FIC: "Living Large" (Moist Von Lipwig, Adora Belle Dearheart. PG.)
Author: SandyQuinn
Title: Living Large
Characters and/or Pairing(s): Moist Von Lipwig, Adora Belle Dearheart
Rating: PG
Word Count: 908
Possible warnings and/or enticements - highlight to view (may contain spoilers): *None.*
Summary: Negotiation. Moist wants to do couple-things. Prompt 82: Moist/Adora Belle, ballet and cigarettes, and exercise, and living dangerously.
Author's Notes: Shameless fluff, really? Whoops.
It wasn't Moist's fault, of course, that running both a post office and a bank ate most of his time and most of that time was spent sitting down. He thought there were definitely better ways for a loving fiancee to mention a slight tummy than poking at it and calling her loving husband-to-be a blob.
He'd resolved to take up exercise, of course, but it was hard, because he had not had to, before. Avoiding the long arm of the law had, back in the day, had inspired him to some truly athletic feats of glory and a bit of a tummy had not been an issue.
“We could take up dancing,” Moist suggested, restlessly.
“I hate dancing,” Adora said from the midst of her private cloud of smoke.
They'd been hanging in his office for some time. She could be more stubborn than any golem when she'd decided something. Moist supposed he should be glad she cared so much.
“All sorts of dancing? Because I heard the dwarfs have this dance where they all settle in rows and-”
“Why can't you just take a walk after supper like any other man in respectable business?”
“Because it's boring!”
He would have liked some more time with Adora, too. He hardly ever saw her as it was, but telling her that might have probably been considered clingy.
Moist was slightly awed at the way another person's existence had become so crucial for him.
She puffed out some more smoke and Moist eyed wistfully at what he hoped was her face, but was probably her shoulder.
“Can't we try dancing? We're getting invites to all sorts of places, we could take them up maybe twice, three times a week- “
“No. Can't you just- oh, I don't know, do push-ups or something?”
Moist stared at her, mystified. She sighed, getting up.
“You know, lie down on the floor, push yourself up with your arms, repeat as often as necessary?” She crouched down, long dress and all, and Moist sprang up on his seat.
“Don't-! Don't try to give me a demonstration, you'll light the carpet on fire-”
“So you do know what those are,” she said, a tad smugly.
“We did them in school. Gym classes.” He shuddered. “I don't think I was quite that bad in my previous life.”
“Well,” Adora said, sitting down on the carpet like it was the most natural thing in the world, resuming smoking. “I don't know, then. Get fat, I guess? I can roll you around the streets. Or maybe get Gladys to do so.”
“Why don't you like dancing?”
She was quiet for a moment, which surprised Moist. He hadn't thought it was anything worth a serious consideration.
“When I was nine,” she said, finally, “I wanted to be a ballerina.”
Moist didn't know that to say. Saying “I guess they could have set ash-trays around the stage” might not have been sensitive, but he couldn't imagine Adora, his Spike, in those flimsy tutus twirling around in the spot-light. She didn't do sudden movements unless they involved sharp objects, and yes, she was graceful, but Spike wasn't- she wasn't-
“Oh,” Moist said, stupidly.
Adora snorted. “Only for a year. My father brought me this music box- you know, the ones with the ballerinas going 'round and 'round. And I was clumsy for my age and the ballerina- she seemed to know what she was doing. It actually requires a lot of work and strength, you know,“ she fixed a glare at Moist, daring him to laugh and get a cigarette put out in his eye. “And I'm allowed to like feminine things. Every now and then.”
“I'm sure it does,” Moist said hastily. “I couldn't stand on my toes. And yes you are. How many points do I get now?”
“I guess it's not a very good reason,” she said, sucking on her cigarette grouchily. She exhaled smoke, after a moment. “I'm just not a very good dancer, all right?”
They sat in silence for a while. She finished her cigarette. He offered the carton without a word.
“I hate dancing too,” he exhaled.
“What?”
“Can't stand it. Don't see the point. Was traumatized by elderly aunties stepping on my toes when I was lad. Whatever, take your pick. I don't want to dance.”
“Oh,” she said.
“That's my line,” Moist said lamely.
“I suppose we'll sit in every night, then,” she said slowly. “You'd better get very rich, though. I want to hire people to carry us around when we can't fit through doors.”
Moist doubted there would ever be a time such as that and then an idea struck him.
“How afraid are you of high places?” he asked, calculatingly.
“Why?” she asked suspiciously.
“I have an idea,” he said, innocently, knowing she'd believe none of it.
No one would question the Master of the Royal Mint if he wanted to take a little stroll in the bank with his fiancee. Or alongside the outer walls of the bank.
A couple's activity he'd be good at, and he still had his old kit too.
“If we get arrested,” Adora said, with a hint of resignation in her voice. “I'm selling you for cigarettes.”
