#after this i am exempt from all complaints of not drawing them enough

[starduskscribbles]

I love my novel charas so much

[smokeyloki]

Fiddlesticks! - A Cherik Ficlet (Concept Credit: @pippa-writes)

   Again, I would like to thank @pippa-writes for providing the concept for this ficlet.  Three drafts and a lot of frustration turned out this little one-shot, and I sincerely hope you all enjoy it.  I’m much better at writing than I am at drawing, at any rate.

@pippa-writes

@ladycavalier

@peppermintdoodle (since I saw a post somewhere saying that you wanted to read more Cherik stuff...)

Also a disclaimer that I’m not the best at fluff.  I’m not terrible at it, but it’s definitely not my forte.

          The trouble started less than a month ago, during one of their music lessons.  Erik been playing a simple arrangement of “Ave Maria” as a warm-up, and Christine Daae’s voice danced along with the piano keys. All was going well until the fifteenth measure, when a poorly-placed note snuck into a chord and brought the whole score to a halt.  He sat there, fingers frozen to the keyboard, eyes fixed on the offending composition.

         “Fiddlesticks,” Erik had muttered.

         He later chalked up that particular word to Christine’s presence, and he was grateful that he had not said something indecent.  He was certainly capable of it, if his earlier years of parroting the vulgarities of stagehands and opera-goers were any indication (just ask Gerard Carriere).  More recently, he’d also taken to dabbling in Swedish, German, and Latin literature, and could employ crude phrases in a variety of languages.  But to speak in such a crass manner in front of a lady, especially one such as Mlle. Daae…that would be no fit behavior for a gentleman!

         This would have been the end of it if Erik hadn’t forgotten about the misplaced note and brought the same score to their next lesson.  It all began innocently enough, just as before, and once again the squalling dissonance reduced both student and teacher to unexpected silence. The lull was broken, finally, by a single utterance from a disgruntled Maestro:

         “Fiddlesticks.”

         This time, he could have sworn he saw a small smile pass over Christine’s countenance when she heard him.

         “Ave Maria” was re-worked in a single afternoon.  He could replace an unnecessary or incorrect note…but “fiddlesticks” could not be so easily gotten rid of.  It was nuisance enough when he caught himself saying it throughout the day, but a close proximity to Christine Daae made it worse.  Even the slightest inconvenience in her presence seemed to warrant the silly phrase, and Christine’s poor attempts to hide her amusement when he said it became less and less resolute.

         And yet, how could explain to her the reason for “fiddlesticks”?  He couldn’t expect her to understand how he felt the need to tip-toe around her, using only gentle movements, gentle voice, gentle words. He couldn’t even explain it to himself! So when “fiddlesticks” slipped out when he fumbled with his flute, he’d rather have her tittering behind him than have to engage in a conversation so mortifying that it would send him to an early grave.

         He would speak to Carriere on the matter, except that it was so trivial.  That, and the resident Opera Manager didn’t know about Erik’s nightly excursions with Christine Daae.  And even if he did, he would no doubt make some vague statement regarding how nice it was that Erik could make the young lady laugh.  Erik had already considered this point, but there was a fine line between giving Christine some merriment and him becoming the source of merriment.  

         Still, it was either confront Christine on the matter or subject himself to her giggles. He chose the latter.

         There were days, even in the life of a Phantom, that went better than others.

         If anyone had seen the elusive Opera Ghost earlier that day, stalking the secret passageways of the Opera Populaire with a stack of music under one arm and a glower fixed behind the smiling gape of a mouth on what he had dubbed his “night sky” mask – deep navy in color and flecked all over with bits of gold paint, with a grotesque grin carved underneath a thin, hooked nosepiece – that person could have easily concluded that today was not one of the “better days”.

         His morning routine had passed without hitch, but an early afternoon excursion to his private box was interrupted by a certain Mme. Giry.  Once a humble box-keeper, someone of little consequence to Erik, she had become a prominent member of the Opera House, mainly due to the small fact that she knew the secret of the Opera Ghost.  Not only did she know him, but she had a tendency of being forward, blunt, and demanding; a harsh personality combination of which Erik was not exempt.  Today, her complaint concerned his “pranks” on the dancers.  The feather in her cap quivered as she talked up to him in stage whispers about his childish behavior:

         “And how do you expect, Monsieur, for ‘your’ dancers to perform well if they’re scared out of their wits?  Or hiding in a closet for fear of glimpsing the Phantom?”

         Erik would have brushed her aside and gone about his business if it had been any other member of the opera company.  However, it was Mme. Giry, and this alone was enough to trap him for the entire length of her outburst.  Only once she had exhausted herself of all words and insulting phrases did she drop him a stiff curtsey and flounce off.  Her feathery hat bounced along with each step.

         The accusatory speech lasted roughly twenty minutes, so Erik was well out-of-sorts by the time he reached Box 5.  Upon seating himself in the shadows of his box, though, he came to a sad realization that La Carlotta was directing the company as they swept and scrubbed the main stage.  Her presence was wholly unnecessary, and anyone else would have thought the same. After all, there wasn’t a spotlight for her hog, nor a recital for her to butcher.  Yet she was there, dressed in some ridiculous drapery and far too many feathers, waving her hands and shouting orders at anything that moved. Erik endured her grating voice for a full fifteen minutes before finally being chased below, where he spent a good deal of the afternoon sulking in the hallways.

