[fic] The Love Pawn - "Middlegame"
Jul. 29th, 2023 09:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
konstantyaTitle: Middlegame
Fandom: The Love Pawn (Short Story)
Genre: Drama, gen.
Characters: Paula Ingram, Red (Jack Delafield)
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2,624
Summary: As if he could read her mind—or else just the worried expression on her face—Red spoke: “Let me assure you, Paula, that this is all strictly business. Now, please,” he urged, with a gesture at her plate, “enjoy the meal.” (Or, Red treats Paula to dinner in his apartment after he kidnaps her. Expanded/missing scene from the short story. For those keeping track at home, it immediately follows the events of previous fic Checkmate, and immediately precedes those of Clever Crab On This Eastern Seashore.)
If you’d like to leave a comment, please do so on AO3!
The table was set gracefully despite its small size, with a glowing pair of white tapered candles and a deceptively simple centerpiece of three red roses. Numbly, Paula let Red lead her to one side, and she felt strangely like she was going to her own execution, or else something equally as dire.
I’ve stood so close beside your chair when you dined, I could have laid my lips to your quivering shoulder, he’d said, and she watched him warily as she sat down, as if he might finally take the liberty right then and there. With a hint of amusement about him, almost as if he could guess her very thoughts, he pushed her chair in before taking the seat across from her. He unfurled his napkin with a well-practiced flick of the wrist, and it was then that the maid pattered out with the appetizer course—a small selection of adorable little wraps that reminded her of rolled crêpes.
Paula tried to ignore her curiosity regarding the food—and especially tried to ignore the fascinatingly deft way he distributed it between them, using a pair of chopsticks that had been on the platter—and instead forced a glare at the man opposite her. “Exactly how long have you been spying on me?” she demanded. Her mind was still reeling from that revelation, still trying to reconcile the cruel bandit with the unassuming butler.
Red looked up mildly—far more mildly than he really had any right to, considering everything he’d done. “Long enough,” was all he said.
That much was obvious, but she’d been hoping for a precise time frame. She didn’t like not knowing where she stood with him. She wracked her brain, trying to remember when her uncle had hired him. He’d been there for Thanksgiving, she knew, and Renard, their last steady substitute, had married (and consequently left) in June, so it must have been sometime in between. But that was still an uncomfortably long gap she couldn’t account for. Maybe he was just trying to keep her off-balance and disarmed with the non-answer he’d given her. And for what? Was this really all about a bank robbery, as he claimed?
Again, as if he could read her mind—or else just the worried expression on her face—Red spoke: “Let me assure you, Paula, that this is all strictly business. Now, please,” he urged, with a gesture at her plate, “enjoy the meal.”
It was a surprisingly pleasant, sincere request, but she still bristled at the sound of her bare name on his lips. “Don’t presume to be so familiar,” she haughtily ordered. It occurred to her that maybe she was just trying to exert some control over the situation, however desperately. “You don’t know me.”
“But I do.” His voice was confident and his grey eyes met hers far more boldly than they ever had when he was playing the role of Benson. “I bet I know you better than anyone. Save—perhaps—yourself, of course.”
The fingers in her lap almost shook at his audacity, and her cheeks burned angrily at the long-running invasion of her privacy. Intimate glimpses and lacy negligee, and she was tempted to lean across the table and slap him on that hard, handsome face of his. But the last time she’d tried to attack him, it had gotten her pinned between his body and a piece of furniture, her wrists caught helplessly in his grip, so she didn’t dare try it again. He could overpower her too easily, and being so close to him was too unnerving. Her gaze dropped to his hands, elegantly clasped around his silverware, and the spot he’d touched on her lower back tingled.
Paula swallowed, picking up her napkin and placing it in her lap, mostly just so she would have something to do with herself. “If that’s so,” she challenged, “then what am I thinking right now?”
“A variety of vulgar insults, I suspect, that your uncle would be downright scandalized to hear that you know.”
