A/N: Well, I figured we could use a Frash story with a happier tone...so I went and wrote this semi-angsty thing for y'all that got way out of hand. Yeah...sorry about that. I honestly have no idea where this came from, but it was fun to write.
Warnings: Conde is not a good guy (but I think the majority of us people who like Frash don't like him overly much in any case), language, gratuitous use of the present tense, Frary
Francis shows up on a rainy September evening, knocking on his door as if they haven't been out of contact for over three years, smiling as if their last parting wasn't an unpleasant one. The smile does appear slightly strained, but Bash attributes this to the bundle in Francis' arms and the light rain soaking his clothes rather than any feelings toward Bash, and immediately after wonders why this is his first thought.
Bash just stares at him for a few moments, with an open jaw, because he isn't quite sure how he's supposed to react to seeing Francis again, and standing on his doorstep, no less.
And then the baby in Francis' arms begins to wail in earnest at being subject to the wet rain, its tiny mouth somehow managing a howl that would be impressive from a grown man and which sounds downright terrifying, coming from a child.
Bash stares.
He remembers, vaguely, that Francis had gotten a girl pregnant just out of high school, that they'd been married...he'd gotten an invitation to the wedding, not that he'd gone. He knows the invitation was a formality only, after all.
He seems to have forgotten that this meant there would be a child. That he's an uncle, now, and, perhaps even more shocking, Francis, whom he still sees as a child himself, is a father.
Except...Bash is not really an uncle at all, is he?
Francis looks down at his child in concern then, and Bash sees startlingly familiar blue eyes on the baby's face before someone in the flat above his is calling out through a window, "Goddamnit, trying to get some sleep, here! Quiet down!"
That somehow brings him out of stupor, even if the child's cries didn't, and Bash pulls back, opening the door to his flat a little wider and gesturing for Francis and the baby to enter.
"I...uh, care to come in?" he asks, lamely, because why else would Francis be here, and why is Francis here to begin with...?
Bash hadn't thought to see him again, after what happened.
Francis gives him a frankly relieved smile, and it's then that Bash notices the pack slung over his shoulder, large enough to mean that there is more than just an extra pair of diapers and a mobile inside. And then, because his guilty mind can't let that go, he notices the dark circles under Francis' eyes, the lines in his face that weren't there three years ago, the way his clothes hung from his abominably small frame, and Bash almost feels guilty as he leads Francis into the house.
Almost. Mostly, he's wondering why Catherine hasn't seen to her son's wellbeing, as she always did when they were younger. Why Francis looks like a beggar on the streets rather than the son of one of the wealthier families of France.
"How are you?" Francis asks then, though Bash has the impression that he's more preoccupied with his son than hearing the answer. The younger man glances around at the apartment, but none of what he is thinking shows up on his face as he strips off his wet jacket and the wet blanket around the baby, folding them over one arm as if he's afraid to ask if he can set them down.
Bash shrugs. He's been doing just fine, living alone and far away from their crazy family, has even made a name for himself as a mechanic, with his own shop, even if the rent is hard to juggle and he's lonelier than he cares to admit.
He doesn't say all of this, though, and Francis seems to understand, smiling grimly. "That bad, huh?"
Bash immediately feels defensive, but isn't sure what to say that might not bring their whole conversation up in flames, and, as Francis has just gotten the baby to stop crying, he doesn't dare do anything but shrug again.
"It...It's not much, but you can sleep in my room while I take the couch tonight, and we can work on clearing out the storage room tomorrow..." Bash begins, wondering why he feels so nervous all of the sudden. Why Francis' opinion of his home seems to matter so much to him.
Francis glances around, his face giving nothing away, even as rocks the child in his arms and whispers soothing words into the little boy's ear until he quiets. Then, Francis turns to Bash. "I...you don't have to do that, Bash. What makes you think we're spending the night?"
Bash just lifts an eyebrow at him, which causes Francis' face to heat a little, but he doesn't object again, though Bash can tell he is not pleased with Bash's decision to move out of his room so that Francis and the baby can sleep there.
It's so like the old Francis, so considerate and worried about every little thing, that Bash can't help the sad smile on his face as he helps his brother and his nephew get settled.
"What's his name?" he asks, nodding his head to the child, once Francis has set the baby down in the middle of the bed and is sitting down next to him, rubbing soothing circles into the child's torso to calm him into sleep.
Francis glances up, looking surprised by the question. "Oh. It's...John."
And he says this with such gravity, as if the word itself has exhausted far more than the journey from...Marseilles? At least, that's where Bash thinks Francis has been living for the past three years. It was the return address to that wedding invitation, after all.
"Lola?" he searches his mind for the girl's name, because he can't remember much of her. She and Francis weren't exactly...romantically attached when she came to him with the news that she was pregnant, after all. His mind brings up a hazy image of a girl with dark eyes and hair, but that's all he can remember of her, and he feels almost guilty for it.
Then again, what does he know about Francis? It seems he's learning that he once knew less and less, after all.
Francis looks pained, his eyes closing of their own accord, and Bash could kick himself for causing that look, when he should have realized...
"She's dead," Francis says finally, but he isn't looking at Bash as he says it. "C-Childbirth complications." No, instead he's staring down at his son, and Bash wonders if the little boy looks at all like his mother did. Bash can only see Francis in that tiny face, after all.
He wonders if Francis loved this woman, Lola.
"I'm sorry," Bash hears himself say, as if from far off.
Francis just shrugs, and Bash knows then how empty his apologies are for his younger brother. How long its been since Francis believed them.
"Well, I'll just go make myself comfortable on the sofa, then," he hears himself say, as if from a distance, and that causes Francis to look up.
"Bash, you really don't need to...I, I don't feel comfortable..." He blinks, and Bash has the impression that he's blinking back tears. "This was a mistake. I really shouldn't have bothered you. I just..." Didn't know where else to go.
Bash just waves a hand and gestures toward...John. His nephew. "I insist," he says, and then smirks. "Besides, I don't think you'll be getting John off that bed, now."
Francis swallows had. "T-Thank you," he stutters out, and that is so unlike the confident young man he knew that Bash almost wants to come forward and hug him, but he doesn't dare.
He simply inclines his head. "You can stay for as long as you need, Francis. Get some sleep. You look like you need it."
When Bash offered Francis his bedroom, and promised that Francis could say as long as he needed, he hadn't thought Francis would still be here two years later, but he doesn't mind. He thought he would, but he doesn't. He somehow thinks that, if Francis and his little son left now, this place would no longer be home. They made their way into his life so quickly that he can hardly remember when or how it happened, and now they are irrevocably a part of it, once more.