Moist thought he spotted a brief smile in the smoke, though.
Title: Living Large
Characters and/or Pairing(s): Moist Von Lipwig, Adora Belle Dearheart
Rating: PG
Word Count: 908
Possible warnings and/or enticements - highlight to view (may contain spoilers): *None.*
Summary: Negotiation. Moist wants to do couple-things. Prompt 82: Moist/Adora Belle, ballet and cigarettes, and exercise, and living dangerously.
Author's Notes: Shameless fluff, really? Whoops.
It wasn't Moist's fault, of course, that running both a post office and a bank ate most of his time and most of that time was spent sitting down. He thought there were definitely better ways for a loving fiancee to mention a slight tummy than poking at it and calling her loving husband-to-be a blob.
He'd resolved to take up exercise, of course, but it was hard, because he had not had to, before. Avoiding the long arm of the law had, back in the day, had inspired him to some truly athletic feats of glory and a bit of a tummy had not been an issue.
“We could take up dancing,” Moist suggested, restlessly.
“I hate dancing,” Adora said from the midst of her private cloud of smoke.
They'd been hanging in his office for some time. She could be more stubborn than any golem when she'd decided something. Moist supposed he should be glad she cared so much.
“All sorts of dancing? Because I heard the dwarfs have this dance where they all settle in rows and-”
“Why can't you just take a walk after supper like any other man in respectable business?”
“Because it's boring!”
He would have liked some more time with Adora, too. He hardly ever saw her as it was, but telling her that might have probably been considered clingy.
Moist was slightly awed at the way another person's existence had become so crucial for him.
She puffed out some more smoke and Moist eyed wistfully at what he hoped was her face, but was probably her shoulder.
“Can't we try dancing? We're getting invites to all sorts of places, we could take them up maybe twice, three times a week- “
“No. Can't you just- oh, I don't know, do push-ups or something?”
Moist stared at her, mystified. She sighed, getting up.
“You know, lie down on the floor, push yourself up with your arms, repeat as often as necessary?” She crouched down, long dress and all, and Moist sprang up on his seat.
“Don't-! Don't try to give me a demonstration, you'll light the carpet on fire-”
“So you do know what those are,” she said, a tad smugly.
“We did them in school. Gym classes.” He shuddered. “I don't think I was quite that bad in my previous life.”
“Well,” Adora said, sitting down on the carpet like it was the most natural thing in the world, resuming smoking. “I don't know, then. Get fat, I guess? I can roll you around the streets. Or maybe get Gladys to do so.”
“Why don't you like dancing?”
She was quiet for a moment, which surprised Moist. He hadn't thought it was anything worth a serious consideration.
“When I was nine,” she said, finally, “I wanted to be a ballerina.”
Moist didn't know that to say. Saying “I guess they could have set ash-trays around the stage” might not have been sensitive, but he couldn't imagine Adora, his Spike, in those flimsy tutus twirling around in the spot-light. She didn't do sudden movements unless they involved sharp objects, and yes, she was graceful, but Spike wasn't- she wasn't-
“Oh,” Moist said, stupidly.
Adora snorted. “Only for a year. My father brought me this music box- you know, the ones with the ballerinas going 'round and 'round. And I was clumsy for my age and the ballerina- she seemed to know what she was doing. It actually requires a lot of work and strength, you know,“ she fixed a glare at Moist, daring him to laugh and get a cigarette put out in his eye. “And I'm allowed to like feminine things. Every now and then.”
“I'm sure it does,” Moist said hastily. “I couldn't stand on my toes. And yes you are. How many points do I get now?”
“I guess it's not a very good reason,” she said, sucking on her cigarette grouchily. She exhaled smoke, after a moment. “I'm just not a very good dancer, all right?”
They sat in silence for a while. She finished her cigarette. He offered the carton without a word.
“I hate dancing too,” he exhaled.
“What?”
“Can't stand it. Don't see the point. Was traumatized by elderly aunties stepping on my toes when I was lad. Whatever, take your pick. I don't want to dance.”
“Oh,” she said.
“That's my line,” Moist said lamely.
“I suppose we'll sit in every night, then,” she said slowly. “You'd better get very rich, though. I want to hire people to carry us around when we can't fit through doors.”
Moist doubted there would ever be a time such as that and then an idea struck him.
“How afraid are you of high places?” he asked, calculatingly.
“Why?” she asked suspiciously.
“I have an idea,” he said, innocently, knowing she'd believe none of it.
No one would question the Master of the Royal Mint if he wanted to take a little stroll in the bank with his fiancee. Or alongside the outer walls of the bank.
A couple's activity he'd be good at, and he still had his old kit too.
“If we get arrested,” Adora said, with a hint of resignation in her voice. “I'm selling you for cigarettes.”
Moist thought he spotted a brief smile in the smoke, though.