The Fair Belle [pt 9/??]
anonymous
October 3 2010, 05:00:16 UTC
The story is simple enough, and as Bonnefoy sets a bowl of beef stew and some bread out in front of him, Alfred sets to the meal with relish.
It seemed that after years of dazzling the town of Tombstone with her lavish displays, Blonde Marie had apparently made enough money from the parlor house to retire and go back to France. The whores who could not afford to return with her had been relocated by the Count to other brothels. This house, bereft of its inhabitants, its painted walls whitewashed and imported furniture moved, now waits to be sold, though so far no one had expressed any interest in a building tainted with such ill repute.
Already on his second bowl of stew, Alfred glances up at the cook, who had grown silent. The explanation only left more questions unanswered, and he could not think of which to ask first. So he asks them all.
“Is that why you’re here, Mister Bonnefoy? Because you couldn’t afford to go back to France?”
The other man laughs, a silken sound that would make anyone’s heart beat faster, male or female, and to his surprise, Alfred feels something warm and familiar coil in his stomach, which could not be entirely attributed to some of the best damn food he’d eaten in a while.
“Not quite. It is because I killed a man in Paris, or rather, several men, and there is still an order out for my arrest. I must stay here until the police have… stopped their investigations.”
Swallowing a mouthful of beef - oh God, he hopes it’s beef - down with difficulty, Alfred asks, “Oh, but you, errr, you don’t do that sort of thing anymore, right? Right?”
“There is nothing to worry about, cher. With the Count’s support, I have reformed, and the only wickedness I’ve indulged in recently is to be expected in my surroundings,” he replies with a winsome smirk.
Alfred decides to take Bonnefoy at his word, trying hard to not imagine him with a butcher’s knife in hand, and he rambles on cheerfully, if somewhat nervously. “Well, I guess that’s the best sort of job to have, kinda makes me wish I could make food half as good as yours. But don’t it feel lonely now that you have no one to cook for, Mister Bonnefoy?”
Bonnefoy raises an eyebrow, but nods, and then smoothly deflects any further questions about himself with practiced ease. “And may I ask why you are here, Mister Jones? You said you were looking for someone?”
“Yes!” Alfred exclaims, almost ashamed to have forgotten about his belle while talking to the cook. “Her name is Frances, though I don’t know her last name, and she is beautiful and strong and sweet, and the best lass I could ever ask to meet. I know what you’re gonna say, that she’s not worth it, but I’ve never met anyone I’ve wanted more, and I’d do anything, anything in the world, to see her again!”
His outburst over, Alfred looks up from his empty soup bowl to see Bonnefoy’s warm and approving smile, and it makes him blush. Feeling suddenly awkward, he scrubs his hands through his hair in a distracted motion, making his hat tilt backward at a crazy angle, and then a realization finally hits him like a lightning bolt out of the blue.
“Wait a gosh darn second, you know something, don’t you?” Alfred exclaims as he gets to his feet, knocking his chair over. “Sure ya do, she used to feed the birds outside every morning! And you must’ve seen her do it, because you fed ‘em, too!”
“I can’t deny that I know of her, Alfred,” Francis says quietly, “but what I know will not help you. She is gone, probably for good.”
There is a hot twinge behind his eyes as Alfred says in a mostly steady voice, “I can’t give up, though. Haven’t you ever been in love before, Mister Bonnefoy? You know how it feels when you can’t be with them. Please, if you know something...”
The Fair Belle [pt 10/??]
anonymous
October 3 2010, 05:01:16 UTC
And yes, he has been in love before, long ago, he would fall in love every night and out of love the next morning, and he knows love hurts and that is why he wants to spare this young man from the pain. But those gorgeous blue eyes are looking at him, pleading, and he can not say no, as much as he needs to. He will hate himself for lying to Alfred again, but if the fact that he was a murderer didn’t scare him away…
“I make no promises, but… if you stay and help me clean the house, we might find something useful, a clue or a hint-”
Alfred crows in triumph and throws his arms about Bonnefoy, giving him a bone-crushing bear-hug. “That ain’t no problem, sir! Thank you, thank you so much, I’ll do whatever you need me to do!”
“You may start by letting go of me so I can breathe.”
It was too late in the day for them to really start cleaning, but Alfred does his best to sweep the doorstep and pull out a few weeds, while Bonnefoy starts another batch of dough to bake for the next morning. He prowls around the nearly empty house, and then ventures upstairs to where the sleeping quarters are. Each room he peeks into is quiet and empty save for the heavy bedframes, very little trace left of the sinful activities that took place there a few months prior. He is about to open the door to the room at the end of the hall, his face bright red from the memories, when Bonnefoy’s voice behind him makes him jump.