He can hardly remember what life was like without them, and he doesn't want to.
Francis has a job down the street, at a bakery owned by a Jewish family who always sends him home with extra pastries, and takes night classes four nights a week at the local college because he wants to be something more, for John. He cooks breakfast every morning, something that always consists of gooey bread and sugar, and Bash always reluctantly admits after eating it that he must be learning something at the baker's.
Bash works at his own mechanic shop, though not as much as before, now that he has Francis to pay half the rent, and makes dinner every night. It usually consists of Indian, and whatever leftovers Francis has brought home from the bakery on that particular night.
Their routine has become life now, in the same way that breathing is.
And John has weaseled his way into Bash's life and his heart.
He doesn't think there has ever been a little boy as adorable as John Valois. Bash, at least, has never met one.
At just two years old, he has either managed to evade the "terrible twos" altogether, or simply hasn't hit them yet, and though Francis seems to believe that it is the latter, Bash is convinced it's the former.
After two years of growing, the resemblance to Francis is still disturbing, Bash thinks, even if Francis insists the little boy looks more like his mother did. Well, even if he thinks that, Bash knows he cannot but concede that John acts more like Francis did, at that age.
During the days when either Francis or Bash aren't home, Mrs. Engelson, the retired landlady, comes by to babysit, and sometimes Bash thinks she'll kidnap little John if they let her. He's become something like her grandson, after all, and Francis something like her favorite, youngest son, even if she still can't stand the sight of Bash, on account of what she calls, "that abominable stench of car that emanates off you everywhere you go," and the fact that he used to be rather spotty in paying the rent, before Francis showed up.
He doesn't mind, though. He's rather used to that, after all.
Francis isn't working today, because Mrs. Engelson's opening a new flat beneath hers to rent and wants it ready by the end of the day, as she's finally realized it'll boost her profit more than she needs a painting room, and he's too nice to tell her he doesn't have the time to help her move the furniture into it, especially as it means he'll be spending the whole day with John. The Jewish family is very understanding, and so Bash drives to work alone that morning, and feels that he's missing something the whole way there. He almost drives to the bakery, before going to the shop, before realizing he doesn't need to go out of the way, today.
It's not until he gets out of the car, parked behind the shop, that he realizes it's simply the sound of Francis' voice.
She comes into the shop sometime around noon, huffing and swearing like a sailor, and Bash just raises an eyebrow and tries to hide his amusement, watching as the car stalls out in the middle of the parking lot, before she has even found a parking spot, and then seems to deflate, as if this is the last it's capable of.
Looking at it, even from inside the shop and busy with Mr. De Vois, who's convinced that replacing the engine for the third time this year is the way to go with his two year old Cadillac, Bash can see that this probably is the last the car is capable of, in its current state.
The woman jumps out of the car in a huff, comes bursting into the shop, and, without a glance around, shoves aside Mr. De Vois to stand before Bash. The old man stumbles back a few steps, staring at her with wide eyes, but doesn't dare make a noise of complaint.
If she weren't covered in car grease and smelling like exhaust and gasoline, clothes ripped and stained, Bash thinks, she would probably be beautiful. As it is, there is a sort of rugged handsomeness about her, and the way she lifts her head and demands his attention makes him think she knows it.
"Excuse me," she says, loud and brassy and Scottish, though she must know she already has his attention, "You're Mr. Portieres, the mechanic?"
He nods, not quite trusting himself to speak just then.
She lifts a finger, jabbing it toward the car in the lot. "I just managed to get it off the freeway. I'm supposed to be in Florence right now, not Paris. Actually, I was supposed to be in Florence two days ago, but this damn car..." she mutters something under her breath in a language he isn't sure he recognizes, and then, "How soon can you have it fixed?"
Bash swallows. "Well, that depends. I'll need to have a look at it first, but..." he glances out at the lot, "If you want my honest opinion," and this, Francis says, is why Bash doesn't make more money than he does, "you'd be better off at this point buying a new one."
The woman swears again. "I don't have the time," she says, and now she sounds more desperate than angry. "Or the right papers, probably. I'm not a native, you see, and this car...well, it has sentimental value, I suppose you could say."
"Ah." He takes a deep breath. He gets teenage girls in here sometimes who can't bear the thought of parting with their beloved '82 because of 'sentimental value,' even if it's clear they're driving it into the ground, so he doesn't bother to protest. This woman looks older than a teenager, that much is certain, but he doesn't think he wants to make the comparison out loud, so he simply says, "Well, let me go take a look at it, and I should have an assessment done for you in about an hour."
Mr. De Vois, far from looking offended by the fact that he's being brushed off, looks excited, walking out a pace or two behind them as Bash goes to look at the old car. It's probably the most excitement he'll see this week, Bash supposes.
By the time he's done, Bash is even more convinced that this old thing is a lost cause, but he doesn't allow that to show on his face as he tells the woman, "It'll need a new muffler, I'll have to wire out for a replacement engine, and three of your tires are flat. It'll take at least a week to get the new parts in though, Ma'am."
She sighs, bringing a hand to her forehead. "Damn. How much will that come to?"
He blinks at her, owlishly, having expected this little assessment to change her mind about going out to buy a new car, or maybe taking a train to Florence, if she's so insistent about getting there. "Ah...should come to about..." he thinks for a moment. "Five thousand."
She nods. "You know of any places to stay around here?"
"So, what's your name?" he asks, as he drives her back to Mrs. Engelson's that evening. He's beginning to think he made something of a mistake, telling her about the flat, as he doesn't even know if Francis has finished cleaning it up and bringing in the new furniture, or if Mrs. Engelson, a stout, Catholic Englishwoman, will approve of the woman who nearly drove her car through his shop.
She glances over at him. It's the first time either of them has initiated a conversation since getting into his Jeep, and, from the look she gives him, he has a feeling it's not appreciated, either.
"Mary," she says finally, turning back toward the road. "Mary Stuart."
The name sounds abhorrently English, yet her accent, deep and thick, makes him think she isn't, and he wonders where she's from, but isn't about to ask, now.
"You said this Mrs. Engelson's flat is in the same building as yours?" she asks suddenly, and he wonders at the sudden interest. Maybe she thinks he's kidnapping her, or something, and this is why she isn't speaking much. He noticed her gun from almost the moment she stepped into his shop, though, so he doesn't think she should be too worried, really.