It was true, all of it, and despite herself, a small, chagrined smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. “Where do you think I learned them?” she asked archly.
Red laughed shortly in response. “Oh, I’m well-aware your uncle can swear like a sailor when he wants to. He’s even worse around the male help, I’ll have you know.” He took a sip of wine and sighed soulfully. “Poor Uncle Jerry. It would break his heart to learn he had anything resembling a bad influence on you.”
That, too, was true, and at the thought of her uncle’s affection for her, she lowered her eyes anxiously to the table. Red had sent that fake cable in her name, but was it possible Uncle Jerry would worry about her all the same? When would the letter she’d been forced to write arrive? Would he remember and recognize that little quirk to her signature when it did?
The rolls seemed to stare up at her from her plate, and Paula’s stomach won out. She hadn’t eaten since the day’s celebratory bridal luncheon with her friends—a veritable lifetime ago, now—and there was really nothing else she could do at the moment, was there? And so, feeling a bit removed from herself, she finally picked up her knife and fork and broke the delicate flour wrapping to reveal an array of minced vegetables. She took a careful bite, and before she could stop herself, she was humming in appreciation at the flavor.
Red looked over at her, not exactly surprised, but something about his demeanor suggested satisfaction. Like he was pleased she was enjoying the meal. “Harumaki,” he explained. “Sometimes called spring rolls. Traditionally made with seasonal Japanese vegetables, but still awfully good substituted with American ones, I think.”
Paula secretly agreed, though she admittedly didn’t have experience with the authentic thing to compare. That raised a question, and against her better judgment, she found herself asking, “Have you ever been to Japan?”
“Not personally, no,” Red said. “Though perhaps in the future.” Perhaps when he had the money to do so, seemed to be the unspoken implication.
Paula ignored it, instead choosing to gush, “I think the East sounds positively marvelous. I should dearly love to visit there someday.” Last year, Eric had taken her through Santa Barbara’s Chinatown and she’d adored it, arguably even more than the country club visits. That was one of the things she’d loved about California—the sheer diversity of it. Wilmington—to its meager credit—had a couple chop suey joints, but good luck getting any of her friends to go with her to one of them for lunch.
“Maybe your fiancé will take you,” Red suggested lightly, “once you’ve been married. Oh. That’s right. I forgot,” he added, his tone making it clear that he’d done nothing of the sort. “Mr. Lewis considers it a ‘heathen place.’ ”
Paula grimaced down at her plate, and for some reason felt compelled to defend her betrothed. “He isn’t all that bad.”
“Monty?” Red looked so skeptical it was downright comical, and Paula had to keep herself from laughing. But then his expression fell back to its usual severity, and he conceded, “No, he isn’t. About the worst you could say about him is that he’s boring. Certainly better than some men, I’ll grant you that.”
The maid, Yugi-san, came out again, depositing the main course—breaded and fried pork, over a bed of rice. A dark sauce had been artfully drizzled on the meat, smelling absolutely heavenly, and after the delight of the appetizer, Paula’s mouth practically watered in anticipation. But a moment later an apprehensive thought shot through her, giving her pause: If Red had known what her handwriting looked like, had known her fiancé had been called away to Canada at the last minute, then what else did he know about her? He’d been watching her for months, after all. Suddenly the exotic, enticing meal seemed less serendipitous and more potentially sinister. Was it possible that he’d planned all this down to the very dinner menu, in an attempt to seduce her into helping him?
Worse yet, was it actually working?
“Is the main dish not to your liking?” he asked, and she raised her eyes to see him regarding her with what appeared to be genuine concern. The candlelight glinted softly off his inky hair, his gold cuff links, the black silk of his bow-tie and lapels. In another life, under different circumstances, this could have been a dinner date for the ages. Handsome, mannered, attentive… It was hard to believe this was the same person who had pressed the barrel of a revolver into her ribs only a few short hours ago. Indeed, looking at him now, across the small table, he could have been any girl’s dream lover.