         There was a moment of brief respite in his house on the lake, where he worked for several hours on a small composition.  A few rough patches were smoothed out, and he was just getting himself immersed in his creative process when a clock in an adjoining room chimed a reminder that lessons with Christine Daae was approaching.

         So, with his rounds ruined, La Carlotta’s screeches still ringing in his ears, and his composition abruptly interrupted, there was more than ample explanation for the dark cloud which hovered over Erik’s head as he entered the small piano room with a bundle of sheet music tucked under one arm. Christine was already there, busying herself with some of the stretches shown her by Erik in past lessons.  She greeted her Maestro with a smile and cheery “hello!”  His response, in contrast, was curt and through pinched lips.

         However, once seated and the music spread out on the piano, he relaxed, and soon Christine’s voice soared through the air as he coaxed a gentle melody from the ebony keys.  

         All would have been well if they hadn’t hit a rut.

         There was a section in Christine’s new piece which had caused her some trouble in their past lesson; Erik had been in a better mood, then, and they’d set it aside to review later.  That course of action, though, had one glaring flaw, being that “later” was “now”, and every hiccup of Mlle. Daae pushed Erik’s aggravation further.  

         No bit of advice, no changing of the tempo, nothing Erik tried seemed to help. Christine would continue to trip up on a run of the aria, and they would back-peddle and try again, only to produce the same results.  Each time, Erik’s glower would deepen, and his brows drew together underneath the mask – at least, it seemed to Christine that the space around his eyes scrunched together in such a way as to suggest the furrowing of her Maestro’s brows – and his muttered grumblings grew louder and more pronounced until she could hear them plainly.

         “Fiddlesticks!”

         The word had ingrained itself in Erik’s vernacular; he didn’t seem aware of its being used.  The funny phrase leaped from his lips, loaded with annoyance and frustration.  And every time he said it, despite his ever-darkening expression and the vehement anger with which he punctuated the word, Christine couldn’t help a faint smile.  Even as she tripped over the troublesome section of her piece, thus adding to her Maestro’s sour mood, she found it difficult to concentrate on her notes.

         “No!”  Erik suddenly exclaimed.  He brought his hands down, hard, on the keys, creating a discordant “bang” that mingled with the echo of his shout.

         “It’s all wrong,” he continued.  “You’re singing it wrong, and no matter how many times I’ve gone over it, you refuse to get it right!”

         Christine was frozen to the ground, mouth still open in mid-run.  Erik’s outburst, so uncharacteristic of his usual genteel demeanor, had taken her quite by surprise.  Not to mention that he had chosen to direct his frustration towards herself!  Now the room had become far too quiet, and she discovered a need to busy herself with some distraction; a clutter of instruments had been moved to this room earlier, so she left her Maestro to stew over his piano music while she fiddled with a trombone.

         “It’s-” he grumbled, leaving his sentence unfinished.  

         Christine glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.  She had a sudden impulse, a daring notion that lodged in her throat.  A second of tense silence passed, a moment which Christine spent assessing her Maestro’s stony countenance and considering whether her idea would drive him further into frustration.

         “It’s fiddlesticks,” she whispered, loud enough to be heard across the room.

         Erik turned his head in her direction.

         “It’s fiddlesticks,” Christine said again.  This time, it was accompanied by a slight coloring of her cheeks and a brief smile.

         The dark cloud which hung over Erik’s head lifted, but then his lip stuck out and he glowered at the piano.  It took Christine a moment to realize that her Maestro was pouting.  It was such a funny notion to her, watching a full-grown man in a mask throwing a fit like a petulant child, that she giggled.  Then the giggle grew stronger and longer.

         “It’s fiddlesticks!” she shrieked, clapping her hands together.

         Erik watched the hysterics unfold.  His pride was sorely bruised, but he couldn’t help being befuddled at the same time.

         “What’s so funny?” he demanded in what he hoped was a strict voice.

         It had no effect; in fact, it seemed only to fuel Christine’s laughter.  She was wiping tears from her eyes.

         “It’s…just…so…fiddlesticks!” she gasped.

         “You’ve made that point quite clear,” Erik responded dryly.  He closed the piano case and stood.  Christine ran around the piano to grab hold of his arm. When she did, it was Erik who found himself unable to move.

         “I’m…sorry…” she tried to say.  Her Maestro attempted a glare, but his lower lip trembled, and there was no longer any real glint of anger in his eyes.  Then she hiccupped – she couldn’t help herself – and that broke her Maestro.  His frown twisted itself into a smile, and he chuckled, ducking his head and turning aside. Christine released her hold on him, now safely assured that her Maestro wasn’t going to steal out of the room in a dramatic fit.  As for Erik, he returned to the piano and began gathering his music.  He had a suspicion that further progress that evening was an impossible venture.

         Behind him, Christine kept repeating “fiddlesticks”.  Each time it was accompanied by a peal of laughter, which, as he listened, began to take on the same musical qualities of her speech and song.  Perhaps her giggling wasn’t as awful as what he first supposed.

         “I think we’re done for the night,” Erik announced.  Christine’s response was another hiccup, muffled behind her hand.

         “So soon?” she asked shakily.  

         Erik nodded, but showed her his own now-smiling face so she wouldn’t feel that she was the cause of the abrupt end.  “You must work on that aria, Mademoiselle.  I’ll bring you a copy tomorrow night; then you can go over it yourself after our lessons.” He paused.  “And I suppose I must be working on my vocabulary.”