“Would you like to use this one?” he asks, pushing the door open into a room that was still fully furnished and just like what he remembered.
“N-no, that’s all right! I, well, I thought the Count used this room?” Alfred mumbles, his cheeks burning.
“Eh? Oh, I suppose so, but now I sleep here.”
“Then I’ll take another room.”
“That’s not necessary, Alfred, the bed is big enough for the both of us,” and Bonnefoy is looking at him expectantly, managing a perfectly innocent expression.
Part of Alfred wants to refuse the offer, the very idea is scandalous, and yet he can’t help but stare glassy-eyed at the sumptuous bed, remembering and aching for her more than ever. He sputters out something about his last time at the parlour house, and Bonnefoy smiles and spares him from further embarrassment.
“I will try to find some blankets and pillows for you, then. But… the offer is there, if you need it.”
“I doubt it will get that cold,” Alfred says, now urgently wishing for some privacy.
It does get a little chilly in the desert regions, but that is not why Bonnefoy is woken later that night by a tentative knock on the door. He murmurs a sleepy “Is that you, Alfred?” and Alfred bursts in, his face white.
“S-sorry, Mister Cook,” he whimpers, “I know you said there weren’t any ghosts about, but…”
“Come here. If we are both together in the same room, they will not dare to disturb us.” Looking sheepish and grateful at the same time, Alfred slides into bed next to Bonnefoy, snuggling under the covers, though not touching the other. Bonnefoy keeps his eyes closed, but he knows Alfred is still awake and so he reaches out to him to put a comforting hand on his arm, and they eventually fall asleep in each other’s embrace.
Bonnefoy had woken up hours ago by the time Alfred opens his eyes, and yet he knows the cook had kissed him good morning. He rubs his cheek absent-mindedly as he clambers down the stairs to the kitchen, the scent of fresh-baked bread sneaking through to the rest of the house.
While the cook delivers his bread to the rest of the town, Alfred cleans the house as thoroughly as he could. Unfortunately, the whores left little of their personal lives behind. He finds a lone earring in the corner of one room, and in between the floorboards of another, a coin and some pins. Scraps of paper with writing seemed to hold promise of clues, but these were not fresh-faced maidens daydreaming of a knight in shining armor, and what he could make of the notes were more receipts for transactions than love letters.
The Fair Belle [pt 11/11]
anonymous
October 3 2010, 05:04:39 UTC
A week, then a month passes by in comfortable companionship, though Alfred eventually gets over his fear of ghosts, he still finds an excuse to sleep in the same bed. He even manages to enter the room without blushing too much, and while Frances never really leaves his mind, her absence doesn’t hurt as much as it used to. Every now and then, Alfred takes a job working as a spare cow hand for the cash, and when he gets home, Bonnefoy has made him his favorite meals. Their conversations over wine or whiskey are pleasant, and sometimes when they’ve had a bit too much, they tell each other outrageous lies and laugh and drink until they have to lean on each other to get upstairs to bed. Despite his being obviously French, Bonnefoy proves to be a wonderful friend and confidante, and Alfred thanks his lucky stars for this, even though he is not able to find the love of his life, at least he is not alone.
Today, Alfred investigates the closet in Bonnefoy’s room, and indeed, there is a gentleman’s black suit and top hat hanging there, and for some reason, plenty of dresses and petticoats and women’s underthings. He closes the door, not wanting to make a mess of the clothes, but then his eye falls on the black lace and pale blue silk of a corset that seemed familiar, and with a trembling hand, he unpins the note attached to the trailing ribbons.
Alfred doesn’t say anything to Bonnefoy that night as they get ready for bed. He sits at the edge of the mattress, watching as the cook takes off his white jacket and trousers until he is only wearing a shirt, and he wonders, briefly, about what could have been.
They blow the candles out and go to bed as usual.
When he wakes up, the sun has just broken over the horizon. Alfred glances over at the still dozing Bonnefoy, his long golden hair tousled and falling over his handsome face just so, and he doesn’t really know how he could be so blind to what had been right in front of him all this time. He reaches for his shirt and the golden ring meant for Frances falls out of the pocket and into his hand as if it wanted to be there. With a little smile, he takes the cook’s hand and slides the ring onto the finger where it fit perfectly. He kisses that hand reverently, and Bonnefoy snuffles in his sleep.
“It was you, wasn’t it? You’re the one,” he whispers, and his heart will likely burst from the heaviness of this revelation, because he feels stupid and hurt, but most of all he feels happy and relieved and so in love.
“Wake up, my love, my Frances,” and Bonnefoy, hearing his name, wakes up.
[Thanks for reading, everyone, I hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it. /shuffles away happily]
Re: The Fair Belle [pt 11/11]
anonymous
October 3 2010, 07:41:42 UTC
This is so lovely! I really enjoyed reading this. I love how they formed a quiet companionship before Alfred discovering about Francis' identity, and the ending is beautiful.