She certainly had a lot to say when she first entered his shop.
He nods. "Uh, yeah, my brother and I live right above," he offers lamely, and she blinks. "Your brother?"
"Yeah. Him and his son." At her inquisitive look, he adds, even if it really is none of her concern, "He's lived with me since his wife died, a couple of years back."
She blanches. "I'm sorry."
He shrugs. "I didn't really know her."
And they lapse into silence for the rest of the car ride, until they reach the flat, and Bash, feeling ever the gentleman, comes around to open her door for her, only to find her already out and wiping filthy hands on a filthy vest.
"Don't suppose she'll have a toilet for me to freshen up in?" she asks with a grin as he stares. He blushes and looks away, leads her up to the front door and knocks. His and Francis' rooms are up the stairs, and he's just debating leaving Mary at Mrs. Engelson's flat when the door opens, and little John is gawking up at them.
Instantly, Mary transforms, and he would almost no longer recognize her, if it weren't for the stained clothes and stench coming off her. She bends down, giving his nephew a huge smile. "Why, hello there, little monsieur," she greets, holding out her hand as if she means to shake his. "Are you the owner of this fine establishment?"
John blinks at her, once, then again, his blond hair falling down in front of his eyes as he no doubt tries to muddle out what 'establishment,' means, but Mary just waits, smiling.
Bash smiles, too. "Where's your papa?" he asks, and John inclines his head toward the inside of the flat he's still standing in front of, blocking, but doesn't take his eyes off of Mary.
Finally, shakily, as if he's just realized she's waiting for something from him, he takes her hand and gives it a squeeze. She grins, but doesn't stand to her feet, only continues smiling at him.
"My, what a firm handshake you have," Mary says, giggling a little, and Bash is glad she seems willing to humor John. Of course, most people are, but still...Mary Stuart doesn't really remind him of most people, and he's only seen her angry before, not acting so besotted. He isn't quite sure what to make of her now, where before he had a rather clear picture of her in his head. "My name's Mary, what's yours?"
"Mama," John says finally, after dropping her hand, his voice full of awe, and Bash freezes. From the corner of his eyes, he notices Mary stilling, as well.
John doesn't seem to realize that he's said anything wrong. He waddles forward, and it is only then that Bash realizes he is clothed only in a pair of nappies, grinning maniacally as he deposits himself in Mary's lap, nearly causing her to lose her balance, from where she is squatting. "Mama," he says again, burying his head in her neck.
Mary looks shell shocked. She's glancing from Bash to John, as if to ask if this is a regular occurrence, but is too afraid to speak over John, who is still murmuring "mama," into her hair, and Bash is just about to step forward and rescue her, and that is when Francis appears, just inside the door.
His eyes widen comically as he takes in what's going on, and then, without a look to Mary, he rushes forward and scoops up John, stammering apologies. "I'm so sorry, he's never done this before..."
Mary stands, smiling and reassuring him that it's "quite all right," but Bash can see that her smile is sad.
"Oh, you must be that girl Bash was talking about?" suddenly Mrs. Engelson is there, clucking her tongue and taking Mary to the washroom to freshen up, and Francis and Bash are left standing alone.
"What was that about?" Francis asks out of the corner of his mouth as he attempts to comfort John, who started wailing the moment he realized Mrs. Engelson was taking away "mama."
Bash swallows. "I think, when she introduced herself as Mary, he thought she said mama," he lies, because he knows that this is not at all what happened, even if he can't explain what really did.
Francis relaxes. "Ah," he says, and Bash fancies that he sounds relieved.
John stops crying then, glancing over at Bash and giving him a broad grin. "Bash bring me cookie?" he asks, holding his hand out expectantly.
Bash chuckles. "God, you've got me trained, don't ya?"
"Cookie?" John repeats, the hopeful expression starting to die on his face.
Bash sighs. "Sorry, kiddo. I forgot today. Got a little...caught up." He glances at Mary, but, thankfully, no one notices.
Francis manages to abate the oncoming storm by scooping John up and promising to let him "help" make cookies after dinner, which, Bash knows by experience, would consist of John getting himself covered in more cookie dough than he could eat and Francis doing everything salient to actually making the cookies.
He made his own dough now, without eggs, though Bash wasn't entirely sure what was the substitute (some sort of powder that looked disgusting but managed to do the same job as an egg, he supposed), so that John wouldn't get sick, at the very least, from eating it by the handful.
Mary and Mrs. Engelson return a moment later, Mrs. Engelson smiling widely as she murmurs, "Well, let me just go and get you the spare key, dear," and turns back to her own room.
They're left in an awkward silence, John sucking on his thumb and Mary's hand stuffed into the pockets of her jeans.
"You're the new tenant, then?" Francis asks, and she finally looks up, giving him a brief smile.
"For now," she says teasingly, in far lighter tone than she has yet to use with Bash. "Mary. Mary Stuart." She sticks out a hand, the wrong one, as Francis is still holding John, and it takes a moment for her to realize this.
In the next moment, they actually do manage to shake hands, John leaned against Francis' shoulder. "Francis. Valois."
She smiles, and then Bash has to contend with watching the two of them give each other bedroom eyes for a long moment that seems to last for an eternity, as if they are the only ones in the room, or perhaps the world.
The spell is broken again by Mrs. Engelson, who comes out of the washroom a moment later, handing Mary a key. "This should open it, dear," she says, smiling wide, seemingly oblivious. "If it doesn't, just give the door a good shove, sometimes."
Mary gives her a smile. "Thank you, ma'am."
And then she's gone, disappearing inside her new apartment, and Bash can't help but notice the way Francis is staring after her, looking every bit like a drowning man.
And he can't help the feeling that follows, that something is about to change, irrevocably.
At first, nothing does. Bash does what he can for the old heap of junk while he waits for the parts to come in, but they're delayed, and Mary won't think of hiring a rental and coming back for her 'baby,' no matter how many times Bash tries to tell her that this would be probably be for the best.
She keeps to herself for the first part of the week, and Bash has a feeling that she prefers it that way, so he doesn't go out of his way to speak to her about anything that isn't about her car, even if he knows that, despite all of the sights to see in the big city, she doesn't leave that apartment unless she absolutely has to, and Mrs. Engelson is nice enough, but can't possibly be good company 24/7.
But it isn't his problem.