         “You are rather predictable sometimes,” Christine murmured.  She drew nearer; he could feel her proximity and felt a stifling need to brush past her and give himself more breathing space.  Tucking the music under one arm, he turned his attention to the instruments stacked against the wall.

         “Whoever did this ought to be sacked,” he said to no one in particular.  He stooped to pick up a trombone as Christine Daae passed him.

         “Good night, Maestro,” she whispered.  She touched his hand with her own, though whether it was intentional could not be said. Through his glove, the warmth of her little hand seeped into his fingers and raced up his arm, filling his whole self. An indescribable sensation struck him like a bolt of lightning; it was beyond any adjective, anything “fantastic” or “wondrous”; “magical”, “enchanted”, or “beautiful”.  These and more, certainly…so he chose to be wordless and watch her go in silence.

         Then the trombone slipped through listless fingers and bounced off his left foot before crashing to the ground.

         The string of words which followed, some bizarre, all colorful and rather distasteful in nature, made him glad indeed of a music room which had been fully emptied of sweet, innocent sopranos.  

[musicprincess655]

FIC IS COMPLETE

“Rei-chan, I promise I’m fine,” Miyuki pleaded, giving Rei the best puppy dog eyes he knew how to do. Which was pretty good, considering he could shift into a canine species.

“Sawamura?” Rei asked.

“Kaji-sensei says three more weeks,” Sawamura replied without looking up from tying his shoe. Miyuki glared at him.

“Traitor,” he muttered.

“Sounds like you’ll be riding the bench with me for three more weeks, Miyuki-kun,” Rei said sweetly. “I could use help taking notes.”

“Rei-chan please,” Miyuki tried again, turning up every bit of charm he knew how to use. “It’s my last year, I don’t want to start it sitting out.”

“I’d have a lot more sympathy for your cause if you hadn’t lied and hid this from everyone,” Rei said. “But since you decided to be a complete idiot instead, I feel absolutely no regret in benching you.”

“Am I ever going to live that down? I apologized.”

“And the apology is the reason you’re allowed on the bench and not banned from practice entirely,” Rei said. Luckily, Miyuki had known her long enough to know when the subject was closed, but she didn’t think that meant she was exempt from the complaints.

“Takashima-sensei?” Rei turned to see Nagao, Inamoto, and Hidokoro looking at her expectantly. “We finished that work you gave us.”

“The reading for your lesson tonight is the next chapter,” Rei said. “Take notes. This one’s important.”

“See you after practice, Sensei.” They waved, disappearing back into the school. Sometimes, they stayed to watch practice, but with the school year ramping up, they’d started devoting more time to their studies. Rei wondered if it was out of habit or something else.

The trio from Sakurazawa had become permanent fixtures in Seidou. Once the dust had settled from the death curse, it hadn’t been quite clear what to do with them, although there was a vocal faction calling for them to be sent to prison just like the rest of the members of Maimon. It wasn’t a faction that had a lot of support, considering how enthusiastic the trio had been in giving names and information on the group.

Still, even Rei had to acknowledge that they couldn’t just release the three into the world, although her reasons were very different from others. Letting them go without any support just kept the reasons they’d fallen in with Maimon alive.

What had really turned the tides in the trial of the trio was the support of the coven battle teams, which had earned everyone’s respect for how well they’d defended the city from the death curse. Especially important had been the members who’d lost cities and people to the death curse. Kuramochi’s testimony in particular had stood out.

((“Throwing them in prison won’t solve anything,” he said. “That just gives more of a reason for more kids like them to fall into the same situation. They didn’t plan this curse, and they wouldn’t have done it if they didn’t think they had another option. Punish the people who planned this, but don’t punish them.”))

In the end, the more sympathetic groups had won out. The trio was on a kind of house arrest in Seidou, boarded up in a larger room that could hold the three of them. Rei was tasked with organizing a guard for them and keeping them in line.

Basically, they were Rei’s problem now, and it was a better outcome than she’d been hoping for.

She was taking the opportunity to catch them up on everything she thought they needed to know about magic. Their knowledge was spotty at best, which was to be expected considering how long they’d been out of school. However, all three were bright students, and they learned fast. Rei was already trying to figure out how to sell the idea of admitting them as students in Seidou next year or the year after to the board. It would be an uphill battle, but she thought she’d gained a lot of support this year because of how she’d handled the death curse.

She took stock of the team on the field. Most people had healed enough that it was no problem to let them practice, although Tesshin had been taking practice slower than usual this year. Still, despite some calls to cancel the yearly match between Inashiro and Seidou, all four teams had vehemently protested, so Tesshin needed to step it up if he wanted to win.

Sawamura had healed beautifully from his concussion, and in the months he’d had to practice without Miyuki, his control had improved. Rei privately thought it was good that they had no choice but to develop individually from each other, no matter how incredible they were together.

Furuya’s shoulder had healed, and during his physical therapy, he’d actually developed stamina and control. He was stronger than ever, and Rei couldn’t wait to watch him and Sawamura compete for the main ace position. They would drive each other to new heights.

Kanemaru had also healed from his concussion, and he was coming out swinging, determined to make starter this year.

Rei was thrilled with how the team was starting to shape up, slow start aside. It was only the end of April, and this summer would be one to remember, she was sure of it.

