AN: I know it's been a while since you guys have had any updates for this, and I feel terrible about that. Unfortunately, such is life, and I thank those of you still following for your patience and readership. I will finish the story, it's just gonna take rather longer than I first thought. Anyway, enjoy…


Joan's back on her feet and back at school now. I let her take half of Tuesday off—not sure how tired she really was, but she does well enough in class that missing a day here and there isn't going to hurt. My grades, on the other hand… Quiet in the cheap seats, I already know what you'd say. Anyway, along with Joan being back at school, we're back at the workshop, working on some big builds. Naveen's just modified his tank farm, and he wants us to put in some more stairs like the ones we made fifteen odd years ago. Kristoff and Maurice have been busy with drawing those up the past two days, and only now are we starting to cut metal.

I can tell it's going to be a tough day—physically demanding. But I also really like days like this. It's easy to get into the rhythm of it, and once you've started that feeling of progress is addictive. It's why I'm starting with the small cuts first. Well, small for 130 x 10. The grinding disc eats into the steel as I push the grinder gently forwards. Precision is important. Especially when doing complex angles like these support plates. Some of them we're getting laser cut, but for the most part it's just angle grinders and skill. And by morning tea the only thing we can smell in the workshop is the tang of ozone from cut steel.

So of course it's going to rain so we can't break outside. Instead we just sit or lean against the pillars next to the main roller door. Maurice is talking about Belle, how she came to him for advice on Tuesday. He doesn't ask if she's talked to anyone else, and I'm grateful for that. I wouldn't have felt right lying to him—or telling him the truth. Either way I would have been betraying someone's trust. He doesn't say what they spoke about though, which I find interesting, and perhaps a little worrying. I decide to text Belle, hoping she's not in class.

I ask if she's told her father—she has—and whether or not Adam knows. Apparently Adam wants to keep it, thinks it might help him get in the right headspace. They're not rushing though, following the advice I gave Belle the other week. She says six weeks before they make the decision. It's a major though, and maybe they shouldn't wait that long. Longer, yes, but maybe not six weeks. That's my opinion though, and before we can get any further Belle texts me that her lecturer has arrived. Well, I guess we'll just have to talk about it at some later date.

The conversation with Belle was more informative than I'd been hoping for. Also, distracting. I finish my food, then head back to the trestles I set up earlier. Now it's time for the big cuts. Marking out again, and marking the kerf line too. It's always easier to keep the disc between lines than contacting one. Kristoff drilled that into me when I started, and it stuck pretty well. Working to a 1 mm tolerance isn't that hard either. I flip my visor down and pull on some earmuffs. Now it's cutting time, and the scream of the grinder is muted by the earmuffs, the stray sparks deflected by my mask and overalls. The cut is easy, but it's also a moment. Almost like when I weld. The disc shears through the last little bit holding the off-cut to my workpiece.

It doesn't fall. I put the trestles around the right way so as to stop any shenanigans like that. Heh—I know you liked that word, the feel of it on your tongue. I remember you used it to describe our adventures in the upstairs hallway, after the fact. Y'know, I think that's the next part I'm telling Joan anyway. But enough reverie, I have to get back to work, the rest of this steel isn't cutting itself. That's pretty much the rest of the day, until afternoon tea. I notice I've gotten a couple of texts while I've been working.

One is from Lefou, reminding me about remembrance day—next Thursday. I set some reminders and give hime a quick reply. It occurs to me that I haven't yet composed a speech for the day. Or, y'know, something nice to say about Gaston. You'd think after all these years I'd be better at it, but nope. I didn't hate Gaston, but he didn't exactly make himself likeable either. Most years I've said nothing, that old adage about when you have nothing nice to say… yeah, still true.

Now the other text, that's from Belle, her classes are finished for the day. She wants to meet again, at the park. It doesn't sound urgent, but I drop a gentle hint about dinner just in case. Hopefully I'm not being too obscure. Given that, to me, today is just some random Thursday, I'm really surprised by the amount of texting I'm doing at work, even if it is on break. Okay, that reply was—oh. It's from Joan.

Hey mom, Tink's
coming over for a
sleepover tonight,
okay?

I hate to say it, but she picked up those manners from me. Not my proudest achievement. I sigh heavily. I really do owe my mother quite an apology. For everything. And you, stop laughing. I'd like to know how you would've dealt with situations like this… hah. Got you. And now I'm imagining you, very, very embarrassed, trying to give our daughter 'the talk'. If it wasn't so wrong I'd have a camera set up to catch every cringe-inducing second you were there. Me, cruel and unusual? Okay, yes, unusual, but you'd have laughed it off eventually, I know. You were always a good sport.

The rest of the day isn't that interesting—more of the same really, and I know it'll be more tomorrow too. Prep everything, then weld up the sub-assemblies for this project. It'll be epic—though I remember showing you our first set, and you were rather indifferent to the whole thing. Well, maybe just rather less excited than me. But I think it was one of your bad days… later in our relationship. I put the thought aside, doing a quick tidy of my bench and the trestles. I'm still trying to figure out what to do about Joan, and Tina. I get the feeling 'sleepover' could have used some quotation marks.

In the van, on the way home, I bring it up with Kristoff. He was apparently the one to give her permission; didn't see any harm in it—okay, so there isn't any harm in it, even if… yeah. So they're young, they both like each other, and have supportive parents. Or at least one supportive parent in Tina's case. Kristoff also has some words of advice for me—or possibly orders.