And then Francis learns that Mary's been helping Mrs. Engelson babysit John while the two of them are away at work, which seems like a no brainer to Bash, but which Francis seems to find extremely kind, so much so that he insists on making her a batch of cookies for her troubles (most of which, Bash suspects by the sleep haze John comes home to them in the next night, she didn't eat herself).
It continues on like this for a few more days, because those damn parts have gotten delayed even more, and Bash has promised to reimburse Mary for the trouble but she doesn't seem to mind, until finally, Francis has the day off on Sunday, and goes to Mary's apartment to give her another freshly made loaf of bread.
This time, she insists that she can't possibly eat all of it by herself, and they bring it back to the apartment, where Bash and John are playing Jenga. Francis doesn't like the obsession John has with the game, Bash knows, because he's terrified that one day the pieces will fall out and hit John in the eye or something, but John loves it, claps every time the pieces fall like this is the best part of the game.
And Bash can't quite deny him something that the little boy enjoys.
"Mary," he says, glancing up as she and Francis enter the apartment and thus forgetting about the Jenga block in his hand, prompting a collapse that makes John duck his head and squeal.
Mary laughs a little, and shares an amused look with Francis, before Francis suddenly becomes the perfect gentleman and offers to take her coat (Bash is left wondering why she's wearing a coat, when her apartment is literally down the hall) and then leads her on a short tour of the apartment. Bash follows, because John squeals and lifts his hands toward Mary the moment she's out of the room.
The tour is short; there isn't much to see, really, though of course Mary would have to notice it, sitting in the living room. The Valois residence didn't get many visitors, so few people ever saw it, but Bash assumed that they would notice it first off, as she had, the moment they entered the room, and not just because the shining blade hangs above the fireplace.
"This is beautiful," Mary says, because it's the truth. That's probably one of the finest swords ever made; their father used to brag about how it came from the time of Kings, and Kings had made it. It was his one pride and joy, and Francis had taken it, after his death, as his inheritance. It was worth more than anything else Henry had ever owned.
But Francis flushes in a way that isn't from proud embarrassment, but from guilt, and the look Mary sends his way communicates that she seems to know more than she's letting on, for she let's the matter drop almost immediately, but not without a quick look at Bash, who shakes his head.
Quite frankly, Bash is surprised it means so much to him now, that he didn't sell it after Lola died, to make a home for himself and John. That he'd rather come to Bash and beg for refuge than pawn it off.
He certainly isn't happy to see the blade. It may have been Henry's pride and joy once, and also Francis', but Bash doesn't think he will ever be able to look at that sword again without thinking of how it was last used. It hasn't always been a relic, sitting upon a Valois wall, after all.
They end up in the kitchen, Mary and Francis walking a bit ahead of Bash and John, but Bash doesn't really mind.
Bash follows a moment later, with John, and pretends not to noticing the pheromones leaking off of the other two adults in the room as he clips John into his high chair and gets out some milk for the child.
"So..." Francis says finally, and Bash believes its solely his imagination, when Mary blushes. She can't possibly be blushing; it looks totally out of place on her face, an innocent look that belongs to an entirely different girl than the woman who came crashing into his autoshop.
"Cookies!" John shouts out demandingly then, and Francis gives a nervous little laugh, turning to the baby with a smile.
"God, we're spoiling you," Bash hears him murmur, and then, "You've already had cookies today, John, and I don't want to be up with you half the night again."
John makes a little pouting face at this, though Bash is convinced that he can't hardly have understood all of those words, and it is Mary, surprisingly, who comes to the little boy's rescue.
"Oh, come now. Surely one more won't hurt?" she asks, and it is then and there that Bash realizes she's John's hero.
Francis makes a face. "I'm afraid we'd have to make another batch," he says, and Mary shrugs.
"Well, I could take the extra ones," she offers, and then, "And I've never made homemade cookies before. I bet they're more to fun to make than bread, anyway."
And that, Bash realizes, is what sealed the deal.
Francis claps his hands, excited at the prospect of having a willing student (God knows, the only thing that Bash can make even adequately enough to eat are TV dinners), and it begins.
It takes rather a long while to make, because, once again, John insists on getting his fingers and face covered in dough, though the end result is rather messily adorable, and Mary doesn't quite realize that homemade dough is much different than the store bought kind, and forgets the milk altogether during the first round, a mistake which would have been easily remedied if Francis weren't so focused on alternately keeping John away from the burner and staring at Mary.
"You have to really use your arm muscles for stirring," he says, shaking his head at her paltry job the second time, and then coming around behind her. She stiffens, but only for a moment, as his arms wrap around her from behind and clasp the stirrer over hers, and then relaxes into him, letting him set the pace.
It's not too long, of course, until the dough is flying everywhere, rather reminiscent of John's little foray into cooking.
"I'm botching it up," Mary complains, laughing.
"No, no, you're doing fine," Francis says, his voice lower than usual, smiling at her like she's his whole world.
"You sure?" Mary whispers, his lips inches away from Francis', and for a moment Bash wonders if they even know anymore that they're not the only two people in the room.
"You're perfect," Francis murmurs, and Bash is reasonable sure that he's not talking about Mary's ability to cook homemade bread, anymore. He's also reasonably sure that he should leave the room soon.
The cookies are delicious, of course, but Bash can hardly concentrate on them, or even on John's excitement over them, watching Mary and Francis make heart eyes at each other over the table, and play footsy under it (he's not watching this, of course, but notices it rather quickly after one of them accidently kicks him in the shins).
It's rather disturbing to know how many times your brother has slept with the girl in the apartment next door, Bash thinks as he puts John to bed for third time this week. Really, something he doesn't need to know so...clearly.
The room seems to shake again, and he wonders why the hell Mrs. Engelson doesn't put up a fuss about all of the racket. Of course, she's in the country right now, but even before, she had seemed more thrilled than disgusted by it, which is, frankly, worrying in and of itself.
Or, at the very least, why she couldn't have invested in an apartment building with better foundations, so that not every movement in the other room is so...loud.
It's been three weeks since Mary got the apartment next door, three weeks in which the parts for her car got lost, Bash had to re-order them, and they're still delayed.
He thinks he might just drive to the big city himself and fetch them, if they take too much longer.
"Cookie?" John whimpers in the little crib, and Bash smiles at him.
"You're not tricking me into another one, no matter how many heart eyes you send me," he tells the little boy, who only pouts at this before getting distracted by his teddy.
Really, he's happy for Francis, happy that his brother managed to find this spare bit of happiness after so long. Even if Mary is a bit...abrasive, and opinionated, and rather...fast.