“Haven’t they started yet?” Rei turned to see Kominato Ryousuke clumping along on his crutches. “They’re slacking off.”

Ryousuke wasn’t quite as healed as everyone else on the team. His leg had been truly destroyed, and he wasn’t even out of the cast yet. He had a long road to recovery ahead of him, but Rei had high hopes for him yet. He was technically only a sophomore, he had a long time left here. In the meantime, Rei wanted to see how the teamwork between Kuramochi and Haruichi developed.

“They’ll get started soon,” Rei promised him. “Do you want to sit in the dugout with me?”

“And listen to Miyuki complain about being benched again?” Ryousuke asked. “Pass. I’ll go hang out on the bleachers.”

He clumped back off, and Tesshin stood up, ready to start practice.

“So when are we signing adoption papers for Nagao, Inamoto, and Hidokoro?” he asked before he headed out.

“I wasn’t aware we were adopting them,” Rei replied.

“We kind of already have,” Tesshin said. “They come over every week for dinner.”

“Because I feel bad that they’re cooped up here at school,” Rei said.

“You’re personally tutoring them.”

“They deserve an education just as much as everyone else.”

“You’ve started planning how you’re going to get the board to admit them next year.”

“You saw that?”

“You left it out.”

“Fine,” Rei sighed. “We can talk about this later. And ask them later. Right now you have to run practice.”

“Alright team!” he called, drawing everyone’s attention. “Laps, and I want to hear you across the field.”

There were some groans, but everyone took off running. Rei watched as they lapped around, steady footfalls warm and familiar. They’d lost a lot this year, but they’d kept enough to rebuild, and rebuilding they were. Nothing was the same, but that was okay. Things never stayed the same year to year on this team.

It didn’t mean they didn’t still have some things from last year. There was still Sawamura, happily shouting louder than everyone else. They still had Kawakami, with his steady hand. They still had Furuya, who was more like a quiet storm than anything else. There was still Kuramochi, and Haruichi, and other pillars they’d depending on last year.

And there was Miyuki, who would be captain when he managed to get off the bench. Rei was stupidly proud of him, and she’d tell him that when she was done being furious at him for pulling that ridiculous stunt.

Nothing was the same. But they moved on anyway.

The future looked bright.

[mariequitecontrarie]

All of Me: Chapter 13

The Fic: Belle French is a pudgy librarian who’s in love from afar with “town monster” and ace reporter, Mr. Gold. Little does she know, he’s head-over-heels in love with her, too. Chapter Summary: Belle continues to bond with Gold and his family while trying to keep Gold away from Edith and Maurice. A/N:  So many of you asked for a family game night that Gold/Cassidy Family antics took over the majority of this chapter. Lots of Swanfire and Papafire feels here, too. Hope you enjoy! Thank You: Amazing beta: @magnoliatattoo; Artwork: @rumpledspinster

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12

Stay with Me (between Ch 9 and 10) | Pieces of Me (Q&A)

{On AO3} {On FF}

“Oh, the places you'll go! There is fun to be done! There are points to be scored. There are games to be won. I'm afraid that sometimes you'll play lonely games too. Games you can't win 'cause you'll play against you.”  —Dr. Seuss

Belle sipped her mulled cider, the warm, rich beverage rolling over her tongue and warming her from the inside out like a hug. She licked her lips and looked over the rim of the cup.

All the nasty rumors and comments circling town about her and Gold had been set aside for the moment, and she was at peace as she lounged in Emma and Neal’s recreation room. The Cave, as Emma had dubbed it, felt like anything but. It was a large, airy room above the garage with high ceilings that Neal had built as an add-on soon after Henry was born. There the family watched movies, played games, and entertained. Although she was only a first-time guest, Emma and her family had welcomed Belle with open arms, and the indescribable quality of being surrounded by a loving family made her feel cozy and happy.

Beside her on the couch, she felt the warmth of someone’s gaze, and shifted her attention toward Erskine. Sure enough, he was toying with a letter tile and watching her, a slight smile on his handsome face.

She returned to studying the neck-and-neck Scrabble board laid out on the coffee table, but the puzzle swam in front of her eyes. Her heartbeat quickened and she swallowed. Concentrating with his warm, admiring eyes on her was impossible. Belle fidgeted with an ‘x.’ “Stop looking at me when I’m trying to build a word.”

“I can’t help myself,” he said, and the way his soft brogue washed over her made her shiver. He shifted closer so they were sharing the same sofa cushion. “Your beauty is distracting.”

Belle gnawed on her lower lip as she shuffled her letters. She looked up at him through her lashes. “You’re trying to fluster the competition.”

“Maybe.” His hand found hers, and he traced her knuckles with his index finger one ridge at a time. He blinked at her, the picture of innocence. “Do you want to trade letters?”

“Not a chance, Gold.” She grinned, then popped four tiles on the board to spell ‘EXUDE.’ “Triple word score.”

“Brilliant.” His eyes darkened from chocolate to onyx as he stared at her mouth. “Did you win?”

“Yes.” Belle tallied the final score with a pencil, growing confused as he eased even closer. The scant few inches of gingham couch between them disappeared. Had he thrown the game? He seemed downright cheerful about losing.

“Good,” he said with a growl. “Come here.”

He yanked her toward him, and she collapsed against his chest, dropping the pencil. “Well, if you insist,” she said, smiling into his paisley tie.