She dropped her focus back to her plate, and—without answering—cut into her entrée. “Do you commute to Wilmington, then?” If he knew so much about her, she figured, it was only fair to try to learn something about him, trivial though the information may have been. If Red was surprised by the shift in topics, he didn’t show it.
“I take the train on the days I’m needed, yes.”
Paula furrowed her brow slightly as she brought a piece of pork to her mouth. It perhaps tasted even better than it smelled. “Seems a shame you don’t live closer,” she said, and realized she actually kind of meant it.
Red was unperturbed. “Philadelphia suits my purposes. For now. And I don’t really mind the train ride. It gives me time to read the paper, if nothing else.”
Paula could just imagine the headlines from today, if anyone knew enough to alert the press: Local Heiress Kidnapped To Act As Decoy In Criminal Scheme. Yesterday, she would have longed to be the subject of so exhilarating a story; it sounded like something out of a film or a magazine serial. Was it possible there was a part of her privately glorying in it all the same?
“You said you were taking me to California?” she asked.
Red made a noise in the affirmative. “Tomorrow. The plane I’ve chartered leaves at eight in the morning.”
“And then?”
“And then you and I will attend a party in the evening at one of the resorts there. I still have some societal connections, and so managed to procure cards for it. My understanding is that Eric Kendall will also be there.”
It was impossible to miss the way her heart skipped at his name and the prospect of seeing him again, but Paula did her best to quell it. “And if he isn’t?”
Red leaned back in his chair and looked at her reflectively. “Then that will be rather disappointing for you, won’t it?”
She swallowed and met his gaze. It could have just been her imagination, but for a split second there, she thought she might have seen a hint of…jealousy?—resentment?—in his eyes, and had a hard time fathoming it. Resolutely, she turned back to her meal. “One would think it would be more disappointing for you,” she retorted, “considering how I’m supposed to get some information out of him for you.”
“I’m charmed you’re so concerned with my happiness in this matter,” he intoned, and Paula’s head shot up again, indignantly.
“I’m n—!” she started, but broke off at the twinkle in his eye and the smile that seemed to want to tug at his mouth. So he was teasing her, was he? Well, two could play that game. “You know, company aside,” she drawled pointedly, “this really is a lovely meal. You must give my compliments to your cook.”
This time the smile did tug at his mouth, just briefly. “Yugi-san will be thrilled,” he said, and there was a note of genuine pride in his voice.
Dessert, when it came, was two slices of sponge cake, paired with coffee. And then when the plates were cleared and the coffee cups refilled, Red pulled out his cigarettes, courteously offering her one and smoothly lighting it when she accepted. How many times had he done such a thing for girls before, Paula wondered with her first inhale. And where were they now? Some place more opulent than a walk-up apartment, she had to imagine. She watched him light his own cigarette, and suddenly he seemed so out of place—all upper-class elegance crammed into a middle-class existence. Against her will, the food and drink had lulled her into a kind of drowsy contentedness, and she turned her head, taking the time to inspect the décor more thoroughly—the Oriental carpet, the plush sofa with its carved legs, the well-polished desk that truly belonged in a dedicated study.
“You know…” she said, “this really is a nice little apartment.”
Red looked at her, almost as if he was trying to gauge whether she was being earnest or not—but then his shoulders relaxed and he admitted, “I’ve tried my best. It helps when you can’t afford to keep a lot of furniture. You at least don’t run the risk of overcrowding a space.”
Paula shrugged at this, still peering around. “I think it’s really quite cozy.” And she did, honestly.
Red lifted a dark eyebrow. “ ‘Cozy,’ eh?” He tapped his ash into the tray on the table and took a thoughtful drag. The candles burned low in their holders, and Paula was struck by how different he appeared, compared to that afternoon. The hard lines were nearly gone from his face, making him look younger and wearier, and she found herself thinking what a shame it was, for a man like this to be drawn into crime. Perhaps if she pretended to fall in with his plans she’d be able to find some way to stop him, to save him from himself.