He doesn't think, if Francis were actually thinking himself, he would want to move this fast, after Lola, and yet, Francis has yet to make a single complaint about it, and, judging from the noise coming from the other room, there's not much to complain about.
Bash groans, reaching for the old cassette player beside John's crib and turning up the soothing children's music as loudly as is possible without upsetting John's little ears, finding Disney songs to be a far better alternative.
Francis doesn't actually come home until close to morning, though Bash has a hard time figuring out why he doesn't just stay over, considering how close their rooms are, pittering into the room and apparently attempting not to wake anyone.
It's too late, though; the moment John hears his footsteps against the carpeting, he starts wailing loudly, and Bash sighs, climbing out of bed and starting toward the room that John and Francis share automatically.
"It's fine," he hears Francis say as the other leans over the crib and pulls John out, still wrapped up in his blue blanket, "I've got him."
Bash sighs with relief, and then goes into the kitchen to scrounge about for breakfast. It's then that he belatedly remembers that Francis hasn't been in to cook it, and he groans, flopping down onto one of the bar stools with a sigh.
Francis comes into the kitchen a moment later, still holding John, the little boy attached at the lips to his milk bottle.
Their breakfast is awkward and silent for the first few minutes, and then, finally, Bash speaks. "So..."
Francis glances up, blushes, and goes back to trying to get John to eat some scrambled eggs. "So..." he says, his voice deceptively light.
"Next time," Bash finally says, "Get a hotel room. Please."
Francis' lips twitch. "Sure."
And then they both laugh a little, an awkward laugh that blossoms into something more in the next moment. John starts laughing, too, mimicking them, though he can't possibly understand what they're laughing about. That's all right, though; Bash has a feeling that neither of them know what they're laughing about, either.
Bash is beginning to think that Francis and Mary might move out, get their own apartment; she's been here so long, and the tiny apartment Mrs. Engelson lets to her is far too small for the both of them. Francis seems happier than ever with her, and she seems to truly like him, and John definitely likes her.
He has strangely mixed feelings about that. A part of him is glad, of course, that Francis has finally found someone he can be happy with. Another part is...well, it's an emotion he can't quite place, an emotion rather like spite, like anger, that Francis has found that very thing.
It all comes crashing down in the days before Christmas, though, so he supposes that such feelings never really mattered.
"And Conde says that he wants to show me all of Vienna one day-" Mary is saying, deep in a story about all of her travels; the two of them are excited, as they've never been outside of France before. Francis certainly had the means to do so, once, but had never been given the chance by his protective mother. Bash had never felt the need to, while he had the money, and doesn't much care to go beyond the city, now that he's older.
But Mary has been everywhere. France, England, Ireland, Scotland, Russia, Mexico, America. She knows all about them, has a good story for each country.
She doesn't even seem to realize the name she's dropped until Bash repeats it in confusion.
"Conde?" Bash asks, while Francis just looks rather white.
Mary tenses, obviously having realized that they've noticed her slip. "Yes, actually. My fiancé's in Florence, waiting for me. I could have taken a plane, but I'm afraid of heights, you see," she says the words ironically.
Bash's first reaction to this is to wonder how on earth a woman like Mary Stuart, strong and independent and abrasive, is afraid of heights. It is clear by the expression on Francis' face though, and his next words, that his thoughts are of an entirely different stream.
"Your...fiancé?" he asks, and Bash imagines that his voice sounds rather hoarse.
Mary shrugs. "Yeah. Louis Conde. He's a...businessman," she finishes rather lamely, and Bash can tell by her shifting eyes that this isn't quite the truth. He isn't sure if it's just his imagination, or if she really does sound rather nervous about this conversation. She leans forward then, noticing the look in Francis' eyes, and takes his hands in hers. "It's an...arrangement, and not one I'm much interested in."
"An arrangement?" Bash teases, in a failing attempt to lighten the mood, because things like fiancés hardly matter to him, even if he can see by the look on Francis' face that they clearly matter to him. "How medieval."
"Excuse me," Francis says then, standing, "But I think I'd better go and check on John."
"Francis-" Mary calls after him, but he makes his escape far too quickly, and, in that, Bash sees, he hasn't completely changed.
She turns back to Bash. "I didn't mean to mention that," she says earnestly, and Bash just raises a brow at her.
"I think it would be best if you left, Mary, at least for tonight," he says softly, and, after a moment of indecision, she does.
She doesn't come back for a few days, and Bash is actually almost more angry at her for that, because it means that whenever Francis is actually in the apartment and not throwing himself into his work or his schooling, he's moping on the couch and holding John like he's the only thing in the world that makes sense anymore.
The parts finally come in, one day, and Mary seems almost sorry to hear it when Bash knocks on her apartment door and tells her. But before he can leave, she's asking, "How's Francis?"
Bash takes a deep, fortifying breath. "He's been better," he tells her, and Mary's lips twitch, at that.
"I bet he has," she says, sounding regretful.
Bash gives her a long look. "He's at home, now, if you want to..."
She blinks at that, and then nods. "Thank you. I...do you think he'll listen?"
Bash gives her a long look, slightly uncomfortable. "If you have anything worth hearing," he says finally, even if he knows it isn't quite fair, and she nods at that, looking rather resigned but oddly determined, and he supposes he can admire her for that.
She follows him back to the apartment, and Francis looks rather startled, from where he sits feeding John, to see either of them, before he abruptly stands and sets John's little spoon aside.
"Mary," he says, his voice far too soft.
"Francis," she says, voice cracking.
"Perhaps I should..." Bash suggests, pointing a thumb toward the door in a lame attempt to give them privacy in such a small apartment, but Mary just shakes her head.
"No," she says softly, "You might as well stay for this."
Bash sits down beside Francis, feeling oddly like he does belong here, despite all evidence to the contrary, merely because it is by his brother's side.
Mary sits down as well, fidgeting, and it is a long while before she speaks.
"I don't want to get married," she said finally, not meeting either of their eyes. "It's an arranged marriage. And it was wrong of me, to string you along this far, but the truth is, Francis," and she takes his hands in her own then, even as she purses her lips, looking rather shame-faced. "I think we're both running away."
Francis looks at her for a long moment then, his blue eyes staring into her soul, Bash imagines, in much the same way they had once stared into his, though for an entirely different reason. And then, finally, he nods.
"Well, all right, then," he says, and Mary blinks at him. Bash can't hide his own surprise, as well.
