though to dispel the train of thought.

This is how it's been almost every single night: one small instance, one tiny memory of her setting off a cascade of images both real and imagined, until he's aching just at the thought of her. His cock standing at attention, begging for release, as it is now.

He braces one hand against the wall of the shower and strokes himself with the other. His mind gently lets go of the shame, clinging instead to happier things: the easy flush that floods her cheeks every time he looks at her, and the question of how far that flush dips down beneath the collars of those modest little black dresses she always wears. He imagines her soft curves laid bare, imagines kissing along the swell of her full breasts and watching the pale skin turn pink, supple flesh turned feverish with desire—

He comes so hard that his knees buckle, and his mind is briefly, gloriously blank, all worries blotted out by pleasure. If he can't have her, then at least he can have this. One small moment of peace, before he lets it wash away.

A/N: The idiots finally kissed! But will obviously continue to be idiots for… awhile longer.

While writing this chapter I became aware that I write about food a lot and have been subconsciously using it as a metaphor for desire, and also the denial or thwarting thereof. I love when patterns like that come out of the woodwork, so I thought I'd include it as a little bit of director's commentary, if you will. :)

#my writing #lib ghoulette writes #ministry librarian series #ghost band fanfic #copia x oc

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