A--anon would really like to read a sequel from Francis' point of view, or a post-revelation sex scene orz;;;.
Re: The Fair Belle [pt 11/11]
anonymous
October 3 2010, 15:55:16 UTC
I'm glad you liked this, it was a little different from what I usually write and so it took me a while to figure everything out. If I ever get the chance, I would love to write a sequel. (Maybe this time I'd remember to use the right names, even, lol.)
Re: The Fair Belle [pt 11/11]
anonymous
October 3 2010, 22:05:45 UTC
I totally agree. The ending worked well, and it mostly ties everything up. But an epilougue or something would be even awesomer. Ah, Alfred, you are dense and it took you awhile to figure it out but you are so adorable. It's totally my head cannon that America is a hopeless romantic.
Re: The Fair Belle [pt 11/11]
anonymous
October 4 2010, 04:13:05 UTC
Thanks for the comment, I appreciate it! I see that the vote is for a sequel, preferably a sexy one, though I'm not sure what else I can say about the plot. Any ideas? If I have time, I will consider writing it, as I love this pairing that much.
I totally agree with you about Alfred, he can be so stupidly adorable.
It seemed that after years of dazzling the town of Tombstone with her lavish displays, Blonde Marie had apparently made enough money from the parlor house to retire and go back to France. The whores who could not afford to return with her had been relocated by the Count to other brothels. This house, bereft of its inhabitants, its painted walls whitewashed and imported furniture moved, now waits to be sold, though so far no one had expressed any interest in a building tainted with such ill repute.
Already on his second bowl of stew, Alfred glances up at the cook, who had grown silent. The explanation only left more questions unanswered, and he could not think of which to ask first. So he asks them all.
“Is that why you’re here, Mister Bonnefoy? Because you couldn’t afford to go back to France?”
The other man laughs, a silken sound that would make anyone’s heart beat faster, male or female, and to his surprise, Alfred feels something warm and familiar coil in his stomach, which could not be entirely attributed to some of the best damn food he’d eaten in a while.
“Not quite. It is because I killed a man in Paris, or rather, several men, and there is still an order out for my arrest. I must stay here until the police have… stopped their investigations.”
Swallowing a mouthful of beef - oh God, he hopes it’s beef - down with difficulty, Alfred asks, “Oh, but you, errr, you don’t do that sort of thing anymore, right? Right?”
“There is nothing to worry about, cher. With the Count’s support, I have reformed, and the only wickedness I’ve indulged in recently is to be expected in my surroundings,” he replies with a winsome smirk.
Alfred decides to take Bonnefoy at his word, trying hard to not imagine him with a butcher’s knife in hand, and he rambles on cheerfully, if somewhat nervously. “Well, I guess that’s the best sort of job to have, kinda makes me wish I could make food half as good as yours. But don’t it feel lonely now that you have no one to cook for, Mister Bonnefoy?”
Bonnefoy raises an eyebrow, but nods, and then smoothly deflects any further questions about himself with practiced ease. “And may I ask why you are here, Mister Jones? You said you were looking for someone?”
“Yes!” Alfred exclaims, almost ashamed to have forgotten about his belle while talking to the cook. “Her name is Frances, though I don’t know her last name, and she is beautiful and strong and sweet, and the best lass I could ever ask to meet. I know what you’re gonna say, that she’s not worth it, but I’ve never met anyone I’ve wanted more, and I’d do anything, anything in the world, to see her again!”
His outburst over, Alfred looks up from his empty soup bowl to see Bonnefoy’s warm and approving smile, and it makes him blush. Feeling suddenly awkward, he scrubs his hands through his hair in a distracted motion, making his hat tilt backward at a crazy angle, and then a realization finally hits him like a lightning bolt out of the blue.
“Wait a gosh darn second, you know something, don’t you?” Alfred exclaims as he gets to his feet, knocking his chair over. “Sure ya do, she used to feed the birds outside every morning! And you must’ve seen her do it, because you fed ‘em, too!”
“I can’t deny that I know of her, Alfred,” Francis says quietly, “but what I know will not help you. She is gone, probably for good.”
There is a hot twinge behind his eyes as Alfred says in a mostly steady voice, “I can’t give up, though. Haven’t you ever been in love before, Mister Bonnefoy? You know how it feels when you can’t be with them. Please, if you know something...”
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“I make no promises, but… if you stay and help me clean the house, we might find something useful, a clue or a hint-”
Alfred crows in triumph and throws his arms about Bonnefoy, giving him a bone-crushing bear-hug. “That ain’t no problem, sir! Thank you, thank you so much, I’ll do whatever you need me to do!”