It felt so good to be cradled in his warm embrace and she savored his fresh, masculine scent. Gold’s arms were a safe haven, strong and sure, and she was content to be close to him for hours—talking, reading, teasing, or sitting side-by-side with o words needed.

Across the room, Henry, Emma, and Neal were engaged in a vigorous game of Twister. Emma spun the wheel, and Neal was instructed to move his right elbow behind him to the red dot over his head. He was stretched backward over Emma and Henry, his back arched like a bow, his face beet-red and strained. Belle winced; that did not look comfortable.

Neal groaned, nearly doing a backbend in his effort. “I’m not going to be able to walk tomorrow, am I?”

Emma giggled and stretched her left foot toward the green dot in the corner. “You’re the one who wanted to play this game.”

Belle said a silent prayer of thanks that she hadn’t been asked to join in. Twister was intense and physical. With her luck, she would have flopped on top everyone and crushed the entire family. Watching was great fun, though, and she laughed when Henry launched himself on top of Neal and the Cassidys all toppled into a pile on the carpet.

Erskine, who was declared exempt because of his bad ankle, laughed with her, then dropped a kiss on top of her head and looped his arm around her shoulder. Belle burrowed more snugly into his chest with a contented sigh.

“Hey!” Neal grabbed for Henry’s middle and tickled his belly. “We made a Henry sandwich!”

At his parents’ mercy, Henry squealed in delight, and Gold turned toward her, beaming. “Are you having a good time, sweetheart?” He placed another sweet kiss against her temple, and Belle thought the width of her smile would crack her cheeks. She couldn’t remember a time when she had enjoyed herself more.

“Yes, thank you.”  

And it was true. Being an audience for these antics certainly beat her usual evening plans of sneaking chocolate walnut cookies out of the pantry after midnight and hiding out in her room to read home improvement magazines. This happy family—hugging, laughing, teasing, and playing with each other was such a contrast to the cold, silent tomb she lived in with Edith and her father. At Belle’s house, they never joked and teased. A family game night was out of the question. Her father would fall asleep even before the board was set and Edith was like a spoiled child: brimming with nervous energy and too fidgety to relax into the simple pleasure of a game. Yet here was Henry, eager to learn and play anything his parents suggested. Of course, he was ahead of Edith in the maturity department. Probably in intelligence, too.

“All right!” Emma clapped her hands, drawing everyone’s attention. “We have a few minutes before dinner, so I think it’s time to calm things down with a round of Pictionary. Now for teams. Teams, teams, teams…” Smiling, she looked around the room at each person, eyes slanted as she strategized. “Girls versus guys. Belle? You game?”

“No fair!” Still sprawled out on the Twister mat, Neal jumped up and wiped his hands on his jeans. He bounded over to the couch and tried to wedge himself between her and Erskine. “Shove over, Papa.” He looked down at the Scrabble board. “Geez, Pop, she trounced you. You better get yourself a new dictionary. Maybe Belle has one at the library.” He chortled at his own joke, slapping his hands on his knees.

Gold raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Noted, son.”

Neal turned back to Emma. “Em, baby, you can’t claim the best player in the room without even giving the rest of us a chance to convince her.”

He flashed a dazzling, white-toothed grin at Belle.  Her heart fluttered and she glanced at Erskine who wore an expression that matched his son’s. Ah, that was it. Among his father’s other incredible qualities, Neal possessed his stunning smile.

“C’mon, Belle.” Neal winked. “You know you want to play with me.”

Belle wasn’t used to so much positive attention being directed at her at once. The Cassidys were loud and direct and bursting with life. She shrank against Erskine for a moment, and he gave her an encouraging caress, rubbing his warm palm in circles on her back. Emboldened by his support, she leaned forward, her hands braced on her knees, and locked eyes with Neal. “It appears charm is a family trait. What makes you think I’m any good, Neal? I don’t have any particular drawing abilities to speak of.” She schooled her face into what she hoped was an innocent expression.

Neal scoffed, then looked at Emma. “This is your influence, isn’t it?” He turned back to Belle. “I know this trick, lady. You’re sandbagging.”

Belle narrowed her eyes in challenge and pushed her shoulders back. “Am I? You’ll have to play Emma and me to find out.”

Gold snickered, banging his cane on the floor. “My Belle gives as good as she gets, son.”

“I can see that.” Neal scratched his chin with his fingers, a grin splitting his face.  

Waving his arms with excitement, Henry jumped up and down and laughed. “Yay! Mommy and Miss Belle are gonna play me, Daddy, and Grandpa!”  He crossed his arms over his chest, his dark eyes serious. “You girls are toast!”

“Henry…” Emma gave him a warning look. “We play nice in this house.”

“Sorry,” he said. Henry’s stomach growled in complaint, and Belle suppressed a smile. “Mommy, can we order pizza? I’m starving.”

“No, honey, I’m making…” The obnoxious buzz of the smoke alarm cut Emma’s words short, and she leapt off the loveseat with a groan and flew down the stairs, presumably toward the kitchen. “Damn it!”

“You said a bad word,” Henry called after her, leaning over the railing.

“Buddy.” Neal shook his head. “Not now, ok? But you can go grab the menu for Luigi’s Pizza from my office. It’s underneath Daddy’s blueprints.”

“Yessssss!” Pumping a fist, Henry vaulted over the back of the couch and ran downstairs.

Neal flashed Belle a sheepish smile. “Don’t tell Marco.”