Gingerly, she tapped her own ash into the tray and then stubbed out the cigarette, letting her hand linger there, as if contemplating reaching over to him and offering some sort of comfort. But before she had a chance to, Red, with his usual clairvoyance, put his fingers forcefully on top of hers and pushed them away.
“Don’t get the idea of reforming me,” he warned. “There’s no use, and I’m not worth it anyway.” He lifted his hand, breaking the contact, and whatever spell the dinner had cast on them abruptly broke with it. He crushed his cigarette out, the lines returning to his face. “You’re tired,” he said curtly. “Time for bed.”
A sense of uneasiness took hold of Paula once more, and she instinctively recoiled back in her seat. It was so quiet there, it occurred to her. Perhaps he’d sent the servants away. Perhaps there was some rear exit to the apartment, and she was alone with him after all. Her heart, she noticed, had resumed its hammering in her chest.
“Afraid?” Red accused mockingly, and she jerked her gaze up to his. “Must I explain again that although you’re technically a prisoner, you’re also entirely safe with me?” He thrust his chin in the direction of the hallway. “Yugi-san is already asleep on her pallet in your room.”
Paula stumbled to her feet. “You—” she faltered. “You have been good to me.” In spite of the words, in spite of how relatively true they were, she grasped the back of the chair, poising it between them protectively. And then she fled down the hall, into the tiny guest room, as if she couldn’t bear to risk being near him any longer.
Afraid? Yes, she realized. But if not of him, exactly, then what?
-----
A/N: In the original story, the dinner scene is glossed over with little more than an “it happened, and Paula would remember it for the rest of her life!”—so this was my attempt to flesh it out more. (Truly, one of the things I love about the original story is how there’s enough plot in it to warrant a whole novel, but the author crams everything into an insane fifteen pages, pfft.) The dialogue at the end (from “Don’t get the idea of reforming me” onward) is canon, albeit with some minor modifications to make it flow better.
Anyway, it turns out one of my love languages is sexually charged dinner conversations. Also: I say I don’t like moody bitches, but then I keep writing moody bitches. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
All other fics can be found here.
Fandom: The Love Pawn (Short Story)
Genre: Drama, gen.
Characters: Paula Ingram, Red (Jack Delafield)
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2,624
Summary: As if he could read her mind—or else just the worried expression on her face—Red spoke: “Let me assure you, Paula, that this is all strictly business. Now, please,” he urged, with a gesture at her plate, “enjoy the meal.” (Or, Red treats Paula to dinner in his apartment after he kidnaps her. Expanded/missing scene from the short story. For those keeping track at home, it immediately follows the events of previous fic Checkmate, and immediately precedes those of Clever Crab On This Eastern Seashore.)
If you’d like to leave a comment, please do so on AO3!
- Middlegame -
The table was set gracefully despite its small size, with a glowing pair of white tapered candles and a deceptively simple centerpiece of three red roses. Numbly, Paula let Red lead her to one side, and she felt strangely like she was going to her own execution, or else something equally as dire.
I’ve stood so close beside your chair when you dined, I could have laid my lips to your quivering shoulder, he’d said, and she watched him warily as she sat down, as if he might finally take the liberty right then and there. With a hint of amusement about him, almost as if he could guess her very thoughts, he pushed her chair in before taking the seat across from her. He unfurled his napkin with a well-practiced flick of the wrist, and it was then that the maid pattered out with the appetizer course—a small selection of adorable little wraps that reminded her of rolled crêpes.
Paula tried to ignore her curiosity regarding the food—and especially tried to ignore the fascinatingly deft way he distributed it between them, using a pair of chopsticks that had been on the platter—and instead forced a glare at the man opposite her. “Exactly how long have you been spying on me?” she demanded. Her mind was still reeling from that revelation, still trying to reconcile the cruel bandit with the unassuming butler.
Red looked up mildly—far more mildly than he really had any right to, considering everything he’d done. “Long enough,” was all he said.