"That's it?" she asks, sounding rather suspicious, but he just nods.
"That's it," he confirms, his voice soft, and, for a while at least, its the truth.
In the two years that Francis has been staying with Bash, he hasn't once brought It up, just as he doesn't like to speak of Lola, and Bash respects that because he knows better than to push Francis too hard, and also, he thinks, because he cannot bear to bring it up himself.
But on May 8th, every year, he gives Francis his distance, and takes little John to the park to play. When they come home late in the evening, Francis is always himself again, making dinner for them as if nothing is wrong, smiling and asking for any park gossip.
Bash knows it is, knows that he should say something to Francis, but he's too much of a coward for that, and, no matter how well they've gotten along together, he's hiding behind little John because he doesn't want anything to change.
Doesn't want to lose his brother again.
Today, though, Francis doesn't seem to be following that same procedure.
Instead, he's already up when Bash walks into the kitchen, making breakfast for the three of them as if this is any other day.
Bash's brows furrow in surprise, and he glances down at his phone almost unconsciously, checking for the date.
"Bash," Francis says, spinning to face him. "Up for some sausage?"
Bash blinks at him, glances at the clock. "Uh," he begins eloquently, and then, "Sure."
They sit down then, and eat, like they do on every other morning, every morning that isn't this one, and Bash feels strange and uncomfortable, and the food that Francis usually makes so well tastes like ash in his mouth, and he can't wait to get to the shop and as far away from this unknown, contented Francis as possible.
Surprisingly, the parts are in for Mary's car.
He stares at the delivery, blinking stupidly for a moment, a feeling he can't quite identify welling up inside of him, a stone in his gut.
When he gets back to the apartment building that evening, he goes first to Mary's room, knocks. When there's no answer, he sighs, and tries the next best place; their own apartment, where Francis is changing John in the other room, and Mary walks out of the bathroom at the exact moment that Bash comes inside.
She's wearing nothing but two towels; one around her head, the other around the rest of her, but she gives him a happy smile, nonetheless. "Bash!"
"I managed to fix up the car," Bash says conversationally, looking at the door knob of her room. "I'm so sorry, again, about the delivery taking so long."
She shrugs. "It wasn't your fault, and...I can hardly say I didn't like the delay." Then, "Still, I'm glad it's all done now. What do I owe you?"
He isn't quite sure that he should charge her for anything; but then he remembers that she isn't really family, and some vindictive part of him decides not to give her the family discount in lieu of this sudden revelation.
"I hope you don't think it happened...on purpose," he says finally, carefully, and she glances at him, eyes widening in confusion. She's just come back from getting her wallet out of her rooms across the hall, still dressed in that towel.
"Sorry?"
"That the parts took so long to come in. That...I was setting you up with my brother, or something."
She snorts. "Trust me, Bash, you couldn't manage a deceit like that if you tried. I would know in a heartbeat."
Bash flinches, glancing at the sword on the wall behind him almost instinctively.
"What...happened, between you to?" Mary asks, following his gaze, and Bash wants to snap at her that it isn't any of her damn business, and that she may be Francis' new love but she isn't his, and he isn't going to tell her anything.
"What makes you think something happened?" he asks instead.
She shrugs. "I have this way of reading people, I guess. And you two seem like normal, close brothers most of the time, only...there's something hiding there, just below the surface, I think."
And he isn't going to tell her, really isn't, for both of their sakes.
But then his lips are moving, on their own accord, and, within moments, he's telling her everything. It feels good, to get the words out, words that he's kept in for years now, hasn't dared to tell a soul, words that are the reason behind his solitude, before Francis showed up. Words that he could never say to Francis, but somehow can say to Mary.
The words have weighed down on his soul for ages now. He hadn't thought he would ever be able to release them, really, and yet, when Mary listens, he has the feeling that he's not being judged. That she's just...listening.
And when the story's over, he gets the feeling that she isn't judging him, either.
"I'm sorry you both had to go through that," she says instead, and he blinks at her, expecting recriminations, threats, something other than this calm acceptance.
"T-Thank you," he stutters out, and she gives him a sad smile. "I didn't think you'd understand, really. No one else did, not even Francis' mother."
"I'm sure," she says softly, and then, "I understand having to do something terrible for a good reason, though."
She has a far off look in her eyes as she says it, and later on, Bash will wish he asked her what she meant, by those words. But he doesn't, because Francis comes back into the room, holding a clean John, who immediately wiggles out of Francis' arms and runs over to throw his chubby arms around Mary's leg.
She laughs, scooping the little boy up and asking if he's hungry.
Mary leaves the next morning, with no explanation and no goodbye. They don't even know about it until they come to pick up John in the afternoon, having met just outside, and Mrs. Engelson tells them that she saw her taking off a few hours ago.
"But why would she leave?" Francis asks, and Bash wonders if he's asking Mrs. Engelson, Bash, or himself.
Mrs. Engelson shakes her head sympathetically. "Sorry, dear," she says, patting Francis' hand. "It really is a shame. But she left this week's rent, so something untoward must not have happened."
Francis looks like he wants to argue with that, but can't think up a good reason to.
Things in the little flat grudgingly return to the way they were only days afterwards. Francis goes back to his work at the bakery and his nights at the college as if nothing has changed, Bash goes back to his work as a mechanic, and John continues to be adorable, but it feels a little...stale to Bash, now.
And not only that, but a weight hangs over his chest, a niggling suspicion that he knows he can't reveal to Francis, not ever, as to why in fact she did leave.
And he knows that, like his confession to Mary, it's only a matter of time until everything comes bubbling to the surface.
"Do you think we could track down her mother, in Scotland?" Francis asks one day, leaning over his IPhone as if a last name is enough to find someone on the internet. "Maybe she knows where she is. Maybe she's in the hospital, or..."
Bash sighs. "Well, her car parts did come in a couple of days ago, Francis, and she left that day on her own, Mrs. Engelson said so. I don't think she was in any sort of trouble" he says reasonably, but Francis just shakes his head, because, as Bash knows, that's not what he wants to hear.
"I just can't understand why she would leave without bothering to say anything to us," he says, with a defeated little sigh. "There must be something wrong. She would have told me..."
And then, as they did with Mary, uncontrolled and almost without his consent, the words come bubbling from his lips. "I...told her."
For a moment, it's obvious that Francis doesn't understand. He just stares at Bash, that heartbroken, bemused look still on his face. And then, slowly, his face twists into an angry expression, his next words leaving in a snarl as he comes to understand exactly what it is Bash told her.
