Sometimes Belle was well aware Mal kept her occupied after hours mainly because she enjoyed the misery that would cause Nick. Of course it did wonders for her career and gave her the opportunity to learn from experience and make a lot of connections in the process, but it took a bit of a toll in her relationship with him. Nick, to be fair, never complained or tried to persuade her away from her work. He respected her ambition, didn't belittle her aspirations or begrudge her her dedication. As much as it irked him to let Mallory get the better of him he let it slide, giving her space while making an extra effort to see to her comfort and spend whatever time they could scrape together.
Other times Belle knew the long hours were absolutely necessary and it was particularly true during the time directly before the holidays, where people scrambled to close deals, finalize mergers and get everything important done before Christmas made it impossible for anything to advance at anything other than snail pace till mid-January. The brutal 14-hour workdays made it so that Belle was exhausted at the end of the day and it made more sense- though Nick kept insisting it was utterly idiotic and not at all practical- for her to sleep in her own apartment.
Though sneaking some hours together on afternoons and weekends in-between calls to London and urgent e-mails was a trial Belle determinately made the time to surprise Nick at his penthouse- home, if she was being honest with herself- as often as she could. It was during a quick dash in and out, only good for a cup of coffee and some snuggling, that she first noticed a man of undiscernible age, in his late fifties perhaps, though he looked like he'd gotten quite a bit of... adjustments over the years. He looked unkempt but charming in a way, with a lazy smile for everyone who passed him.
When he greeted her in the entrance she returned the pleasantry without thinking, giving the man a smile he promptly returned. She didn't think much about him till she saw him again, loitering as ever in the entrance hall under the careful watch of the doorman, apparently not as charmed as the security men at the front desk. He introduced himself as Malcolm, made the mandatory comment about her own name- "Ah, yes, an aptly-made beauty, I see."- and made a quip about her smiles being the best holiday present he'd had in a while. He was all charming and easy going and incredibly smarmy, something in the way he grinned at her, careless and boyish, making her recoil a bit.
He was persistent, she ought to give him that, and harmless in his own way, playing cards with Gus, the rather gullible maintenance employee who seemed determined to spend his breaks losing at poker, or joking around with whoever would stop to give him any sort of attention. He became friendly with most of the employees pretty soon and, though he sometimes made the a tiny bit uncomfortable with an odd comment or the slightest invasion to her personal space, Belle didn't much think of him. Clearly someone mooching off their richer relative for the season. No harm no foul.
He should've said no the moment he spotted him with his cheap suit and his permanent stubble. He'd caught him at a weak moment, driven to distraction by the near constant absence of Belle from his home- their home, if he had anything to say about it- and his bed. Though he missed the sex passionately it was other intimacies he longed most for. Sharing a paper of morning breakfast, catching up on work during an idle evening sequestered in the study, lazing in bed on a rainy Sunday, talking in hushed whispers and trading slow, wet kisses.
He wished he could blame Mal, accuse her of being a psychopathic bitch intent on driving him mad for no apparent reason, but he knew she wasn't making up wild excuses to keep Belle after hours. The offices of Imp, Inc. were in a similar state of almost constant buzzing, everyone scrambling around to get everything needed before Christmas done. And though he wasn't at all of the mind that she couldn't find her own space in his penthouse- their penthouse, more accurately- he respected her decision and kept his thoughts to himself.
His father showing up out of the blue was the straw that broke the camel's back. His father fleeted in and out of his life with a cutting carelessness. He was never cut out to be a father, as he'd tell anyone co cared to listen to him, starting with his own son. He'd heard it all before, about him being a happy-go-lucky teen saddled by fate- which seemed to be the pet name he gave his dick, surely with an unwanted and graceless little chick who he, a few years late, selflessly gave away to two lonely spinster sisters that took care of him the way he couldn't. Whereas others would've dragged their unfortunate offspring along as they sailed through life in a never-ending adventure Malcolm Gold had done the right thing and given up the privilege of fatherhood.
He'd heard the tale enough times to know it by heart, including the mournful airs his father would put on at appropriate times before dispelling the heavy mood with a well-placed joke and some light, meaningless banter. He was a consummate showman, thrilling and beguiling, and though he'd grown insensitive to his mannerisms and his neat little tricks he could still appreciate the spell he could weave over others. That was until he overstayed his welcome and his true colours began to show.
