#the Eye of the Camera is both sympathetic but unrelenting

[whalesfall]

always really interesting to me when i see posts interpreting Louis as kind in some manner, when he’s much closer to what I would call… hm, not nice, maybe passive? friendly to most. charming when he needs to be. but not necessarily kind. a surface level kindness immediately interrupted by his unending (fascinating!) hypocrisy. he’s ATTEMPTING kindness? but kindness, to me, implies someone is genuinely and staunchly kind in their actions, if not always in their words. it was not kind, really, to save Claudia—though maybe it felt like a mercy in the moment, but by then Louis still resented vampirism to some extent, knowing he would be trapping her in that too. it was not kind to insist on killing Lestat’s lover, (even though it makes sense why!) if you have some sort of general fondness and care for life and resent taking lives as a rule. he makes it clear his whole life as a human was difficult, and kindness didn’t necessarily suit him, was forced to be harder and more charming to get by. like, yes, he doesn’t enjoy wanton violence usually, but when it suits him or when he’s reached a breaking point, he barely even flinches from it and doesn’t even really display remorse (a little bit of remorse, but it’s—removed, not lingered on. he lingers on other guilts more.) it’s more than anything to me a fascinating brand of understandable hypocrisy (and maybe a bit of a brand of cowardice) that makes him both generally reluctant to take a life but having So Many Exceptions to that rule; not to mention how often I think he’s distorted the story to some degree and how armand has influenced that, “let the tale seduce you,” giving everyone involved both more grace to their actions but also more uncertainty and questions about how truthful the recollection is. I don’t know, I think he’s neat!! I think his distortions are neat!! is he kind? maybe not. but he is attempting kindness, or maybe just reduction of harm, which matters too.

[lunaresolis]

dabihawks, 7

French kisses where they trace every tooth with their tongues as though trying to memorize them.

“Dabi, I—” Hawks breaks away for just a moment, sucking in air, drawing back far enough to put the deep flush of his cheeks on full display.

The taller man growls, muttering a low shut up against Hawks’ mouth before pressing their lips together again, fervent, insistent—desperate.

Dabi’s tongue laps at the soft, plump lips of the hero, unrelenting in his silent demand. Hawks obliges, giving him what he wants without a fight. They don’t have much time, after all. They never had enough time. And they wasted so much of it at each other’s throats, not always in the fun way.

He allows himself the smallest groan as Hawks turns pliant in his hands, opening up and allowing access to the softest, most delicate parts of him. Though how a kiss compares to the furthest reaches of their souls, laid bare for one another months ago, Dabi isn’t sure, but he takes it all the same. He takes and takes, exploring Hawks’ mouth, rediscovering the familiar territory of every sharp tooth, every ridge at the top of his mouth, every spot that draws a soft moan from the other man.

His fingers itch, burning with the urge to tangle through blond locks, but without the ability to reach, he settles for fisting his hands in the fluffy lapels of Hawks’ jacket, wishing for all the world he could burn it off him and do away with what his uniform represents. But he promised to behave, and he can’t even light a match with the spark thrumming beneath his skin anyway, so he settles for clinging to the hero like a lifeline he’s not yet ready to give up.

And he’ll have to, any minute now, the clock ticking ever closer towards the end as Hawks presses closer, a whine building in his throat as Dabi’s tongue traces the line of his teeth. His skin is flushed and hot against his unscarred cheeks, and the hero’s hands dip determinedly beneath the hem of Dabi’s shirt. His fingers are gentle but press firmly into the skin of his sides, as though Hawks can anchor him in place by sheer force of will alone, tangled in his shirt and just shy of indecently low.

“Please,” Hawks whispers when Dabi pulls away for air, a breath they share as one, locked quietly together. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

His eyes glitter, the glint of unshed emotion turning the gold of them bright and haunting. Dabi closes his eyes, refusing to commit that sadness to memory. “You’re right,” he whispers against Hawks’ lips, pulling the bottom one between his teeth and earning himself the most delicious moan. If only he’d had the time to explore things further, to find out just how reactive Hawks could be given the chance, but it simply isn’t in their cards. “I should be dead.”