"You had no right to tell her any of that!" Francis shouts, fists clenching and a vein on his neck sticking out in his anger.
Bash lifts his hands in supplication. "I know that, Francis. I know. But I..."
"What is it?" Francis demands. "What is it with you? Do you have something against me ever being happy, or something?"
And Bash flinches. "No, Francis, of course not-"
"Do you hate me?" Francis goes on, undeterred. "Is that what this is? Do you still hate me so much that you can't let me have this one thing without feeling guilty over my small bit of happiness?"
"Francis, I could never hate you," Bash says softly, even though he knows his words will not be heard.
Francis snorts. "As if I believe that! You've hated me ever since! Well, you know what? I don't care, and if you wanted me to be miserable about it for the rest of my life, you should have just kicked me out two years ago!"
Bash shakes his head, "Francis, I don't hate you," he says bluntly. "At all. You did what you had to. I...understand that."
"Bull shit. You ran off the moment I..." Francis snaps, his whole body going taut. And then, in the next moment, oddly calm, "Are you in love with her? Is that what it is? You're trying to get rid of me in her life?" his face is stony, but grim, as though he's already resigned himself to this being the answer.
"Francis, that doesn't even make sense!"
"No, what doesn't make sense is that you would tell a woman that I care about, a woman you barely even know and who wouldn't understand because she wasn't there, about what happened years ago!" Francis snaps, and it is then that Bash notices his brother is holding the sword.
He doesn't even know how it got into Francis' hands; a moment ago, it was still hanging on the wall, a few feet away, and now it is in his hands, shaking with the wrath of his own anger, and Bash feels something like dread coiling up within him at the familiar sight.
"Francis..." he begins, but can't quite bring himself to say anything else. He knows that Francis would never actually do it, knows that he's safe...
But it doesn't stop his voice from trembling as he says his brother's name.
Francis looks down at the old blade in his hands in horror, and then Bash hears the sword clattering to the ground, hears his brother make a noise somewhere between a sob and a mad cry, gasping as he drops to his knees on the carpeting.
"I..." Francis starts to say, and then turns a soft glare on the knife, as if it is the cause of all the buried, bad feelings between them, before a hiccupping sob takes him again. And, in a way, Bash supposes, it is.
Bash doesn't move, just stares from where he is standing over Francis, his breaths coming in harsh gasps as the intensity of the moment slowly fades. His eyes are swimming, and yet, seem to be stuck in that strange limbo between actually tears and no tears at all.
John begins to cry then; a horrible, wrenching wail, and Bash wonders why the shouting hadn't woken him up earlier, and instantly feels guilty for doing so.
Francis runs to him then, picking him up and murmuring apologies before taking him into the other room, as if sheer physical distance from Bash will get the both of them to stop crying.
Who knows? Perhaps it will.
He finds himself staring down at the sword that has brought so much grief to their family for a long time, the sword that started it all, before finally trudging off to his room and falling into a troubled sleep.
The shared apartment is tense, now. Mrs. Engelson never comes over for a visit, only to drop off or pick up John in a perfunctory manner, never quite stopping to say anything beyond good morning or good evening. They don't have visitors, though they never really had them before; it's only more noticeable, now.
Bash gets up early to go to his shop, earlier than he ever has before, and gets breakfast on the way in, eats a cold dinner that's been left out for him when he finally gets home. Francis is always still gone at that point; either still with the Strausses at the bakery, or at his night classes.
Even John seems to have picked up on the sour mood of the place, and seems to almost prefer his time with Mrs. Engelson. Oh, Francis and Bash still dote on him, of course, but it feels almost forced now, as if it's just another duty in their day before they can finally surrender to sleep.
Bash has a theory that this might be because, whenever the little boy asks for cookies, he follows it up with a, "Mawry?" that has Francis swallowing hard and quickly distracting him.
Of course, it isn't John's fault that he doesn't realize what it is that has them all so tense; he's just a child, and they both know it, so neither one of them can stay quite anything like irritable around him, and somehow manage to have almost normal evenings together, playing Jenga or watching Disney with him.
And then, one cold November day, out of the blue, the other shoe drops.
Bash supposes it is not out of the blue entirely. He's been waiting for this moment for some time.
"The Strausses are moving to the country," Francis says then, his voice curiously flat. "They...they want me to take over the business for them."
Bash glances at him in surprise. "That's...that's wonderful," he breathes, and finds that he truly means it.
Francis gives him a weak smile. "Yeah. Only problem is...they want me to go to school for it. A real one."
"Baker's college?" Bash asks, slightly incredulously.
Francis shrugs. "They want me to be finished with school when I take over, so they're willing to wait, I guess. But...they're offering to help me pay way, to go full time in school."
Bash raises an eyebrow at this. "What about John?" he asks immediately, even if he wants to ask something more like, "What about me?" but knows that this won't help the situation, at all.
Francis takes a deep breath. "Well, he'll be going to preschool soon," he says, as if that's an answer at all, and it reminds Bash so depressingly of their own childhood that he wonders if he and Francis ever should have been allowed to raise a child, when they have no experience even being children, themselves. "And...I'd like to take him to the shop with me sometimes, if I'm going to be there full-time, now."
"Is this because of what happened?" Bash asks, knowing that it is.
Francis swallows hard. "Bash..." And Bash knows that tone. That, don't talk about it, tone. Drop it.
But they've spent too long not talking about it, and they need to. Now.
"I left because I wanted away from all the...shit that came with being a Valois," Bash says softly, pleading with him to understand even as Francis gets to his feet and starts to move away, oddly remind Bash of a child sticking his fingers in his ears to keep himself from hearing what Bash has to say. "Not because I blamed you for it."
"You should have," Francis whispers. "Mother did. All of them did, even if they never said anything, determined to take it with them to the grave."
"Francis, I-"
"No," Francis interrupted shortly. "Don't. I..." he turns to look at Bash. "We both fucked up back then, Bash, and we'll have to carry the weight of that for the rest of our lives. But..." he swallows audibly. "It wasn't your fault what happened, and I stopped blaming you a long time ago." He pauses, and then, taking a shuddering breath, whispers out, "It wasn't your fault, what happened to him. It was mine. Just mine."
Bash stares at him, sure that his mouth has fallen open in shock. "I..." no words will come after that, and he abruptly shuts it. "You were only doing what you thought was best for all of us. He was a danger to everyone, and he was trying to kill..." he abruptly clears his throat, then. "They weren't going to admit him to an asylum, Francis, not Henry Valois."