That much was obvious, but she’d been hoping for a precise time frame. She didn’t like not knowing where she stood with him. She wracked her brain, trying to remember when her uncle had hired him. He’d been there for Thanksgiving, she knew, and Renard, their last steady substitute, had married (and consequently left) in June, so it must have been sometime in between. But that was still an uncomfortably long gap she couldn’t account for. Maybe he was just trying to keep her off-balance and disarmed with the non-answer he’d given her. And for what? Was this really all about a bank robbery, as he claimed?
Again, as if he could read her mind—or else just the worried expression on her face—Red spoke: “Let me assure you, Paula, that this is all strictly business. Now, please,” he urged, with a gesture at her plate, “enjoy the meal.”
It was a surprisingly pleasant, sincere request, but she still bristled at the sound of her bare name on his lips. “Don’t presume to be so familiar,” she haughtily ordered. It occurred to her that maybe she was just trying to exert some control over the situation, however desperately. “You don’t know me.”
“But I do.” His voice was confident and his grey eyes met hers far more boldly than they ever had when he was playing the role of Benson. “I bet I know you better than anyone. Save—perhaps—yourself, of course.”
The fingers in her lap almost shook at his audacity, and her cheeks burned angrily at the long-running invasion of her privacy. Intimate glimpses and lacy negligee, and she was tempted to lean across the table and slap him on that hard, handsome face of his. But the last time she’d tried to attack him, it had gotten her pinned between his body and a piece of furniture, her wrists caught helplessly in his grip, so she didn’t dare try it again. He could overpower her too easily, and being so close to him was too unnerving. Her gaze dropped to his hands, elegantly clasped around his silverware, and the spot he’d touched on her lower back tingled.
Paula swallowed, picking up her napkin and placing it in her lap, mostly just so she would have something to do with herself. “If that’s so,” she challenged, “then what am I thinking right now?”
“A variety of vulgar insults, I suspect, that your uncle would be downright scandalized to hear that you know.”
It was true, all of it, and despite herself, a small, chagrined smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. “Where do you think I learned them?” she asked archly.
Red laughed shortly in response. “Oh, I’m well-aware your uncle can swear like a sailor when he wants to. He’s even worse around the male help, I’ll have you know.” He took a sip of wine and sighed soulfully. “Poor Uncle Jerry. It would break his heart to learn he had anything resembling a bad influence on you.”
That, too, was true, and at the thought of her uncle’s affection for her, she lowered her eyes anxiously to the table. Red had sent that fake cable in her name, but was it possible Uncle Jerry would worry about her all the same? When would the letter she’d been forced to write arrive? Would he remember and recognize that little quirk to her signature when it did?
The rolls seemed to stare up at her from her plate, and Paula’s stomach won out. She hadn’t eaten since the day’s celebratory bridal luncheon with her friends—a veritable lifetime ago, now—and there was really nothing else she could do at the moment, was there? And so, feeling a bit removed from herself, she finally picked up her knife and fork and broke the delicate flour wrapping to reveal an array of minced vegetables. She took a careful bite, and before she could stop herself, she was humming in appreciation at the flavor.
Red looked over at her, not exactly surprised, but something about his demeanor suggested satisfaction. Like he was pleased she was enjoying the meal. “Harumaki,” he explained. “Sometimes called spring rolls. Traditionally made with seasonal Japanese vegetables, but still awfully good substituted with American ones, I think.”
Paula secretly agreed, though she admittedly didn’t have experience with the authentic thing to compare. That raised a question, and against her better judgment, she found herself asking, “Have you ever been to Japan?”
“Not personally, no,” Red said. “Though perhaps in the future.” Perhaps when he had the money to do so, seemed to be the unspoken implication.
Paula ignored it, instead choosing to gush, “I think the East sounds positively marvelous. I should dearly love to visit there someday.” Last year, Eric had taken her through Santa Barbara’s Chinatown and she’d adored it, arguably even more than the country club visits. That was one of the things she’d loved about California—the sheer diversity of it. Wilmington—to its meager credit—had a couple chop suey joints, but good luck getting any of her friends to go with her to one of them for lunch.