Luigi’s was the only pizza shop in town, the only option besides the thin crust wood-fired pies that Marco served at his restaurant. Marco despised Luigi and called him a pretender—impostore—claiming his pizzas weren’t authentic Italian. He was still trying to figure out how to add pizza delivery to his already overwhelming restaurant enterprise. Meanwhile, Luigi’s shop was inexpensive, fast, and right down the road. And they delivered.  

“Don’t worry.” Belle gave a mock shudder. “Marco loves me, but if he finds out I ate Luigi’s pizza, he’d never make me tiramisu again.”

“That would be a travesty.” Gold nodded. “We won’t say a word.”

“I’m going to check on Emma.” Belle pressed a kiss to his cheek and hopped off the couch.

A string of muffled curse words drifted up the stairs as Belle followed her nose toward the odor of burned food. Her mobile phone buzzed in her sweater pocket. She pulled it out and looked at the screen, the smile on her lips dying when she saw who the text was from. She plopped down in the middle of the staircase with a heavy sigh.

Edith: Will you be home for dinner?

Belle: I don’t think so.

Edith: Why not? I made that reduced-fat tofu and broccoli casserole from the diet you liked.

Belle hovered over the power button, tempted to shut the phone down. It seemed that every time she was out having a pleasant time with Erskine or Emma, Edith was screaming for attention. After she’d stayed the night at Gold’s during the storm, Edith had wrung her hands and whined because Belle hadn’t called. “How could you do that to your father and me?” she had asked. “We were up all night, sick with worry.” No matter how many times Belle had explained that her phone had died and Gold’s home was close, Edith wouldn’t hear her excuses.

Following their disastrous introduction in Gold’s foyer, Belle had come home to find Edith lying prone on the couch, a heating pad pressed to her abdomen. In a feeble voice, she’d asked Belle to bring her a cool washcloth for her forehead and had even managed to squeeze out a tear or two. Belle rolled her eyes against a wave of guilt as another text bubble appeared.

Edith: Your father misses you.

Belle felt a stab of pain at the mention of her father. Oh, how she wished those words were true, but she knew better—Edith was grasping. The desperation in that message stunk worse than the smell of scorched rice wafting from the Cassidy’s kitchen two floors below. Belle knew she had no choice but to confront Edith tonight, no matter when time she came home.

Belle: I’ll see you when I get home.

Edith: What time will that be?

“Neal says the pizza will be here soon,” Gold said from behind her. Belle turned around on the stairs. Gold glanced at the phone in her hands, then his gentle gaze caressed her face. “Is everything all right, sweetheart?”

The affection in his eyes took her breath away. Belle’s heart squeezed as her brain replayed his confession of love, mere hours ago in the kitchen at Marco’s.

He loves me.

She couldn’t believe such an incredible man wanted a relationship with her, to be saddled with her myriad dysfunctions. He’d overlooked her weight, her baggy clothing, even her social awkwardness. Fear nagged at her, fueling the familiar anxiety that once he knew all her secrets and shame—not to mention her family—he would run screaming for the hills.

But those worries were for another day. They were having a wonderful time, and she wouldn’t allow Edith to poison it.

She switched off the phone and dropped it into her handbag. Stepping into his arms, she wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her cheek against his shoulder. “Yes,” she said, closing her eyes in bliss. “Everything’s perfect.”

xoxo

After everyone had devoured pizza loaded with sausage, mushrooms, green peppers, and extra cheese, they’d divided into two teams to play Pictionary—Emma and Belle against Neal, Henry, and Gold.

Several rounds into the game, Emma and Belle were winning, trading high-fives and knowing glances. Gold shook his head in amusement. It was as though they were reading each other’s minds after spending a weekend on one of those team-building exercises where they gave you a rock and a slice of bread and told you to build a fire. Whenever it was their turn, one of them would scribble some obscure lines that may as well have been hieroglyphs and the other would guess the correct answer.

Gold tried not to cheer when Belle drew books and a clock to represent ‘Story Hour’ and Emma guessed in record time.

“No fair,” Neal said, elbowing Emma in the ribs, “she’s a librarian. And Papa—” his son raised his eyebrows and sent him an accusing look—“you’re supposed to be on our side.”

Gold snickered, the sound coming out more like a choke than a laugh. The unspoken bond developing between his daughter-in-law and the woman he loved made his throat clench with emotion. If he wasn’t so in love with Belle and happier than he’d been in years, he might have been jealous of their easy camaraderie. He and Belle had only been a couple for a matter of weeks, but he’d cared for her long before that; long enough to know that his feelings were true. This wasn’t some fleeting infatuation or a mistake.

He’d been a bit stung earlier today when he’d told Belle he loved her for the first time and she hadn’t said the words back. But as he reflected on the moment, he hadn’t given her much chance to speak. He had shared his own feelings and silenced her with a kiss.

Nice going, Gold.

He could only pray she would say the words when she was ready.

“Papa? Hello? This is mission control. Are you with us?” Neal was standing at the easel with a marker between his teeth, waiting to take his turn.

Oh, right. Pictionary.

This was the Gold men’s last chance at winning the game. As with the Scrabble match he’d already lost, Gold couldn’t have cared less. Under ordinary circumstances he was competitive, but not tonight. He waved Neal on, allowing his gaze to drift in Belle’s direction once more. Watching Belle in bloom, her countenance open and her eyes filled with laughter, was more pleasurable than any game he could think of.

