Renard is not okay with his... bullet situation. But he insists that he accepted it, that he is fine with it, etc... The harder he insists, the less okay he actually is. Belle, ever perceptive, sees right through him.

So this is my first foray back into renbelle (and fanfic in general) in approx six centuries. Hope you enjoy ;-;

----

It felt like another lifetime when Belle had felt relief about the bullet in Renard’s brain slowly killing him so that she could eventually go home. These days, the home she yearned for was his arms, squeezing her just a little too tightly so he could feel the pressure and know she was there.

She knew he didn’t like her wandering the base, that a part of him feared she’d be attacked or that she would escape, but she knew that there were enough men on her side that an attack wouldn’t be a problem, and she didn’t want to escape. 

When Renard wanted to hide, he was impossible to find, but Belle had an inkling of where he might be today, so she meandered down the halls, waving to guards as she passed. The guards outside her own room had offered to accompany her, but Renard wouldn’t have wanted them to see them together even if he might have preferred that Belle not be alone.

Just as she thought she would, she found him in his control room, glowering at his reflection in a compact mirror. 

“Renard?”

He jumped, slamming the compact shut, and the fact that he hadn’t noticed her come in told her just how important it was that she had.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, hands clenched tightly enough to hurt—if he could have felt it.

“I missed you.” She sat in the chair usually reserved for Lagunov and rested her palms atop his fists. When he didn’t look down, she pressed her nails into his wrist. 

That got his attention. He loosened his grip, allowing her to take both hands in hers and lace their fingers together.

“I would have come by tonight,” he said. His gaze strayed toward the closed compact. She knew he’d been staring at his scar, thinking about the bullet traveling further and further down. His last CT scan showed it moving for the first time in a few months. She didn’t like to think about it.

“Didn’t you miss me now though?” She nudged his knees with hers, and was finally rewarded with his full attention.

“I always miss you.” 

He looked like he wanted to kiss her, but he only ever did when they were alone, tucked up together in their own little world. In the light of day, it was like he didn’t believe she was there. Sometimes she didn’t believe she was there.

Keeping hold of his hands, she stood to kiss him on the forehead, then settled into his lap instead. As she’d hoped, he wrapped his arms around her and rested his head against her shoulder.

“Are you dwelling?” she asked. She wanted to touch his scar while his eyes were closed, but he didn’t like anyone to touch it, so she wouldn’t violate his trust. 

“Of course not,” he scoffed. “Just thinking about where to set myself on fire to go out with the most glory.”

“I don’t want you to blow yourself up.” She cupped his cheek, knowing he would see that, and he tilted his head so she could run her fingers across his stubbly chin.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “What’s done is done.”

She tilted his chin up to look at her, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. 

“Renard.”

“What?”

“Look at me.”

“Why don’t you go back to your room?”

“Renard.”

“I’m fine.”

She pursed her lips, still gripping his chin, and he rolled his eyes.

“Fine.” He cupped her cheek with the hand not supporting her back, fingers digging in harder than usual. He wanted to feel her in his hands. “Are you happy now?”

“I’m always happy with you.” She turned her face to kiss his palm, and he watched her, all his focus finally on her. 

“You don’t have to comfort me,” he said. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” she said. “So you’re fine. Maybe I’m not fine.”

He frowned, hand flexing at her hip. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t like thinking about it.” She tapped him on the forehead, not wanting to acknowledge it out loud. “I just want to hold you.”

He licked his lips, glancing back at the compact. She plucked it off the desk and stuck it in her pocket—it was hers anyway. 

“You need comfort?” he asked.

“Desperately,” she said. “I’m dwelling.” 

They both knew she was massaging the truth, that Belle could never be as haunted by the bullet as he himself was, but Renard slid both his arms underneath hers, crushing her to him, and kissed her collar.

“You may hold me,” he said, and she nearly laughed as she wrapped her arms around him. Even if he couldn’t feel exactly where her arms laid across his shoulders or exactly the way her hand cupped his head, he could still feel safe and warm and held. 

“Thank you.” She kissed his head, sure to make the loudest smacking sound she could so that he’d know, and she felt him smile against her. 

“I never dwell,” he mumbled into her chest.