“Maybe your fiancé will take you,” Red suggested lightly, “once you’ve been married. Oh. That’s right. I forgot,” he added, his tone making it clear that he’d done nothing of the sort. “Mr. Lewis considers it a ‘heathen place.’ ”
Paula grimaced down at her plate, and for some reason felt compelled to defend her betrothed. “He isn’t all that bad.”
“Monty?” Red looked so skeptical it was downright comical, and Paula had to keep herself from laughing. But then his expression fell back to its usual severity, and he conceded, “No, he isn’t. About the worst you could say about him is that he’s boring. Certainly better than some men, I’ll grant you that.”
The maid, Yugi-san, came out again, depositing the main course—breaded and fried pork, over a bed of rice. A dark sauce had been artfully drizzled on the meat, smelling absolutely heavenly, and after the delight of the appetizer, Paula’s mouth practically watered in anticipation. But a moment later an apprehensive thought shot through her, giving her pause: If Red had known what her handwriting looked like, had known her fiancé had been called away to Canada at the last minute, then what else did he know about her? He’d been watching her for months, after all. Suddenly the exotic, enticing meal seemed less serendipitous and more potentially sinister. Was it possible that he’d planned all this down to the very dinner menu, in an attempt to seduce her into helping him?
Worse yet, was it actually working?
“Is the main dish not to your liking?” he asked, and she raised her eyes to see him regarding her with what appeared to be genuine concern. The candlelight glinted softly off his inky hair, his gold cuff links, the black silk of his bow-tie and lapels. In another life, under different circumstances, this could have been a dinner date for the ages. Handsome, mannered, attentive… It was hard to believe this was the same person who had pressed the barrel of a revolver into her ribs only a few short hours ago. Indeed, looking at him now, across the small table, he could have been any girl’s dream lover.
She dropped her focus back to her plate, and—without answering—cut into her entrée. “Do you commute to Wilmington, then?” If he knew so much about her, she figured, it was only fair to try to learn something about him, trivial though the information may have been. If Red was surprised by the shift in topics, he didn’t show it.
“I take the train on the days I’m needed, yes.”
Paula furrowed her brow slightly as she brought a piece of pork to her mouth. It perhaps tasted even better than it smelled. “Seems a shame you don’t live closer,” she said, and realized she actually kind of meant it.
Red was unperturbed. “Philadelphia suits my purposes. For now. And I don’t really mind the train ride. It gives me time to read the paper, if nothing else.”
Paula could just imagine the headlines from today, if anyone knew enough to alert the press: Local Heiress Kidnapped To Act As Decoy In Criminal Scheme. Yesterday, she would have longed to be the subject of so exhilarating a story; it sounded like something out of a film or a magazine serial. Was it possible there was a part of her privately glorying in it all the same?
“You said you were taking me to California?” she asked.
Red made a noise in the affirmative. “Tomorrow. The plane I’ve chartered leaves at eight in the morning.”
“And then?”
“And then you and I will attend a party in the evening at one of the resorts there. I still have some societal connections, and so managed to procure cards for it. My understanding is that Eric Kendall will also be there.”
It was impossible to miss the way her heart skipped at his name and the prospect of seeing him again, but Paula did her best to quell it. “And if he isn’t?”
Red leaned back in his chair and looked at her reflectively. “Then that will be rather disappointing for you, won’t it?”
She swallowed and met his gaze. It could have just been her imagination, but for a split second there, she thought she might have seen a hint of…jealousy?—resentment?—in his eyes, and had a hard time fathoming it. Resolutely, she turned back to her meal. “One would think it would be more disappointing for you,” she retorted, “considering how I’m supposed to get some information out of him for you.”
“I’m charmed you’re so concerned with my happiness in this matter,” he intoned, and Paula’s head shot up again, indignantly.