"No prying. Or spying. Or meddling. "

"I—"

"Just let them be, feistypants."

There's silence between us. The drive home is uneventful, but that gives me time to think. By the time we're pulling up I still don't have any better way to put my vague unease at this most recent development. I just say it.

"I just… is it wrong I worry about them?"

"I do too, sometimes," Kristoff confides to me. "But let them be themselves. I really don't think we have much to worry about. From what I hear, our daughter is almost nothing like you were at that age."

"And the pile of evidence to the contrary?" He knows exactly which example I'm about to use.

"That's why I said almost—sure she's as fiery and short-tempered as you were sometimes, but she's a good kid." He opens the door, looking back to me as he finishes. "So's Tina."

Tina is standing in the living room, and waves nervously as we look over at her. "Uh, hi?"

I just laugh, Kristoff pats me on the back. Only then do we notice Joan's absence, and noise in the kitchen.

"I take it Joan is cooking you dinner?"

"At least, I think she is," Tina gives us a quick smile. I hear cursing in the kitchen. I feel that perhaps my daughter's ambition has once more outweighed her talent in the culinary arts.

Kristoff shakes his head, giving me a quick grin. "I'll save her." Not quite loud enough for Tina to hear.

That leaves me and Tina standing in the living room. This should not feel so weird. Tina frowns, looking at her feet. "Am I imposing?"

I flop into an armchair, beckoning for her to sit. I'm surprised at how little I know of her, given how well Joan knows her. Could that be the purpose of tonight's dinner and sleepover—not the thing I was imagining? Although, knowing my daughter, she's ambitious enough to try both. Brazen enough too. I blink and shake my head. Tina's still talking, quite nervously.

"Umm, miss Bergman?"

"Sorry Tina, zoned out for a moment."

"Huh… Joan said you do that sometimes. Um, anyway, is it actually okay for me to sleep over tonight?"

"Yes, it's fine. You don't have to be so nervous about it."

"Actually, I'm kinda nervous about her cooking," and now she's teasing a short strand of hair by her ear. "The cake was nice and all, but when we uh… fine, when we ran away, not the best chef ever."

"Probably my fault. Or Elsa's," I smile. "Neither of us was a particularly good chef. Passable, maybe. Now Kristoff, he can cook."

"So that's why the kitchen suddenly went quiet."


Dinner is… interesting. I stand by my earlier comment, though it looks like Kristoff has managed to rescue a couple of things from complete disaster—or at least helped Joan do that herself. It's clear that this dinner is quite important to her. To Tina, too, judging by that glow in her cheeks. Yes, young ladies, you have just confirmed my suspicions. I give the food another look. Fish, with an interesting looking risotto on the side and curious range of vegetables to accompany the meat. I, on the other hand, have chicken tenderloins in front of me, instead of fillet skate—but hey, she knows I dislike fish, and she prepared accordingly. The risotto is actually quite good.

"You may be wondering why I gathered you all here tonight," Joan looks around the table. I shake my head, mouth full. Kristoff smiles. Tina cocks her head and frowns in confusion. "It's because I intend to make Tina a Bergafont—I mean a Bellman—I mean a Burgle… Oh, you know what I mean."

Kristoff holds up a finger to silence me before I can say something stupid.

"And this may come as a something of a shock, but, it's some time off yet. We haven't even finished school, have we, Tink?"

Tina shakes her head. "Well, no, we haven't. But during our little runaway it was kinda nice, just us two. Except Joan's cooking, and me being a terrible blanket, and anyway, we have a plan, and we would like your blessing."

I give Joan a long, searching look. I can see it in her eyes. She's committed. She wants in. But she's also slightly guarded, and I understand why. Kristoff gives me a quick nod of approval from the far end of the table. Tina looks more than a little nervous. Maybe even scared—but not of being with Joan. I think it's us. She's afraid of us saying no. I wonder if she's talked about this with her own mother. I'll try to remember to ask Cara next time I run into her.

"You're both very young," Kristoff gives them stern looks. "And personally, I can't I approve until you're at least a little older, and wiser"—he holds up a hand, still with a fork in it and a piece of fish on that—"but, while I don't approve of it, I think the sentiment is very noble." He takes a bite out of the fish. "Oh, and even if I did approve, it'd be pretty challenging to get it recognised officially anyway."

"Oh," Joan sounds more than a little deflated. "I guess… well, that kinda does make sense." Then she and Tina look at me.

"Look, the idea would be great—if the two of you were, say, nineteen or twenty—"

"Mom!"

"—but I won't say you two can't act that way while you're under this roof. Just be careful, okay"—and I give Joan a pointed look, because this is not what she thinks—"because hearts are fragile things, and putting one back together is no easy task."

And for some reason Tina giggles at that. She shares a look with Joan. "You said she'd say about—" Joan shushes her, but it's too late. Far, far too late.

"We were both teenagers once," I give the girls a look, indicating both me and Kristoff. "It's not like we can't figure it out."

They stare at us, cheeks glowing. I lean in close to Joan, whispering in her ear.

"Just don't do anything you'd be embarrassed to tell us in the morning, okay?" I feel there's one more thing I should add. "Also, sorry if I kinda killed the mood for later."

"You are not sorry." It's biting, but there's no malice in it. Also, she's right. I'm not sorry. Looking back on my own youth, I find the reflection hilarious. Hopefully she will too, someday. For now, however, she just scowls at me and stabs her fish rather harder than necessary. It's going to be fun tonight. For who, well… that would be telling.