A Simple Fix for a Complex Idiot | Trevor Belmont x female reader
Beneath the guise of professional exasperation, you, a pragmatic Seamstress justifies your hidden wine stash as a necessary tool for dealing with the constant chaos, and the persistent, charming distraction that is Trevor Belmont.
Rating: General audiences
Relationships: Trevor Belmont x female reader
The brass bell above the lintel of The Golden Spool issued a weak, protesting chime as Trevor Belmont shouldered his way inside. The delicate air of linen and beeswax was instantly spoiled by the man's entrance; he carried the heavy, unmistakable reek of stale ale, wet sawdust, and the dried, metallic scent of blood. An aroma so constant it was less a smell and more an extension of his person.
He winced, a reflex less triggered by the throbbing ache behind his eyes, rather by the sight of the damage. The full force of the hangover had yet to arrive that morning and he hoped it wouldn't. He gave a wry smile to the hideous, dark stain, slick and glossy, that had bloomed like a deadly flower across the chest of his tunic, marring the otherwise respectable, though deeply familiar, blue cloth. Another skirmish, another predictable end to an evening, resulting in ruin that needed remediation.
“God, no. Not again! You drunken ox!” A sharp voice sighed, laced with a familiar note of exhausted exasperation, cutting through the silence of the shop. You spared him a glance from your perch behind a large cutting table, piled high with vibrant bolts of deep-blue velvet and shimmering crimson satin. You were meticulously engaged in a complex piece of heraldry: a lion rampant, stitched in gold thread upon a field of stark white. The indication of your annoyance was the steady, rhythmic tap-tap of a pair of heavy shears against the polished wooden desk. Trevor, by now, knew the drill implicitly.
“It wasn't my fault,” he insisted, his voice slightly thick with lingering alcohol. He ran a grubby hand through his unwashed hair. “The man merely insulted the barlady's…” He caught himself just in time to stop himself making an obscene squeezing motion with his hands. “Well, he insulted her and I took exception. His teeth, I might add, were surprisingly hard.”
You lifted her head from the work you were occupied with, eyes narrowing in a look of profound, familiar exasperation. You were impossibly young to be commanding such a reputation in your trade, yet your hands, currently resting on the lion embroidery, were steady and precise. Your gaze held a weary maturity, earned from the continuous stream of erratic clientele who sought your flawless needlework, a stream often led by Trevor Belmont.
You pointed the tip of the shears at the damage. “That is expensive, dyed leather trim, and you have managed to saturate it with… what exactly is that? Pig entrails?”
“It was a moderately-sized spleen, I believe. From a particularly nasty rogue.” He corrected, offering the distinction as if it were a defense of his honor. He leaned against the doorframe, attempting to project a rakish charm that only highlighted his current state of disarray. He was failing.
“Right. Take it off." You commanded, not rising. “I’ll see what I can save.”
Trevor straightened, a genuine, albeit lopsided, grin spreading across his face.
“Always so eager to disrobe me, Seamstress. I’m flattered by your enthusiasm.”
You did not miss a beat, gaze cool and level.
“I’m enthusiastic to remedy your ridiculous, self-destructive habit so I can finally afford to replace a window that doesn’t let in the stench of you and your self-pity! Now, off with it, or I shall charge you a double fee.”
This had become your routine over the past few months. Trevor, wandering from village to village, found himself repeatedly drawn back to this one, and specifically, this shop. Not just for the impeccable, invisible mending you did but for you.
He shucked the tunic off, revealing the solid, scarred muscle beneath a simple linen undershirt. Hardened to the sight, you picked up the ruined garment with the tip of your shears, holding it away from you.
“A simple patch will look like a scar on this.” You murmured, brow furrowed in concentration. “I think I’ll have to cut the panel out and replace it with a darker weave. I have some deep indigo that will blend.”
Trevor watched you work, leaning against the counter, suddenly sobered by your focus. The shop was warm, lit by a single oil lamp on the counter, casting a soft glow on the threads, needles, and spools. It was a haven of order against the chaos he usually inhabited.
“You know, I could just wear fewer clothes.” He suggested, letting his usual swagger return. “Save you the trouble. It'll guve the villagers something to look at besides their own dreary faces.”
You didn’t look up.
“If you did, you’d scare the villagers away entirely. You’re already grimy enough. Besides,” you glanced up quickly, a faint, mischievous smirk playing on your lips, “I like the way you look in that blue tunic. It matches your eyes.”
Trevor felt a genuine, non-ale-induced warmth spread through his chest. He pushed a small, velvet bag of coins, more than enough for the job, across the counter.
“You always say the nicest things. It’s an art form, really,” he said, leaning in. “Tell me, do you ever shut the shop early? Say, around supper time?”
You pinned a section of the new fabric into place with quick, efficient movements. “Only when I have to mend the clothes of particularly persistent idiots who get bitten and then expect me to listen to them drone on about their heroic wounds.”
“So, that’s a yes then?” He pressed, the grin tenacious. You carefully put the needle down and placed your hands flat on the counter. The pause was deliberate, a weapon.
“No, Trevor. That’s me reminding you that a seamstress running an honest business has a reputation to maintain. I can’t be seen entertaining vagrants like you after dark. People talk, and frankly, my reputation is far cleaner than your garments usually are.”
“Let them talk." He murmured, his voice dropping low, the usual swagger now smooth and practiced. He reached across the counter, not quite touching you, but letting his fingers hover near the small, quick ones that were always working. “Let them say the disgraced Belmont finally found someone interesting enough to spend his ill-gotten coins on. Someone who can actually keep him decent.”
Your hands stilled, you looked up, and the look you gave him was not vulnerability, but a challenge, a flicker of acknowledgment beneath the professional annoyance.
“You’re a terrible risk, Trevor Belmont." You quipped, voice dry, but your eyes holding a definite spark. “The moment I let you near my wine, I guarantee you’d ruin the glass, the rug, and my evening.”
He chuckled, the sound low in his chest.
“You have wine? Here? Well, since you've revealed your professional secret... don't be greedy." He pushed off the counter, retrieving the velvet bag of coins he had placed down earlier, and dropped a single, heavy gold coin onto the fabric bolt beside you.
“Tell me where you buy your wine, and I'll bring the cheese. This one is for the tip.”
You glanced at the gold coin, a ridiculously high payment for a mending job. You picked up the tunic, holding the deep indigo patch in the lamplight, expression unreadable.
“The wine is from the market on the north side of town,” you replied, the hint of a smirk returning. “that coin is going straight to my rent, not your bar tab.”
Trevor threw his head back and laughed.
“I wouldn't dream of checking. Good night, Seamstress.”
“Go ruin someone else's night, Belmont!" You called after him, already back to work, the rhythmic tap-tap of your shears beginning anew.