This time, after nearly seven years of no contact whatsoever, he claimed to be in town visiting friends. That didn't stop him from hanging around, of course, in the penthouse whenever his son didn't kick him out or the foyer, having made nice with the security men and the like. Nick wagered he'd have to offer everyone who worked in the building a nice little Christmas bonus to appease them once his father left after cheating them out of money and, if he was particularly unfortunate, messing with their wives and daughters.
Though some might call Nick cruel he had nothing on his father. His was the worst sort of callousness, the kind that came naturally and without thinking. Negligence, some might have called it when he was a wee lad and had to struggle to follow his father, lest he leave him behind. Disinterest, he labelled it now, with decades under his belt. His father, through no fault of his own, simply didn't care about him. He was the sort of person never meant to be a father at all, too caught up in himself to notice and much less care for someone else. Had Nick's mother lived past childbirth he would've no doubt walked out on both of them and his life would've been different, but that hadn't been the case.
Even so he could've born an indifferent father with ease, had Malcolm Gold's only fault been that. As he'd grown up, however, something else had begun to colour their interactions, something that to this day could still make him bleed, if only a little.
Scorn.
It was easy to spy once one got past his father's light-hearted air. Nick could spy it in the slight curling of his mouth, in the mocking glint of his eyes as Malcolm regarded him. It coated his words too, making every joke a jibe, every comment a veiled criticism. Nick had been too serious, too drab, too small and too cowardly as a child, boring and useless, and with time he'd only added more to that list of faults. Too bitter, too boring, too focused on what he did for a living to actually live. It was all phrased in a deceptively positive or funny way, and whenever he expressed his displeasure at the comments Malcolm would accuse him of being a grumpy old bastard, as if Nick was older. In many ways it was true: Malcolm Gold was a man fixated on staying a child. And though Nicholas knew he was the worse for it his attitude towards him still manage to upset him.
It was laughingly fast how his father managed to belittle him. Within days of arriving he'd commented at length in that jovial, teasing way of his that seemed to place him above all form of reproach, about his life and how austere and sad it seemed and how aged and dour he looked.
"All work and no play has turned you into a boring old man, Nicky."
After a remark like that he'd clap him on the back and laugh, dismissing the comment altogether. He particularly enjoyed making quips about his cane and how ancient it made him seem. Usually he'd suggest activities for them to do together that Nick's lame leg rendered impossible and he was forced to point it out, gritting his teeth and clenching the handle of his cane with both hands.
Under the guise of "celebrating the holidays with his boy" he appeared in his penthouse every chance he got, though he was seldom interested in actually spending quality time with Nicholas. He'd usually end up "calling a few buddies", which would quickly devolve into a party, at which point Nick would make himself scarce, eternally grateful he'd had the foresight to lock up all valuables the moment his father had set foot in his home. Belle's stuff, too, he'd jealously stored away, not wanting anything of hers to be tainted by his father's visit.
He never introduced him as his son, never acknowledged the bond. It'd give away a myriad of things he was constantly running away from like his age and his past, so whenever someone would ask about him he'd mumble something about them going "way back" before dismissing the subject. He knew well that the noise and his general distaste for drunken revelry- or "fun", according to his father- would drive Nick out of the room sooner rather than later.
He thought he was coping moderately well with things till he spotted his father on the foyer flirting with Belle. He knew the man well enough to read his body language like an open book. He was leaning slightly towards her, enough to let her feel his presence but not to make her wary, and smiling with a great dose of charm and a hint of flirtation, keeping things light and easy. Even so he could see Belle, though she seemed open and friendly, was cautious around Malcolm, which lead him to believe it wasn't the first time they'd met.
The thought settled over him like a lead ball in the middle of his stomach. Belle was the best part of his life, the flicker of light at the end of each day, no matter how dark. And his father... he tainted things. Ruined them. Took them away from him somehow, leaving him alone and unloved. It wasn't personal, it's just what his father did.