“I’m n—!” she started, but broke off at the twinkle in his eye and the smile that seemed to want to tug at his mouth. So he was teasing her, was he? Well, two could play that game. “You know, company aside,” she drawled pointedly, “this really is a lovely meal. You must give my compliments to your cook.”
This time the smile did tug at his mouth, just briefly. “Yugi-san will be thrilled,” he said, and there was a note of genuine pride in his voice.
Dessert, when it came, was two slices of sponge cake, paired with coffee. And then when the plates were cleared and the coffee cups refilled, Red pulled out his cigarettes, courteously offering her one and smoothly lighting it when she accepted. How many times had he done such a thing for girls before, Paula wondered with her first inhale. And where were they now? Some place more opulent than a walk-up apartment, she had to imagine. She watched him light his own cigarette, and suddenly he seemed so out of place—all upper-class elegance crammed into a middle-class existence. Against her will, the food and drink had lulled her into a kind of drowsy contentedness, and she turned her head, taking the time to inspect the décor more thoroughly—the Oriental carpet, the plush sofa with its carved legs, the well-polished desk that truly belonged in a dedicated study.
“You know…” she said, “this really is a nice little apartment.”
Red looked at her, almost as if he was trying to gauge whether she was being earnest or not—but then his shoulders relaxed and he admitted, “I’ve tried my best. It helps when you can’t afford to keep a lot of furniture. You at least don’t run the risk of overcrowding a space.”
Paula shrugged at this, still peering around. “I think it’s really quite cozy.” And she did, honestly.
Red lifted a dark eyebrow. “ ‘Cozy,’ eh?” He tapped his ash into the tray on the table and took a thoughtful drag. The candles burned low in their holders, and Paula was struck by how different he appeared, compared to that afternoon. The hard lines were nearly gone from his face, making him look younger and wearier, and she found herself thinking what a shame it was, for a man like this to be drawn into crime. Perhaps if she pretended to fall in with his plans she’d be able to find some way to stop him, to save him from himself.
Gingerly, she tapped her own ash into the tray and then stubbed out the cigarette, letting her hand linger there, as if contemplating reaching over to him and offering some sort of comfort. But before she had a chance to, Red, with his usual clairvoyance, put his fingers forcefully on top of hers and pushed them away.
“Don’t get the idea of reforming me,” he warned. “There’s no use, and I’m not worth it anyway.” He lifted his hand, breaking the contact, and whatever spell the dinner had cast on them abruptly broke with it. He crushed his cigarette out, the lines returning to his face. “You’re tired,” he said curtly. “Time for bed.”
A sense of uneasiness took hold of Paula once more, and she instinctively recoiled back in her seat. It was so quiet there, it occurred to her. Perhaps he’d sent the servants away. Perhaps there was some rear exit to the apartment, and she was alone with him after all. Her heart, she noticed, had resumed its hammering in her chest.
“Afraid?” Red accused mockingly, and she jerked her gaze up to his. “Must I explain again that although you’re technically a prisoner, you’re also entirely safe with me?” He thrust his chin in the direction of the hallway. “Yugi-san is already asleep on her pallet in your room.”
Paula stumbled to her feet. “You—” she faltered. “You have been good to me.” In spite of the words, in spite of how relatively true they were, she grasped the back of the chair, poising it between them protectively. And then she fled down the hall, into the tiny guest room, as if she couldn’t bear to risk being near him any longer.
Afraid? Yes, she realized. But if not of him, exactly, then what?
-----
A/N: In the original story, the dinner scene is glossed over with little more than an “it happened, and Paula would remember it for the rest of her life!”—so this was my attempt to flesh it out more. (Truly, one of the things I love about the original story is how there’s enough plot in it to warrant a whole novel, but the author crams everything into an insane fifteen pages, pfft.) The dialogue at the end (from “Don’t get the idea of reforming me” onward) is canon, albeit with some minor modifications to make it flow better.
Anyway, it turns out one of my love languages is sexually charged dinner conversations. Also: I say I don’t like moody bitches, but then I keep writing moody bitches. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
All other fics can be found here.