That had been the plan, anyway. He hadn’t meant to survive his last stand against Endeavor, had fully intended to go out in a blaze of glorified revenge, nothing more than a revenant who’d been biding his time since he’d burnt himself raw as a teenager. But then, he’d never pictured anyone at his side at the time—certainly not a sharp, jagged family of miscreants, just as broken and ruined as him, or a guardian angel high in the sky above.

“Shut up.” The words are taut, pulled tightly between his teeth and muttered between them, before Hawks’ lips press firmly against his again. His tongue is quick and electric, seeking the warmth of Dabi’s mouth and he understands, probably for the first time in his life, what it is to melt rather than burn as he dissolves into Hawks’ touch. He inhales, and his nostrils fill with a musky scent that’s wholly Hawks, with a hint of charred feathers and a flutter of something sweet like honey.

This, he’ll remember. The caress of pale lashes against his cheekbones, the taste of desperation on soft lips, the curl of heat in his stomach as gentle fingers press against his scarred flesh. These are the things that say what the hero cannot, what Dabi himself refuses to admit, lest it be ripped from him like everything else he’s ever cared for.

A buzzer sounds, angry and final, and the feelings turn to ash in his veins. He steps away from Hawks swiftly, licking the taste of him from his lips and twisting his face into a more comfortable scowl.

Eraserhead finds himself on the receiving end of it a split second later as he steps through the door into the interrogation room. “Time’s up,” he says, sounding years older than he should. He offers Hawks a look, something that borders on sympathetic, but the effect is marred by the bandage covering his left cheek.

Above him, the red light above the camera flickers back to life, and the illusion of privacy disappears. The quirk-cancelling cuffs feel heavier at Dabi’s wrists, but it’s nothing compared to the weight of Hawks’ gaze, mournful and apologetic.

“Don’t give me that,” Dabi snaps, spine straightening like hackles on a dog. He can’t be soft, now (and really, he never should have in the first place, but one couldn’t help matters of the heart, or whatever sappy fucking bullshit Twice had fed him.) He can’t afford that, neither of them can, and not simply because of their audience. “You always knew it would end this way, Hawks.”

His vitriol is met with a sad sigh, weary in the face of his false aggression. “I’d hoped—”

“To what?” He snorts, shaking his head and watching Eraserhead with disinterest as the man unchains him from the table. “To save me? How noble, hero.”

Hawks scowls, reeling back as though he’s been punched. (It’s been hours since he has, and his jaw is turning a mottled purple on one side because of it.) “Fuck you.”

Dabi winks. “A pity Tartarus doesn’t allow for conjugal visits.”

Golden eyes narrow. “Touy—”

“Will the both of you shut up?” Eraserhead hisses, his gravelly voice seeping with exhaustion. “You can settle your little marital dispute after the trial.”

“Trial?” Dabi frowns, blue eyes widening in the same breath as Hawks wheezes out an embarrassed: “Our what?!”

“Trial,” Eraserhead repeats dryly. “Apparently, enough evidence has been brought forth against your fa—Endeavor—for his crimes. For what he did to you and your family. You’re to be given a fair trial.”

There’s something about the way he says it, something about the snarl of his lips around Endeavor’s name, the low growl that leaves the word sounding angry and offended, that almost has Dabi feeling like Eraserhead is rooting for him. Or at the very least, incensed that something had been happening, to one of his own, right under his nose. He doesn’t dwell on it.

Instead, his gaze flickers to Hawks, who looks far too pleased with himself. His lips are red and swollen, flushed like his face and neck, but there’s a smug curl to them. An almost proud uptilt that sets Dabi’s insides twisting and turning with warmth.