He held on to his blind trust in Belle. As deep as the self-loathing and fear went it couldn't blind him to the fact that Belle was good and kind and honest and if she said she loved him then it was the undisputed truth and he shouldn't question it. And as hard as that had been to assimilate when they'd first started seeing each other it seemed a hundred times more difficult now that Malcolm was there to amplify his doubts and fears. Even so he stay put, determined to do nothing and bear it.
If anything, Malcom's jibes and petty comments became even more poisonous and whereas he'd usually lash out in retaliation this time Nick said nothing. He had a good life, a great life, with love and fulfilment and didn't need to defend it to anyone, much less his father. Things would've been fine, he guessed, if his father hadn't started talking one afternoon about "Blue Eyes" the lovely little lady he "flirted with" whenever he caught her on the foyer. He tried to prod him for a name but he pointed out caustically that blue eyes and brown hair weren't exactly one-of-a-kind features. Inside, of course, he was far from calm and collected. Fear gripped him, prompting his possessive side to snarl and rage. His father had taken so much from him, he couldn't have Belle too.
After talking about "Blue Eyes" some more his father, thankfully, announced he was going to meet a couple of buddies at a bar to watch a Champion's League match and grab some beers. Sadly he returned around eleven, drunk as a skunk and expecting his son to give him the spare room for the evening. Though a shower and some reading had managed to ease his tension a bit having his father sloshed and making demands brought back painful memories. When he shoved him into the spare room closest to his own Malcolm quipped that at last he was being useful for once and promptly passed out on the bed. He limped to the trash can to move it closer to the bed and then left the man to his own volitions, deciding not to close the door all the way in case that things took a turn for the worse. His father would not be dying in the comfort of his home if he had anything to say about it.
Too keyed up to go to sleep he settled on his living room couch with a bottle of whiskey and a glass to try and calm his nerves, dozing off an hour or so after. He was woken up minutes later, it seemed, by an insistent sound. Disoriented as he was by waking up in the living room a bit drunk it took him an embarrassing long time to realize the noise was someone knocking on the front door. Confused and groggy he fumbled for his cane and made his way to the door.
"Nick, are you there? It's me."
His entire body seems to recognize Belle's voice at once and suddenly his arms and legs are far more awake and cooperative. He quickly reaches the door, unlocking it swiftly to reveal his girlfriend, looking worn out in a pleated skirt and a printed top, a tuxedo collar blazer and a cream coat over that to keep her warm and round-toe pumps on her feet. She smiled at the sight of him, as if he was some miraculous thing and not just... Nick, and the next thing he knew she was in his arms, the familiar smell of vanilla hitting his nose as he buried it in her curls. He held onto her tightly, suddenly very aware of just how much he'd needed her the last few days and how happy he was that she'd thought it a good idea to stop by his flat at two in the morning.
Thankfully she seemed as starved for touch as he was and didn't protest his groping her at the entrance, merely remarking that it'd be best to shut the door before continuing anything. Reluctantly he parted from her to lock up, feeling hands pushing him up against the wall the minute he was done. Belle practically attacked him, slanting her lips against him and sighing in pleasure when he slipped his tongue into her mouth, looking to reacquaint himself with his favourite place in the world. In between kisses and caresses she mumbled something about a late night at work and demanding the weekend for herself.
"I thought I'd drop by tomorrow morning but the next thing I knew I was jumping into a cab and blurting out your address."
She sounded the littlest bit insecure, as if she'd doubted for a second he'd want her here, no matter the hour, and it was enough to soothe Nick a little. As much as he needed reassurances when it came to Belle she needed them too, sometimes, and he tended to forget that, make her out to be so brave and fearless no doubts could touch her. It was a bad habit he needed to break.
"Thank God you did."
He smile could light up a room and he kissed it off her lips, wishing to trap it inside himself. He wondered for a split second if, perhaps, she might want to talk, since they'd had so little time to do that lately, but before he knew it her hand was cupping him between the legs and all rational thought fled out the fucking window. He growled against her mouth, still tightly pressed against his, and wrapped his left arm around her waist, managing to walk backwards into his room after some stumbling around. She let her purse drop on his chest of drawers, its usual place, and proceeded to peel off her jacket, tossing it on a nearby chair. Seeing her things occupy once more their rightful places in his room filled him with stark, debilitating relief. Unlike everyone else in his life Belle had no plans to leave him, no matter his past or his many failings. She knew him, all of him.