"I killed him," Francis whispers, hugging his knees. "And I shouldn't have. I was just so... I..." he glances sidelong at Bash. "And every year, another reminder that he died because of me. That I picked up that sword and..."
"Francis, and you were just trying to do what you thought would help. And we both..." he swallows then, because the confession has lain close to his heart all of these years, and he's still not sure if he can say it. "That final night, I thought I might have finally gotten through to him, but I didn't try to stop you, because a part of me didn't believe that anyone could get through to him. And I'm the one who has to live with that." He gulps, because, as freeing as it is to finally say the words, it hurts too, more than he thinks he can bear.
He's met with silence then, and Bash cringes, not daring to look at Francis for fear of his reaction.
And then, finally, "You're a better man than I am, Bash."
Which is ridiculous, of course, because Bash has spent the last few years of his life reconciling the fact that he is a horrible person, and he's certainly not a better man than Francis.
"I was...wondering if that room below yours is still available? Mrs. Engelson isn't in and..." Mary asks, even as Bash continues to gape at her. She twists her fingers around the strings of her purse awkwardly. "Actually, I was wondering if Francis was home. I guess...I should leave. Yes."
"Mary?" Francis whispers from behind Bash, his tone so shocked that Bash almost doesn't want to turn around. "What are you doing here?"
"My...my fiancé killed my mother," Mary blurts out, right there in the middle of the hallway, just as Mrs. Engelson is stepping out of her apartment, presumably to get the mail. Mrs. Engelson stops and gasps, though Bash doesn't know if this is because of what Mary has said or because she's back. "It turns out all that he wanted was my mother's empire. Anyway...the engagement is off. At least, for me." She gives a self-deprecating little laugh, then.
"I'm so sorry," Francis whispers, coming to stand next to Bash, and looking for all the world as if he truly was; as if his heart was breaking all over again for Mary, even if he had been something of a short rival.
He looks like he wants to step forward and take her in his arms, and is just barely refraining from doing so.
Mary sighs, looking so much different from the brassy, defiant girl Bash remembers that he wonders if there isn't something else going on. "Yeah," she says finally, "It sucks. My mother..." she bites her lip, looking away.
"You can stay as long as you need, dear," Mrs. Engelson says gently, taking her by the arm and leading her back to the apartment that's sat empty ever since she left.
Francis looks like a drowning puppy, as he watches her go and the door to that empty apartment eventually shut behind her. Bash tries not to smile, for the first time thinking that things might actually turn out right.
She comes back that evening, just as they're all sitting down for dinner, right on schedule, as it was always the time she showed up to share dinner with them...before.
"My fiancé's a crime boss," Mary says bluntly as the door shuts behind her, and Bash blinks at her in shock, nearly spilling his drink.
Francis just swallows. "How...?"
"My mother and Conde's brother set the engagement," Mary says with a shrug. "I didn't have much say in it, though I'm told Conde's already obsessed with me, despite the fact that we've only met twice. I...I was supposed to be in Florence for our wedding, and I was supposed to fly there."
"You're not really afraid of heights," Bash says then, because he feels useless just sitting here, interrupting their conversation.
Mary smirks at him. "No, not really. If that damn car hadn't freaked out, I'd have been in Germany by the time I came to stay here, I think. But it was the perfect opportunity to lie low for a couple of weeks."
"A couple of weeks?" Francis asks, his voice plaintive. "Is that all this was?"
She gives him a long look, and then, her voice vulnerable, "No. At least, not anymore."
"Then why did you leave?" Francis asks, his voice not quite accusing.
She sighs. "He...found out where I was while I was staying here, and..." she looks away then, and Bash doesn't think he needs to know the end of the story to figure it out. "Anyway, I didn't know where else to go," Mary finishes lamely. "My...mother was kind of...really insistent on this marriage, so..." she shrugs. "But I'm not going back there. Not to that life."
"I have some money here," Francis offers up suddenly, and Bash's heart breaks, just a little. "If you wanna start a new life, go somewhere he can't find you, live a little."
Mary gives him a watery smile. "Thanks, but I can't take your money..."
"I insist," he whispers very dryly, and Mary smiles at him, before suddenly reaching up and wiping at her eyes. "God," she murmurs, "and the worst part is...I'm relieved, and I know I should be horrified, by that at the very least."
Francis and Bash exchange a long, knowing look. Neither of them speak up then, Bash not knowing if it is because they are both too cowardly to do so, or don't think it will actually help her, but they know.
Finally, Francis moves forward, his motions hesitant, as if he's afraid he'll scare her away, but, after a moment, she lets him put his arm around her shoulders, leans into him.
"Anyway, I realized that my life is just as fucked up as yours," Mary says finally, not looking at him. "And...And I didn't really have the right to judge you, back then, not with what I and Louis and my whole family were knee-deep in. And...I didn't really judge you, Bash. I just...I ran, because I didn't want to be caught up in everything again, and then I ran straight back to Louis." She gave a watery snort. "Just like I always do."
"You're not that person, Mary," Bash offers. "Not really."
It takes a long time for Mary to open up; but then, she's like them, that way, and they don't mind, not really.
"He threatened to kill you all," Mary says then, not quite looking at Bash or Francis, but up at the starry night with something like awe.
Mrs. Engelson has left the apartment complex to them, now that she's retired, and they have a bit of a better view now. "He...he found out where I was, even though I thought I'd hid pretty good. I wouldn't have gone back, if it was just me he was threatening. He...he's obsessed with me, Bash. Or, he was. It's different now, but...anyway, I couldn't let that happen."
Bash sucks in a breath, glancing at Francis to see that he looks just as concerned, from where he's standing in the kitchen, digging through the shelves for another bottle. "That's why you left?" he clarifies.
She glances up at him, then takes another gulp of the wine bottle whole. "I think...it's why I wanted to come back here, I think. I...I'm afraid of commitments, Bash, and I don't know how much I can offer your brother but...it's...nice here, nicer than anywhere else I've had, so if you let me stay, I'd really appreciate it."
He smirks. "I thought it was already decided."
She punches him in the shoulder. "Oh, shut up, you. It's not like your brother'll make an honest woman out of me, anyway."
"Well, in all fairness, if anyone can make an honest man out of him, it'll take all three of us," Bash murmurs, and she snorts again.
"Hey!" a voice calls, and they see Francis, coming back from the kitchen with another bottle of wine.