He opens his mouth to—to scold him? To taunt him for giving up his own idol (though he hasn’t thought that way about that flaming asshole in months now) for someone like him? Dabi isn’t sure what his intentions are, but they all turn to cotton in his mouth, the words dying in his throat.

Hawks smirks. “I tried to tell you.” There’s a nonchalant shrug to his shoulders, but the tips of his wings flutter and shake, giving away his whole hand; his raw, naked hope that they can still come out of this intact, somehow. That maybe all Dabi’s memorization—purposely committing every inch of the other man to memory—had been for naught.

His smile is genuine, the curve of it far softer than he normally allows it, his voice wavering with pride. “I guess I’ll see you around then, birdie.”

[gripefroot]

Safe House

Bucky’s eyes are squeezed shut as your practiced fingers rove over him - a stream of curses starts to fall from his lips with an answering whimper from you. He won’t be able to hold back much longer - he can’t - he - 

A shove, and a snap. He bites his tongue, drawing the irony taste of blood as his eyes water, and your hands leave his shoulder. 

“Ow,” he whispers, eyes burning with unshed tears. His left ear is ringing something awful - it’s fortunate you’re on his right, because otherwise he’d be full-on deaf to whatever you’re saying. 

“One injury fixed, a dozen left to go,” you tell him wearily. Bucky lifts his head from the back of the chair he’s been sitting backwards in - he tilts his face back to observe you leaning on one foot against the doorway to the tiny living space, lips pressed close together and your usual smile absent. You look about as fantastic as he feels - meaning, not at all.  

“Your turn,” he grunts.  

“Don’t remind me.”  

Bucky pushes himself tenderly to his feet - his movements are slow and laborious, but yours are, too - it had been quite the mission, and while the sustained wounds are worse than usual, he supposes he should be grateful you’re both alive, and that Stark had had a safe house nearby. Not that Stark will appreciate the blood, dirt and other nasties your boots and his have dragged in. 

Limping to the counter, his eyes focus and unfocus on the half-spilled bucket of first aid supplies. Wiggling his right fingers, much better now that his shoulder is back in place but still sore - Bucky glances back at your face, and picks up some gauze and hydrogen peroxide. The bloody nose and fat lip are definitely the worse looking, but from the way you’re cradling your left calf, he can guess what he needs to go for first.  

He limps back to the rickety chair as you gently lower yourself to sit - collapsing with a groan and a wince.  

“Should’ve taken your pants off first, babe,” Bucky sighs. “I can’t work around them.” 

“Take them off yourself.” With your eyes closed, head leaning back slightly - you’re clearly half-out of it with pain. Dropping the supplies to the ground, Bucky pulls out his only remaining knife, (and he hopes Hydra appreciates the quality of the knives he’d left behind in the rush to escape), and slides the blade beneath the torn and bloody gash on your leg to slice off the fabric at your knee. It sticks to all the blood, and gently he pries it off.  

“I hate this,” you mumble after a minute, when he’s finally gotten the garment off the stab wound, pooling around the top of your dirty boots.  

“I know, babe,” Bucky says sympathetically. “But just think - you can take revenge on me next. I think I broke a few ribs.” 

“I don’t wanna take revenge.” Your words slur slightly slightly. “I wan’us to be happy together.” 

“We will be,” he assures you. “If we get better quick, this safe house is pretty private…” Bucky trails off, grinning to himself although he knows you can’t see. You do give a snort, however, and then wince. 

“I’ve already taken one pounding,” you muse, as he dumps some peroxide on the gash - it froths, and you nearly yelp, eyes shooting open. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Bucky apologizes quickly, already mopping up the liquid. “It’s a shallow cut, babe. You got lucky.”  

“I sure don’t feel lucky.” 

“And you’re extra lucky because you’re here with me, and my excellent nursing skills.” With all the blood cleaned away, the cut really does look better - Bucky tears off some gauze with his teeth, and starts winding it around your calf.  