And she'd missed him.
She said it over and over, her mouth close to his ear as her hands took care of his undone tie and the buttons of his shirt. Soon enough she was lovingly untucking the garment from his pants and slipping it off him, divesting him of his undershirt as well. Her touch felt nurturing, as if she could see his frayed nerves and his raw need and was carefully soothing him with her hands and lips. With far less grace than her he tugged her top off her, the flimsy material ripping under his rough hands. He apologized half-heartedly before discarding the garment and palming her left breast over the scratchy fabric of her balconette bra, a champagne-pink one he loved too much to mistreat. He fumbled for the clasp at the back, unreasonably happy went it gave in and allowed him to bare her chest completely.
He hardly had a moment to look before she was on him, all but pushing him onto the bed, straddling him. The way her hands quickly went to his belt, unbuckling it only to attack the fly of his pants, told him of her own desperation, hidden by her bright smile and the gentleness with which she'd touched him moments ago. In that moment he wanted to give her all, needed to do so and see and hear her be satisfied, made happy by his lips, teeth, hands and cock. He found the zipper of her skirt and pulled it down as delicately as he could, knowing it was a favourite of Belle's. She, on the other hand, seemed to have no qualms about kicking the piece of clothing away before guiding his fingers to the waistband of her panties, the flimsy lace delightful as it slid down her skin. He held onto it, crushing it in his hand and feeling the warmth of her sex in his palm. He fought the urge to lift her underwear to his nose, uncertain she'd be alright with that. Instead he disposed of his pants and boxers and then hauled her back into his lap, enjoying the shriek of laughter that came from her as she tried to steady herself.
Inexplicably her loudness aroused him even more. He'd always enjoyed the sounds she made, proof of her pleasure, but he'd seldom cared whether they were loud shouts or soft, stifled gasps. They were all wondrous in their own ways but tonight he wanted her loud and wild, as vocal as she could possibly get. He murmured his appreciation for her unexpected shout, a shallow thrust against her sex letting her appreciate how much enjoyment he'd gotten from it, but she moaned quietly in response. He kissed her deeply, fully, before he let his lips drift lower, skimming across her jaw and mapping her throat, trying to imagine how it'd vibrate when she screamed his name at the top of her lungs. He nipped at the soft skin there with utmost delicacy, only allowing himself to be rougher on the spot where her neck met her shoulder. He closed his mouth over it, sucking greedily to get the taste of her to coat his tongue. She was succulent, sweat and leftover lotion included, and when he applied just the right amount of pressure she moaned loudly in return. He made a humming sound to indicate his approval and let his blunt nails trail from her lower to her upper back, digging into her skin just enough to cause her pleasure as well as pain.
He knew instinctively that if he wanted to make her scream he couldn't enter her, not right away. He'd hardly last and though experience had assured him he'd be able to make her come undone as well it would all be rushed, and breathy and low. Screams required build up and so, reluctantly, he let his mouth travel lover, across her clavicle, past her breasts, dipping briefly into her belly button before going even lower. It meant he had to move her off his lap and half onto the mattress, staying half-crouching between her parted legs. Her impatience caused her to fidget and whine rather loudly when he gave her a bit but not enough, hands ghosting across her hard nipples and grasping her breasts loosely. Meanwhile he moved his mouth so he could nip at the inside of her left thigh, still soft enough to be nothing more than a teasing sensation.
"Harder."
She half-keened the word but it wasn't loud enough for his liking so he pretended he hadn't heard her at all, pausing to drag a footstool close so he could sit and have access to her upper body as well as to her sex. He continued to kiss and lick her inner thighs, getting close to her labia but never actually touching it as his hands massaged her ribcage and ventured to her breasts from time to time, never delivering more than the gentlest of caresses. Soon she was fidgeting on the bed, hands pawing at the comforter since he evaded her touch.
"Harder."
