need a little sweetness

[His fingers twitch as she continues - because in all honesty, there’s nothing he wants more than to embrace her, to plant kisses all over her face as she stumbles over the word “honey”. It’s beyond enamoring– it’s downright adorable. He sighs, bracing an elbow on his desk, resting a cheek on his palm, and stares at her glossily for a moment, allowing himself a moment to daydream about how much he’d prefer to ditch this “taking things slow” seatbelt he’s stupidly buckled himself into.]

[Ever conscious of the game he’s playing, however, he turns this sigh and gesture into a put-upon thing, rather than the heartsick hum that it is.] Ah, well. I suppose that will have to do. You might combine them for added effectiveness, you know. “Honey-wumkin sweetie-pie” works just as well, if not better. Now– [He moves on quickly before he’s no longer able to hold on to a straight face, holding up two fingers abruptly.]

[She glances to the long forgotten slice of cake and winces at the sound of “honey-wumkin sweetie-pie.” Honestly.] ...Honestly...? [Grumbling:] Are you for real right now...? There is no way you’ll ever get me to say those words.

“Fluffy stuff.” [He repeats the phrase, as though trying it out in his mouth. Is he better at “fluffy stuff” than she is? Sounds like a jab to his masculinity when put that way, really. What exactly does “fluffy stuff” entail? His mind supplies the alternative: romanticism, ah yes, that’s something he’ll admit to ascribing to in droves, thank you very much.]

That’s fine, of course. I’d expect nothing less, one ought to supply a pet name for a pet name. And look– listen how easily it rolls off the tongue: [He clears his throat.] “Oh, I don’t know, kitten. What do you think?” [He bats his eyelashes, pleased with himself thus far.] And you’ll reply– “That’s just fine with me, wookums.” That’s just the way it’s got to be, I’m afraid.

“Wookums”... [she mutters.] My gods. That’s worse than anything I could ever have imagined-- 

[She shakes her head at “prince charming.” Then “stud muffin.” She scowls deeper than she’s ever scowled in her life.] --How do you even come up with this stuff? No “prince charming” I know could ever force a lady to say -- to say “stud muffin” to his face. In a public place, no less. [She pouts.] 

[Ah, the justifications one makes for being an awful person! But even under the twitch to misbehave there’s a quiet buzz of insecurity that wonders, softly, annoyingly: isn’t it good to push too far now to avoid heartache later?]

Oh, no, visiting hours and types of food are all well and good– for a clinic, perhaps. But I’m not a clinic. [He smiles at her refusal to be a puppet, scratching the side of his nose idly.] Well, certainly. A relationship ought to create rules in a mutually beneficial fashion. There’s the implied, of course– that to be exclusive means exactly such, without flexibility, that sort of thing. But what I mean to get at is..

[He pauses for a moment, trying to craft a silly rule on the fly. He hadn’t even thought of anything up until this point, had never even conceived of an actual rule he even cared enough about to enact, and now his brain casts around for something ridiculous to prod her with. After a moment, he continues just as sincerely as before.] … Well, for starters, I’ve absolutely got to have something to call you. “Ms. Dolce” simply won’t do, so it’s got to be something that lets others know you’re off limits to them, yes? A pet name. I’m thinking– [And he’s reaching for top shelf levels of ridiculous, now:] 

[In anxious silence, looking at her hands clasped before her, she awaits his next point. Gods, what’s taking him so long to spit it out? Her eyes dart to his face, and that’s where they stay when the next rule spills from his mouth. Which she most certainly is not staring at. Which just uttered the most -- ridiculous word she’s ever heard--]

Wait. What? [Her brows furrow as the word “kitten” echoes in her head.] What? I -- I -- [Words fail her, and she can feel her face start to burn at the sudden number of images that flash across her mind. An accessory shop. An inconvenient arousal. A tease here, a blush there-- ] I--I--

[She starts to shake her head for good measure.] No. No. Common pet names, nicknames, okay, but-- to literally call me that? A-And in public? No. Absolutely not! Unless -- [Unless what?? How can she counter such a name? She reaches, her startled mind almost too paralyzed and confused to conjure up an equally horrendous pet name for him.] 