“What nursing skills?” you ask with amusement. “Outdated tips you flirted out of the nurses during World War II?” 

“And what’s wrong with that?” Bucky asks indignantly. Tying off the gauze into a tidy knot, he yanks it tight - and you laugh and give a strangled cry at the same time, your hand flying down to swat his away. Your eyes are bright now - but a little too bright, he judges. Reaching up to hold your chin in his hand, he frowns as he watches the pupils of your eyes widen and shrink - and he sighs.  

“Let me find some pain meds,” he says, and stands back up. Immediate mistake - his middle insides scream at the treatment, and his ankle throbs.  

“Bucky - ” you start, but he shakes his head as he gnaws on the inside of his mouth. Gotta take care of you first. He fumbles at the counter for...yes, that looks right, and there are bottles of water in the refrigerator. Bucky slumps back to you, passing them over and pointedly ignoring your narrowed look.  

You take the pills, and drink half the bottle. Then pass the rest to him, which he downs in three seconds flat.  

“You again,” you tell him, and grip onto the edge of the kitchen counter to hoist yourself to one foot.  

It goes back and forth for nearly an hour. You wrap his bruised and protruding ribs, he gets ice for your nose and lip, you bind up his ankle, he finds applesauce and tins of miniature wieners in a cupboard, and you wipe all the dried blood on his face from his burst eardrum. Your gentle touch is almost distracting from all the pain, and Bucky tries to focus on that, instead. It sort of works. Mostly doesn’t.  

A buzz on the counter - the burner phone. You’re closest to answer it, and listen for a minute with a pinched expression as Bucky curls himself over the back of the chair with a wince.  

The safe house stinks like mothballs. The carpet is outdated, and the air conditioner squeaks. But it’s safe, or so Bucky assumes.  

“Ok, thanks Stark.”  

Bucky rolls his head back to you - half your combat gear still hanging on, and the other half discarded onto the floor (and not in the fun, exciting way, either) - as you set down the phone.  

“They’ll be extracting us in four hours,” you sigh, rubbing your eyes. “He didn’t think this safe house would ever be used, so there’s no vehicle available.” 

Bucky groans, holding out a hand for the tin of wieners - you pass it to him, and he tries very hard to be grateful for something to fill the gnawing hunger in his gut. He gets hungrier when he’s wounded. It’s just a fact.  

“Gross,” you say. 

“I’m hungry,” he says plaintively. 

“So am I, but not that hungry.” A flicker of a smile - that’s good - and Bucky grins back as best he can as he slurps up the last wiener. “I never thought I’d say this,” you tell him after a moment. “But you should really put a shirt on. You look terrible.” 

“Wow, babe.” 

“Just being hon - ” 

“Shh!” Bucky stops chewing, tilting his head to the side as his eyes widen - glancing around the teeny kitchen, into the sliver of living area he can see - little padding steps, and he stands heavily from the chair, setting down the tin as quietly as he can. 

“Oh, come on,” you mumble softly behind him. “Not now.” 

He has that knife, which tightens in his grip as he limps over towards the front door - a single shaft of sunlight is coming through the crooked frame, and before he can do more than yelp in surprise -  

A flap at the bottom of the door flips open, and an orange tabby cat streaks inside with a yowl of surprise to see, well, people.  

“A kitty!” you coo. 

“Get out,” Bucky growls at it.  

“Oh, be nice,” you say in a scolding tone, and before he can scold you back into sitting down, you’ve hopped on your good foot into the living space, and immediately the cat pads over to you, meowing as if in complaint of Bucky’s inhospitality. “I didn’t know there was a caretaker here,” you croon at the cat, reaching down to stroke its ears. Bucky listens a moment longer, and then slides the knife back into his belt.  

“Some caretaker,” he snaps. “This place stinks.” 

“It’s nondescript,” you point out, lowering yourself gingerly onto the ratty couch. Immediately the cat leaps up beside you, and crawls into your lap.  