It was less a plea and more a command now, strong and loud as it resonated in the room. Pleased beyond measure he rewarded her with firmer caresses, his thumbs pressing against her nipples until she yelped and then voiced her approval enthusiastically. Once she realized that was what he was after she encouraged him loudly, phrases like "Yes, Nick, there!" and "God, please, Nick, don't stop!" tumbling from her lips as he ate her out, lapping at her sex with greedy abandon. He'd missed this, missed her taste and the feel of her thrashing beneath his touch, and he showed it by licking her folds over and over, her teeth nipping at her slippery clit from time to time.
At some point, however, she began to bite her lip to try and tone done her increasingly-loud groans and he tweaked one of her nipples in punishment.
"Don't hold it in. Scream for me, darling."
He wasn't sure how she understood him, his accent so think and his voice so gravely he could barely make out the words himself. She propped herself up, leaning on her elbows to watch him, puzzled. He knew he must have looked feral, hair sticking out, naked, his hands roughly grasping her hips and ass and his mouth wet with her juices. Whatever she saw in him, however, she seemed to approved of and when he went back to drinking her down, using two fingers of his right hand to penetrate her at the same time, she screamed as he'd wanted her to all along, a guttural, needy little sound that reverberated through him. That's how powerfully he made Belle feel, how much she wanted him.
He kept a brutal pace, getting her as close to the edge as he dared before slowing down, usually causing Belle to whimper loudly. Finally, when he realize he couldn't take it much longer, he curled the fingers insider her, hitting a spot she utterly loved. She arched her back, the muscles of her neck, stomach and feet contorting involuntarily as orgasm hit her. He was rewarded when she yelled his name aloud, sounding like a prayer. She went limp afterwards, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she gulped in air. As she recovered he tried to get a hold of himself, knowing that he was too worked up to be any good at the moment.
He counted to ten over and over, trying to distract himself with numbers and figures from the last balance sheet of the company. Finally, when he thought he had himself under control, he climbed onto the bed, settling above her with only a bit of difficulty from his right leg. Kneeling wasn't impossible but it was painful and it was that pain that acted as the best sort of distraction as she worked her up again, first kissing her leisurely and then mouthing at her breasts and belly, encouraging every small sound with a nip of his teeth on her skin or a flick of his tongue. Her previous orgasm had left her overly sensitive and incredibly responsive and it took little prompting this time for her to scream and moan loudly.
Her vocalizations became infectious and soon enough he was loudly telling her about how he'd missed her, how she was his everything and he ached to be parted from her. When he entered her he told her it felt like coming home, like finally being complete and she agreed with a raspy, hoarse cry. She wound herself tightly around him as he thrust into her, hard enough to bruise, demanding more and faster and now. When her inner muscles contracted against his cock he lost his grip on himself completely, the orgasm hitting him forcefully. For a few seconds he couldn't feel the pain of his right ankle, the stiffness of his joints or the soreness of his muscles. For a moment it was all bliss and certainty like he hadn't felt in weeks and, when he finally came to his senses he found himself in Belle's arms, cradled there like a child.
She didn't question his sudden need for her screams or reassurances, merely encouraged him to get under the covers, spooning up behind him and kissing the back of his neck before drifting off into sleep. A few minutes later he followed her.
Malcolm woke up surprisingly groggy and moody. He'd acquired a rather enviable tolerance to alcohol over the years and his hangover-free mornings were the stuff of legend among his circle of friends so he wondered about his poor sleeping. He glanced around the room, thinking that he might try and cajole Nick into letting him stay a couple of nights more. He knew his son, knew what buttons to pull to get what he wanted.
He caught sent of something delicious cooking nearby and took it as his cue to get out and greet his laddie. When he got to the kitchen, however, a completely different sight greeted his eyes. Instead of his limping son he found a woman, petite and wearing lacy boy-shorts and a silk pyjama top too big to be hers, evidenced by the way the neckline bared one of her shoulders completely. She was barefoot and cooking French toast, humming and swaying on the spot. For a second he stood there, confused and unsure and a second later he took a step forward and tripped on a small pile of books, sending them toppling to the floor. She turned, at first smiling but then freezing when she noticed he wasn't who she thought. He recognized her then, those blue eyes too distinctive to be forgotten. It was Blue Eyes herself, far more informal and domestic than he'd ever seen her and what the Hell was she doing there, cooking practically in her underwear?
"Hello, beautiful."