[Her rambling is interesting, too - and for some reason, her obvious disease puts him more at ease. Thank goodness for things that make life easier, even if they’re at poor Dolce’s expense.]

I think I’d be awfully impolite if I said I’d prefer you’d craft a gift after my own preferences. I ought to be grateful for the gift at all. And for your company. [Smiles wider.] Which I am, by the way. Both are a very lovely surprise, and most certainly welcome.

[There’s a moment where he visualizes two roads splayed out before him - the more sincere, more genuine of the two inclined toward making his guest– and girlfriend, he reminds himself– feel more at ease with him. He’s a hospitable person; he always has been. He knows good etiquette, knows how to be a good host, knows how to make someone comfortable in his shop and in his home. He likes very much to think of himself as having an enormous skill for it, in fact.]

[Who knows why he takes the other road, then, diverging almost violently from that first path. The temptation is too great for his stunted sense of willpower, perhaps.]

[She waits on bated breath when there’s a slight pause in their conversation. Then she looks at him, watches as he starts to speak again.] Uh... [Oh, shit, he’s setting ground rules now? Is this--is this normal in a relationship?] Oh. Right, of course. 

[She shifts in her chair, discomfited by the seriousness in his tone.] Okay. Yeah. Rules. Like -- what kind of rules? About visiting hours? Because I can call or text ahead next time. And if you have special requirements regarding what foods you’d prefer, I can do that. [She pauses, wondering briefly on why she’s being so accommodating. It’s not normal (again with that word, “normal!”), but perhaps it’s just the nearness of him that’s getting to her. Again, she can’t seem to think straight now, sitting next to her boyfriend. Her boyfriend who’s in total control of the conversation -- ] 

She met his extended hand with her own. How formal an introduction he was making! It certainly left an impression on her -- he was much unlike the usual sweaty, tired traveller she’d bump into around town. 

“It’s nice to met you, Danny,” she said.” I’m Dolce. I work at the clinic.” She readjusted her grip on the parasol’s handle. “Follow me.” 

… [He takes another bite of the cake he, too, has little appetite for - and he ponders her as he does so, ponders her even as she turns her explanation into a question. He’s slow to reply for how deeply he’s pondering, taking his sweet time in forming a response.]

[Finally, at length:] … I’ve been well, thank you. I’ve had quite a lot of free time to spend thinking, and I’ve been doing my fair share of it. [He watches her as he talks, then continues fluidly, casually, conversationally:] 

Uh...no. No. [She lies, for it’s easy to lie. But she doesn’t really have a good reason to lie other than not wanting to admit that he’s right.] ...Okay, yeah. A little. I don’t know. [She fidgets a bit in her seat and stares at the cake. Tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.] I’m not sure I know how to...behave, now. I mean -- what have you been thinking about? Is it even alright for me to come visit you out of the blue? And gods, I shouldn’t have brought cake -- you’d said once that you didn’t...prefer sweet things if you could help it. What’s your favorite food? Not that I care...but I do.

Ah, thank you. [He takes the fork up from the napkin, leaning over to examine the cake before having a bite. His appetite has plummeted out of his stomach since the moment she’s walked in, despite how oblivious he is to her lack of appetite, as well - but it really is a lovely cake, and lovely of her to bring it, too. It would be rude not to eat now, especially if she’s got the fork ready.] It looks delicious.

[He takes a bite obediently, savoring it, watching her out of the corner of his eye as he does so. He wonders while his mouth is full - how the process went, how much Dolce’s would-be-mother knows about him. The conversation they may or may not have had while said cake was baking. How intentional was it of a gift from all parties involved? Curious, curious.]

I’m glad you like it. [She looks to him now and swallows.] Ah -- um, I’d like to, but I think I’ve had my fair share already. [She pats her stomach and then glances at the cake.] ...Besides. I don’t really have an appetite right now. I don’t know why -- [The words sort of spilling out:] -- I mean, I still enjoy dessert, but sometimes I have difficult concentrating on eating all the other meals of the day. Not that I’m sick or anything. [Though she supposes it’s a kind of sickness, isn’t it? The awkward anxiety of being away from someone whom she spends a great deal of time thinking about and is now only amplified by his presence.] 