“It’s gross.” 

“It’s better than walking back to New York.” 

“Fine. But I’m leaving a bad review on - what is it?” 

“Yelp,” you offer. 

“Yeah. That thing.” Another glare for the cat, and Bucky turns sit down as well. On your left, because his ear is still ringing painfully.   

It stinks. The entire situation stinks. Can’t even pounce on you like he wants - no one else is around, and he can’t even take a full breath or walk straight. His head lolls against the back of the couch, and Bucky sighs at the ceiling.  

“What else did Stark say?” he asks peevishly.  

“Not much.” You’re quiet for a moment, fingers buried in the cat’s fur as you shift your weight to stretch your wounded leg out. “Didn’t even say thanks for planting that virus on that Hydra server,” you sigh. 

“Typical Stark.”  

“You did great back there, by the way,” you tell him, and he glances over to see your smile - he stomach does a funny turn unrelated to his broken ribs, and he grins back without thinking.  

“Thank you,” Bucky says with unnecessary grace. “So did you, babe.” 

“Ugh, I got stabbed.”

“All the best agents get stabbed.” 

“You didn’t.” 

“Not today,” he says fairly. “But I did get an entire desk thrown at my head. That’s gotta count for something, right?” 

A tired laugh. “Right.” 

Absently Bucky reaches over, and starts scritching the kitty’s ears. It pricks up its head, and regards Bucky curiously. “Don’t get any wrong impressions,” he tells the cat severely. “I’m just checking for electric bugs or cameras.” 

“Sure, Bucky,” you say.  

The cat stands, and crawls over the couch to Bucky, planting its paws on his thigh to reach up and sniff at his chin with interest.  

“Ugh,” Bucky wrinkles his nose as he pets down the kitty’s neck. “Gross.” 

“I like cats.” Your tone is conversational as you continue to scratch its back. “Maybe I’ll get one, someday.” 

The cat licks at one of the bruises on his cheek, and Bucky groans. “Ew.” 

“You’d better watch it,” you tease. “If you keep complaining too much, I’ll know for sure that you’re secretly hiding your deep and abiding love of all felines.” 

“Not even funny, babe.” 

“It’s pretty funny.” Your head is resting against the back cushions beside his, and Bucky leans over with a smile. “You’re always pretending to be gruff and tough,” you say softly. “But you’re as fluffy as this cute lil kitty.” 

“Don’t tell anyone.” Bucky sticks out his lower lip, and you giggle. The cat starts at the sound, and leaps back into your lap, nuzzling into your elbow.  

“That you’re one of the best men I’ve ever known?” you ask, quirking brow. “Okay, Bucky. Whatever you say.” 

A warm, glowy feeling is spreading through his chest - again, not from the rib situation, and he doesn’t have the words to reply to you. After another minute, you scoot lay on your back lengthwise, your injured leg propped up on Bucky’s lap as the cat snuggles into your side and closes its eyes. Carefully he unties the laces of your combat boots, and tosses them away.  

“I’m gonna rest until the team comes,” you mumble with a yawn.  

“Okay. I’ll keep a lookout in case this little menace here turns out to be on Hydra’s payroll.” 

A snort. “Okay, Bucky. Whatever you say.” 

And a few minutes later - it’s just snoring in the little shack of a safe house. The kitty’s tail twitches, your lips fall open with deep breaths, and Bucky passes out cold and completely forgets his promise to be on guard.  

Oh well.  

[breaktimewritings]

B. French II Rumbelle Prompt-Verse

(( Based on this post made like a year ago in which @emospritelet commented on her property law tutor and @tinuviel-undomiel gave me a plot bunny. I blame all of you for this. This ‘verse is open for prompts so yeah! Feel free to send them in if you like it! ))

Favors had been called in. Strings had been pulled. Phones had been yelled and cursed into. Now, Gold was sitting outside the doors of B. French, the most renown custody attorney on the east coast. Gold only hoped that given the right amount of money, he could help. Or rather, she could help.