“You may start by letting go of me so I can breathe.”
It was too late in the day for them to really start cleaning, but Alfred does his best to sweep the doorstep and pull out a few weeds, while Bonnefoy starts another batch of dough to bake for the next morning. He prowls around the nearly empty house, and then ventures upstairs to where the sleeping quarters are. Each room he peeks into is quiet and empty save for the heavy bedframes, very little trace left of the sinful activities that took place there a few months prior. He is about to open the door to the room at the end of the hall, his face bright red from the memories, when Bonnefoy’s voice behind him makes him jump.
“Would you like to use this one?” he asks, pushing the door open into a room that was still fully furnished and just like what he remembered.
“N-no, that’s all right! I, well, I thought the Count used this room?” Alfred mumbles, his cheeks burning.
“Eh? Oh, I suppose so, but now I sleep here.”
“Then I’ll take another room.”
“That’s not necessary, Alfred, the bed is big enough for the both of us,” and Bonnefoy is looking at him expectantly, managing a perfectly innocent expression.
Part of Alfred wants to refuse the offer, the very idea is scandalous, and yet he can’t help but stare glassy-eyed at the sumptuous bed, remembering and aching for her more than ever. He sputters out something about his last time at the parlour house, and Bonnefoy smiles and spares him from further embarrassment.
“I will try to find some blankets and pillows for you, then. But… the offer is there, if you need it.”
“I doubt it will get that cold,” Alfred says, now urgently wishing for some privacy.
It does get a little chilly in the desert regions, but that is not why Bonnefoy is woken later that night by a tentative knock on the door. He murmurs a sleepy “Is that you, Alfred?” and Alfred bursts in, his face white.
“S-sorry, Mister Cook,” he whimpers, “I know you said there weren’t any ghosts about, but…”
“Come here. If we are both together in the same room, they will not dare to disturb us.” Looking sheepish and grateful at the same time, Alfred slides into bed next to Bonnefoy, snuggling under the covers, though not touching the other. Bonnefoy keeps his eyes closed, but he knows Alfred is still awake and so he reaches out to him to put a comforting hand on his arm, and they eventually fall asleep in each other’s embrace.
Bonnefoy had woken up hours ago by the time Alfred opens his eyes, and yet he knows the cook had kissed him good morning. He rubs his cheek absent-mindedly as he clambers down the stairs to the kitchen, the scent of fresh-baked bread sneaking through to the rest of the house.
While the cook delivers his bread to the rest of the town, Alfred cleans the house as thoroughly as he could. Unfortunately, the whores left little of their personal lives behind. He finds a lone earring in the corner of one room, and in between the floorboards of another, a coin and some pins. Scraps of paper with writing seemed to hold promise of clues, but these were not fresh-faced maidens daydreaming of a knight in shining armor, and what he could make of the notes were more receipts for transactions than love letters.
Reply
Today, Alfred investigates the closet in Bonnefoy’s room, and indeed, there is a gentleman’s black suit and top hat hanging there, and for some reason, plenty of dresses and petticoats and women’s underthings. He closes the door, not wanting to make a mess of the clothes, but then his eye falls on the black lace and pale blue silk of a corset that seemed familiar, and with a trembling hand, he unpins the note attached to the trailing ribbons.
Alfred doesn’t say anything to Bonnefoy that night as they get ready for bed. He sits at the edge of the mattress, watching as the cook takes off his white jacket and trousers until he is only wearing a shirt, and he wonders, briefly, about what could have been.
They blow the candles out and go to bed as usual.
When he wakes up, the sun has just broken over the horizon. Alfred glances over at the still dozing Bonnefoy, his long golden hair tousled and falling over his handsome face just so, and he doesn’t really know how he could be so blind to what had been right in front of him all this time. He reaches for his shirt and the golden ring meant for Frances falls out of the pocket and into his hand as if it wanted to be there. With a little smile, he takes the cook’s hand and slides the ring onto the finger where it fit perfectly. He kisses that hand reverently, and Bonnefoy snuffles in his sleep.
“It was you, wasn’t it? You’re the one,” he whispers, and his heart will likely burst from the heaviness of this revelation, because he feels stupid and hurt, but most of all he feels happy and relieved and so in love.
“Wake up, my love, my Frances,” and Bonnefoy, hearing his name, wakes up.
[Thanks for reading, everyone, I hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it. /shuffles away happily]
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A--anon would really like to read a sequel from Francis' point of view, or a post-revelation sex scene orz;;;.
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Ah, Alfred, you are dense and it took you awhile to figure it out but you are so adorable. It's totally my head cannon that America is a hopeless romantic.
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I totally agree with you about Alfred, he can be so stupidly adorable.
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