It was his default setting to flirt, to charm, but it was evident to him then that the woman looked at him with cautious suspicion. In the comfort of a familiar space, a space she clearly saw as hers, she didn't seem to feel the need to pretend to like him or his advances. Malcolm, on the other hand, had never dealt with a woman in her knickers and a shirt who wasn't completely into him. Suddenly her eyes lit up and she smiled softly and a part of him relaxed at the notion that, yes, he still had it in him.
"Good morning."
The greeting came from behind him and Malcolm turned to see his son limping towards the kitchen, wearing blue silk pyjama pants and an open robe. He was carrying a similar but smaller one in his left hand and he looked... happy. Relaxed. Younger. He brushed past his father like he wasn't there and when he reached Blue Eyes he bent down slightly to kiss her lips, receiving an enthusiastic response in turn. Afterwards he draped the spare robe over her shoulders.
"It's chilly, Belle, and the thermostat is acting up, you should bundle up a bit."
His voice was soft, mellow, no bitterness coating his words. The woman- Belle, apparently- gave him a peck on the cheek and tied the robe closed. It was then that Malcolm recalled what had caused his poor sleeping. He'd woken up around two-thirty in the morning to the sound of a woman screaming, the sort of scream that came from pleasure and made any male feel immensely proud. The yells had lasted a good while, sometimes inarticulate noises and other times short, halted sentences full of praises for Nick and loving endearments. The memory alone caused him to turn completely red and shift his attention away from the petit beauty. Her eyes, however, flickered towards him and it was then that his son seemed to notice him, as if he'd forgotten he'd stayed over the night.
"Oh, Belle, that's Malcolm. Malcolm Gold."
The name seemed to make it all clear to her and she tentatively smiled before scooting closer to his son, as if to protect him. When Nick offered him a cup of coffee she relaxed slightly but still shot him suspicious looks as she arranged two plates of food, apologizing for not making enough for him.
"N-no worries, lass. I was going anyway. Funny I haven't seen you in here before. You are my son's... friend?"
She snorted and shot Nick a look.
"Hardly. Belle and I have been dating for two years. She works for the head of Uni Global and this time of the year is busy. You must have noticed I've been busy as well."
There was an accusation hidden there but also... contentment. He looked at his son as he leaned into his girlfriend's touch as she petted his hair, drinking some coffee and letting him rest his head against her stomach. It was such a domestic scene, the sort that took years to achieve. Suddenly an unpleasant thought crept into him: maybe he didn't know his son at all. He'd thought he did all throughout his visit. His son was a bitter, boring, sad adult who'd traded happiness and excitement for money and power and was too stubborn and hopeless to know he was letting life pass him by. Married to his work, isolated and angry. That was his son. That had always been his son.
This person in front of him, however, was a stranger. Soft around the eyes, relaxed and satisfied. When his eyes flickered to the woman, to Belle, he couldn't see greed or resentment or any sort of displeasure. Though she looked a bit tired she seemed comfortable and happy, like she was home. Like they were both home. In this situation they were family and he was the pesky intruder, the interloper.
"Do you have plans for today?"
Nick's voice caught him unaware and he floundered for an appropriate response.
"Actually... Well, yesterday Bernie- You remember Bernie, right?- invited me over to Las Vegas for the holidays. Warmer weather and a bit of gambling sound good right about now. You don't mind, do you laddie? Me bailing on you like this?"
Belle's arms wrapped themselves around his son's shoulders from above and he knew then that the lass knew their story. He could see it in the way she eyed him with distrust, in the way she sought to protect Nick.
"I don't mind at all."
He didn't need to tell him why, didn't need to crow or boast in any way. True happiness was above such things and, for a horrible moment, Malcolm hated his son passionately for not needing him desperately as he had once upon a time, for finding happiness somewhere else, somewhere better.
He hastily made his goodbyes, wishing his son a Merry Christmas in case he was "too pished on Christmas day to actually call" and smiling one last time at Blue Eyes before hightailing it out of the penthouse as has as his legs could carry him. The morning and the memory of the past night had left him out of sorts, and he needed to be on even ground again. An escapade to Vegas sounded ideal for that.
Maybe a few rounds of poker and some Black Jack would help him forget that his son was banging the prettiest bird he'd seen in years.