His son had a broken arm.

Everything in Jeffrey Gold’s life had stopped the moment he got the call from the school and was now pinpointed on the simple fact that his son had a broken arm. And that it was all his mother’s fault. Milah would be lucky that he didn’t kill her for this.

He didn't care that he had to drive to New York. He didn't care that he had to pay medical bills. But he did care that all the while Milah was nowhere to be found, not even showing up until that night when it was time for Bae to go home from the ER. He should have done something about it then. Something more than barking a warning to his ex-wife about lawyers and walking off.

Really, he should have done something about it months ago, when Bae started dragging out their every-other-weekend visits until the very last moments. The least he could do was fight for his boy, which is exactly what he planned to do when he called Dove. Favors had been called in. Strings had been pulled. Phones had been yelled and cursed into. Now, he was sitting outside the doors of B. French, the most renown custody attorney on the east coast. Gold only hoped that given the right amount of money, he could help.

The door to his office opened, and a brunette with the most brilliant blue eyes smiled at him. “Jeffrey Gold?”

“Yes.” He said, almost falling over as he leapt up.

She only smiled. “Come in.”

Gold thought it a bit odd for the secretary to be waving him into the attorney’s office, but he supposed it wasn’t too unheard of. The office itself was divided in two, a space for a small desk that must be hers with what he assumed to be a much larger part in the back. The brunette led him straight back into the larger space easily. Both offices were warm and welcoming, painted with warm neutral colors that immediately put him at ease. The walls themselves were neatly decorated with various certificates as well as the occasional pictures of happy families. In both spaces there were at least two bookcases overflowing with books that Gold assumed had to be about law but couldn’t tell. The back area was worse than the front in terms of books, but everything obviously had a place. On a mahogany desk there was a gold plaque that read “B. French.” Beside it was a picture of the same brunette with another man, taller and broader than she, smiling happily at the camera.

Was she his wife and secretary perhaps? That wasn’t too uncommon. Lucky man.

“So Mr. Gold shall we get started?” The brunette asked, sitting at the desk as if she’d done so a million times before.

For a moment he gaped at her. “With you?”

“Belle French.” She said with a bright smile, extending a hand to him. “It’s nice to meet you.”

He blinked, but nodded, shaking her hand. “Jeffrey Gold. It’s nice to meet you Mrs. French.”

“Miss, actually.” She said, giving him another dazzling smile. How did she make it look so sincere? “Now, let’s discuss your son. You and your ex wife are sharing custody yes? You get him every other weekend?”

“Yes.” Gold said. “And Christmas.”

Belle nodded, jotting down a few notes in the file.. He knew how this went. The attorney spoke to their client, outlined the idea, discussed the plan. He couldn’t help feeling that something about the way she operated was much different than his methods, though. Every now and then she’d ask him about something completely unrelated. How old his son was made sense, but why on earth had she needed to know his favorite animal?

“Swans.” Gold answered after a moment. “I always find him doodling them in his notes.”

Belle hummed, writing and circling something. Was that really so important?

“I’d like to meet Baelfire, if possible.” Gold remained silent, but she continued, her voice gentle and sympathetic. “I understand if you’re a bit hesitant. But he’s young and custody battles can be quite hard on--”

“I’m aware, Miss French.”

If Gold’s tone was too harsh, Belle didn’t show any signs that it bothered her. “It would help if he at least knew me.” She explained. “I apologize if my methods seem a bit unorthodox to you, Mr. Gold, but I assure you, there’s a reason I haven’t lost a case yet. You’ll have to put some trust in me.”

And that was the hard part, it seemed. Gold trusted no one with his son, not even his own mother. It wasn’t as if B. French was going to be interacting that long with them, but he supposed she did have a point. If it made it easier on Bae, then his boy would simply have to meet their new attorney.