[He takes a step back, hovering awkwardly– before turning and heading up the stairs after a slight delay. It’s a few minutes before he reappears, looking no better for having taken a few minutes to compose himself– yet still, he sets a steeping mug of tea down on the counter for her when he comes back.]

[When he returns, she looks to him.] Oh, thank you. [Wraps her hands around he mug and takes a sip as she watches him tidy.] 

[She looks to the puzzle, an eyebrow cocked. She doesn’t question its presence or the fact that he had been solving it, however; she’s well aware of his love of all things brain-twister.] I hope I didn’t interrupt your chain of thought, if you were onto something. 

[She doesn’t react much to his prodding - and he runs his tongue along the front of his teeth, a little dismayed by it. Something to think about, he decides, how to ramp his behavior up a touch– it’s not a good sign that she’s so used to him already. And to think that their “relationship” is just starting out– in name, at least.]

[Spontaneity, that’s got to be the key. Surely it must be. That, or he’s not laying it on thick enough.] Careful. I might read that as a challenge.

[He comes to a stop as she does, glancing up to the door and back to her.] You’re welcome. [And he runs his fingertips through the back of his hair, soothing the scalp he’d been so recently protective of - still feeling somewhat at odds with the events that led to him standing here, feeling the sort of things he does. The discomfort still lingering definitely needs sorting out. After a short pause, he clears his throat.]

I’ll see you soon, then. [Smiles, then takes a step back.] Sooner than later, I hope. [And another.] Do think about the, ah– [He points to the space above his head, grinning widely.] –the headgear. I promise not to be taken quite so off guard next time. ♪

[She watches him touch he back of his head, and she’s tempted to reach out, touch his hair. There are a few strands threatening to obscure his field of view, and she’d just like to sweep them away. But she refrains.] 

Yeah. I’ll see you soon. [Her lips twitch into a smile.] I’ll sleep on it. 

[He’s surprised momentarily by the redirection of her touch - glancing to her curiously as she touches the back of his neck, rather than his arm. It’s not an area people often touch– indeed, people so rarely touch him at all– that he’s surprised at the sudden impulse to pull away, to protect the scarred scalp just slightly above her palm. He quashes it, of course, doesn’t so much as flinch - but it’s a curious feeling just the same.]

Sharing can be a good thing, Mistel. It can earn you favor in the eyes of other people, for instance. It can make people feel they owe you something -- which in and of itself isn’t a good thing, but it can be useful...

[Shrugging.] But I suppose -- sharing a partner in, uh, in a relationship isn’t for everyone. [She returns his grin with a cocked eyebrow.] I’m not intimidated by your threats, in case you were wondering. You can’t possibly be worse than Pico. 

Decorative cover of ‘Mary Jones.’ Published by the American Tract Society (1848).

… Um. [It doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable to be so blunt about it, though - even if he feels she deserves it.] I don’t think it’s wrong to be traditional. I like that you’re traditional. I like to aspire to, ah– being traditional, myself. But, um.

[Frowns.] … I think perhaps if you’d have wanted to see other people– in this day and age– you’d hardly owe me your commitment unless you’d actually offered it. And given, uh– the circumstances– surrounding that night– [He frowns harder.] … I think I’d come to expect that maybe– taking things slow meant– figuring out if you’d still be just as interested. Without. You know. The potion thing. I thought maybe we were waiting to see if that’s where this was going, I think. I guess.

[Shrugging.] Not that it matters now. Since we’ve reached that point. Of labels. [She clears her throat as she sees the clinic draw nearer, nearer in her field of vision.] ...Thank you for explaining your side of it, though. Really. I guess I hadn’t realized how...how differing two people’s opinions could be on their relationship. 

I suppose you’re right. [Smiles to her.] Some time to think on it will undoubtedly improve upon the poetic justice of it all, no doubt. It won’t be quite as satisfying if it’s not severe and appropriately fitting.

[Despite her better judgment, she decides to link arms with him again as she makes her way down the road. She walks in silence for a moment, until she spots another couple across the way, holding hands and sharing laughter. Clearing her throat, she asks a question that jumps to the forefront of her mind.] Mistel... [Looking at him.] You know, I was wondering...since you hadn’t attached a label to what we are these past few months...would it have been alright for either one of us to, I don’t know -- to have started seeing other people then...? Not that I did anything like that. Nor would I have been alright with it.