Drawing a card, Neal grimaced and motioned for Emma to start the timer. He drew a large square, then turned to his teammates and shrugged.

“Um,” Gold pinched his nose. He had no idea what Neal was drawing, but he was supposed to play along. “A square?”

Neal shook his head and whirled back to the board. He drew two circles on the side of the box, then an angry, dark arrow to the center.

“Oh, Daddy! I know, I know!” Henry exclaimed, jumping in excitement. “It’s a toy box! With balls in it!”

Neal shook his head frantically and stabbed his finger at the nondescript drawing, his eyes pleading with Gold and Henry to guess again.  

“Five….four….three…two…and…Time!” Emma and Belle said in unison. They collapsed on the floor in another fit of giggles.

“Television!” Neal roared as he threw down the marker. He pointed at Belle and Emma. “You two should be docked fifty points for distraction!”  

“That’s a television?” Gold snorted and gestured at the crude drawing on the easel. “Let’s hope the sketches you draw for your clients are better than this.”

“Very funny, Papa.” Neal rolled his eyes.

“It’s good we’re finding out about this now,” Gold said. “We could have construction sites collapsing all over town.” Feigning boredom, he frowned at his nails. He was overdue for a manicure.

“Dad,” Emma said, inclining her head toward Henry. “Sportsmanship. Little ears are listening.”

Neal laughed. “Yeah, Pop, you could have at least tried. You know that you’re supposed to be looking at the drawing, not at Belle, right?”

He shrugged. “I prefer my strategy.”

“Do we have to separate you two?” Belle asked, beaming at him and Neal.

“Uh oh.” His grandson stared at him with owlish eyes. You’re gonna be in time out if you’re not nice, Grandpa. Mommy will make you sit in the corner and you will not get dessert.”

He grinned at Henry and ruffled his hair. “All right, I’ll behave.”

Emma looked at her watch. “It’s almost bedtime for Henry. Last game of the night is your choice, kid. What’ll it be?”

“Just Dance!” Henry yelled, holding out his small hand to Belle.

Gold’s heart sank when Belle’s eyes went wide and two bright spots of red appeared on her cheeks.

“Oh, um, I’m going to sit this one out, ok sweetie?” she said. “Thank you for asking me.”

“Please, Miss Belle. I wanted you to dance first!” His puppy dog brown eyes were wide and hopeful. “It’s Disney. You love Beauty and the Beast.”

“That’s true, but I’m sure someone else wants to go…” Belle trailed off and bit her lip, meeting his eyes.

Gold white-knuckled the head of his cane, wanting to help but not knowing how without causing her embarrassment. It was obvious she didn’t want to disappoint Henry by confessing that she didn’t want to dance. And with his bad leg, he couldn’t do more than sway back and forth to a slow song. He opened his mouth, ready with an offer to take her home, when Emma jumped to her feet.

“You know what? I’ll go first!” Emma put her foot up on the coffee table and bent over her calf to stretch.

“You?” Neal scrunched up his face. “Em, I love you, but you’re the worst…” Gold met his son’s eyes over Belle’s head. “Oh! Yeah, honey, you go first. That’s a great idea.”

Henry sat on the floor, propping his elbows on the coffee table to watch. “Mommy, what are you doing?”

“Just limbering up, kid. I haven’t danced in a long time.”

Gold watched his daughter-in-law with interest as she shook her shoulders and kicked her legs in as awkward a jig as he’d ever seen. Her jerky movements reminded him of Elaine Bennis from that comedy show Seinfeld that used to be on television. He glanced sideways at Belle, relieved that her expression had changed from pinched to relaxed.

Emma’s dancing was, in a word, pathetic. All arms and legs, she shuffled around the mat, resembling a newborn colt trying to find its footing. She tripped over her own feet and fell sprawling on her behind.

Gold had never loved his daughter-in-law more than in that moment.

“All right,” Belle said after Emma limped back to the couch laughing. She pressed her lips together. “I’ll give it a try. But only if you’ll dance with me, Henry.”

They danced together to “Be our Guest.” Belle’s movements were graceful and sweet, and the loving way she clutched Henry’s hands made his heart thump so hard he may as well have been up there with them. With her chest heaving and damp tendrils of hair sticking to her neck, Gold thought he’d never seen anything more lovely in his life.

Out of breath, Henry threw himself on the floor in a red-faced sweaty heap. “This is the best family game night ever!”

“Well, that’s one thing we can all agree on,” Emma said, holding up her beer in a toast. “To Belle.”

“Yeah, Belle, that was awesome! You’re welcome to join us whenever you like,” Neal said with a wink, as they all clinked glasses. “Gotta be on my team next time, though.”

Gold grinned and raised his glass, gratified by the blush that stained Belle’s cheeks. He truly was blessed with the most wonderful, accepting family a man could want.

xoxo

Belle tiptoed into the dark house, groaning when she remembered that she’d promised Edith a conversation. Her stepmother was snoring in the recliner, so Belle slipped off her shoes and made a beeline for the refrigerator, her stomach rumbling with every step. If she was going to face Edith, she needed a sugar fix first.

When Henry had hauled out the dance mat earlier, Belle thought the lone slice of pizza she’d consumed at dinner would boomerang back up. She’d felt ungainly, like a massive, sad rhinoceros, and even worse because Henry had so badly wanted her to join him. Then Emma had stepped in and made a total fool of herself, the offer to dance in her stead one of the most thoughtful gestures Belle had ever received.