“Very well.” Gold said.

Belle smiled, scribbling something quickly. “Perhaps next meeting? I’ll need to get everything in order. Find out our plan of attack. We’ll have to convince the judge that you’re a better guardian. But I don’t foresee that being too much of a problem given the circumstances. I’m sure you’re aware of how it all typically works.”

Gold shrugged. “I know the basics. Custody cases are not my specialty.”

“Well, lucky for you, Mr. Gold, they are mine.” She gave him another brilliant smile. Had her office gotten brighter? “Now, when next would be best convenient for you?”

The appointment was made for the next weekend, and Gold was grateful that she’d gone out of her way to meet he and his son out of business hours. She didn’t seem too upset about it at all. He stood from the chair across from her desk feeling oddly at-ease. The bundle of nerves that had been squirming in his chest from the moment he’d called and left a message with her secretary about an appointment had disappeared. Somehow, effortlessly, she’d completely put him at-ease with a few smiles and her amazing accent over gentle words.

Perhaps she was magic.

“Everything is in order, Mr. Gold.” She said as she walked him out of her office. “Are you ready for all of this?”

“I’m ready to have my son home and safe.” Gold said.

Belle’s lips quirked up in a smile. “Well you can relax and leave it to me for a bit. I don’t imagine we’ll be hearing from you ex-wife’s attorney for a little while yet.”

“Why is that?”

“Because she called and left a message as well.” Gold’s eyes widened. “And I saw you today instead.”

Gold groaned internally, remembering the choice words he’d had for her secretary when the appointment hadn’t been soon enough to his liking. Or had it been she herself that he’d spoken to? Really, it wouldn’t surprise him if it had been.

“I’ll have to send an apology basket to your secretary.” Gold said. “I didn’t show her my best colors.”

“You were stressed and worried about your son. Speaking of, you’ll have to tell me what he prefers in a gift basket. A broken arm can’t be very fun for a boy his age.”

“He’s adoring the attention.” Gold said, unable to help the smile on his lips that formed whenever his son came up in conversation. “All he could talk about when he called was collecting signatures.”

Belle smiled, practically beaming. “I’m glad to hear he’s doing well. I look forward to meeting him next week.”

Gold nodded, turning to leave. However, something made him pause and turn back to her. She only tilted her head, and he was struck again by how brilliantly blue her eyes were.

“Why did you choose to see me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Wouldn’t most lawyers, especially...women, take the mother’s side?”

“I’m not most lawyers, Mr. Gold.”

“But you are a woman.”

“I’m not most women.”

“As I’m learning. Humor me, perhaps.”

Belle seemed to search him for a moment, and suddenly it felt as if he was the one opposing her. Truly, he felt sorry for any judge or jury that had to face her down. After what seemed to be a moment of fighting with herself, her shoulders relaxed.

“You seemed different.”

“I seemed different. As I cursed at your secretary.”

Belle shrugged. “My father always said that you can’t know a person until you know what’s in their heart. People are layered. I imagine any man willing to fight so hard for his child has to be different than how he appears.”

“And what if I’m not?” Gold frowned. He knew his reputation. Knowing his ex-wife, it was only a matter of time before Belle found out as well. Somehow, he didn’t like that idea. “What if I’m as terrible and dark as I seem?”

Belle only grinned. “You’re not.” She turned away, retreating back into her office. “See you next week, Mr. Gold. Don’t be late.”

Gold only blinked as the door to her office shut, and he was left staring at the door. He ignored the way his pulse had picked up and his palms became sweaty. This was absolutely ridiculous, and he was certain that he should find a new lawyer immediately, one whose blue eyes weren’t so brilliant and whose smiles weren’t so sweet. However, he knew that would never happen, and he also knew that it would be absolutely impossible for him to be late next week. Custody case or not, he very much wanted to see B. French again.

[littleminter]

♛ just friends ♛