Even with Henry at her side, it had taken all her courage to stand in front of the television with her back toward Neal and Gold, her huge bottom wiggling and shaking for everyone to see. But none of them had judged her or looked at her with anything other than admiration. She’d been…accepted.

Entering the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator as slowly as possible so as not to make any noise, but the door squeaked, betraying her. Belle winced and peeked into the living room, seeing Edith shift on the chair and open her eyes. Sneaking around was pointless—when Edith looked at her, she would know the truth. Your body looks like what you put into it, Belle. She slammed the fridge closed and crossed her arms over her chest, prepared to do battle.

Yawning, her stepmother padded into the kitchen, and Belle’s bravery withered like a daisy in the desert.

“You’re tired,” Belle said in greeting, starting toward the stairs to her room. “We can talk tomorrow.”

“Where were you tonight?” Edith asked without preamble.

Belle looked down at her bare toes. “With the Cassidys.”

“And Gold, of course.” Edith’s look was knowing. She pulled out a kitchen chair and sat. “Oh, sweetie. I just don’t want to see you get hurt. It’s never going to last.”

“Why not?” Belle balled her hands into fists and backed up until her hips hit the kitchen island. It was uncanny how easily Edith forced her on the defensive.

Edith pursed her lips. “You can’t believe that Gold is serious about being in a relationship with you? I’ve been trying to piece it together for weeks and I don’t understand…”

“Why he would want me?” Belle finished.

Something flashed in Edith’s eyes. Her smile was feral, ugly, and Belle knew she had walked straight into a well-laid trap. Stupid, Belle. Always trying to fill the silences.

“Those are your words, dear, not mine. But now that you mention it, it does give a person pause. An impressionable, naïve young lady dating a wealthy, older man? And he’s not come see us, yet you’re spending lots of time with his family.”

Guilt twisted her insides. Erskine had asked several times about getting to know her parents and she had put him off again and again. Not for their sake, but for his. She didn’t want to expose him to their rudeness any more than she already had. Who are you kidding, Belle? You don’t want him to find out who you really are.

“Well, not yet.” Belle scrambled for excuses. “We’re taking it slow. Enjoying the journey. He…he loves me.”

“Is that what he told you? And do you return his…feelings?” Edith said the last word like it was something dirty. “Don’t bother answering, dear, it’s written all over your face.”

“You know,” she continued, her expression sly, “Gold called looking for you the night of the storm. Before you lumbered into his house and spent the night there. It was obvious he thought you should have contacted us.”

Belle raised her head in surprise. She hadn’t known that Gold had called Edith looking for her. “I said I was sorry about all that,” she mumbled. “But the fact remains; we’ve done nothing wrong.”

“So you say. If this relationship is as serious as you claim, invite him here. For dinner. Or is it your goal to start another round of talk? This time gossip that drags your father and me down with you?” Edith traced her fingers on the table, waiting for a reply.

Belle tried to take another step back, but she was already backed against the counter. Edith loved to feign ignorance, but she knew that her stepmother was feeding off the rumor mill.

“Of course that’s not what I want.” Belle shook her head. “And Gold isn’t the one who doesn’t want to come here. I’m the one who said no!”

“You’re ashamed of us. I see.” Edith nodded. “Or could it be that you aren’t certain of his feelings?”

Tears burned her eyes, and Belle dug her fingernails into her palms. Concentrating on the pain kept her from crying. As usual, everything she said was being twisted. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Prove it.”

Belle pressed her lips into a hard line, her mind whirling with doubts. No! Erskine loved her. He’d told her so today. Twice. And she believed him. He’d given her every reason in the world to trust him.

“I will.” Belle stalked to the pantry, making a sudden decision. Two could play at this game. She whipped out a package of Oreo cookies, and stomped back to the table. Yanking out a chair, she sat down with a heavy thud.

Edith shrank back in horror as Belle ripped open the shiny blue package. “Where-where did those things come from?”

“I bought them,” Belle said, leaning over the package to inhale the fresh scent of brand new Oreos.

“What do you mean? They’re horrible for you!” Edith sputtered.

“Some health experts would argue they’re the healthiest cookie you can eat,” Belle said, rising again to saunter to the refrigerator. She poured herself a tall glass of milk and set it on the table.

Edith’s eyes darted between Belle and the Oreos. “I don’t understand.”

“They’re Vegan, of course. No animal fat. They’re on that diet plan you were raving about.” Belle blinked and held a cookie out for her inspection. “Want one?”

“No!” Edith shuddered and backed out of the kitchen. “I’m going to bed.”

“Good night,” Belle said with a wicked smile.

After Edith had disappeared, she slumped into her chair, her knees wobbling like grape jelly. God, she loathed confrontation. But for the first time since she was ten years old and Edith had come into her life, she had been the one to force a retreat, instead of the other way around.

There was no denying she had been backed into a corner: Edith had coerced a dinner with Gold out of her, but it was Belle who had the last word. And Gold had mentioned he wanted to know her parents better, so even if Edith was getting her way, she was making the man she loved happy.

Maybe everything was going to be okay after all.

She twisted the top off an Oreo and dunked it in the milk, then took a thoughtful bite, savoring the taste of chocolate and victory. Remembering the look on Edith’s face made every calorie worthwhile.

It was far and away the best cookie she had ever eaten.

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