Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Why is it,” Paul Vergier wondered aloud in exasperation as he plunged his head to his desk over yet another failed draft, “that the simple things become the most problematic?" He sighed and crumpled up the paper before tossing it into his surging pile which, quite frankly, was looking more and more like a surging mountain. Turning his exhausted russet eyes to the fresh sheet of paper in front of him, he picked up his pen to begin writing again when a rap rattled his office door.

"Inspector?"

Merde! His eyes widened in panic. "Loïc, is that you? I’ll— give me a moment!" he called, frantically scrambling and shoveling the scrabble balls of paper into the bin at the side of his desk. If all went well, all the evidence would be erased in a matter of seconds. Ratified by the thought, he stood to place several heavy books on top of the stuffed bin, only, he smashed his toe into the bureau first. "Ow!" he hissed, crashing into his chair with a cry of pain, and sending it hurtling to the floor.

"Paul? What's going on in there?"

"N-nothing!" he bit out while trying to ignore his throbbing foot. “I’ll be right there!”

Gritting his teeth, he turned back to the fallen books (cursing his desk) and got to work. Grab that one, and that one - and, oh, there's another one over there, too. He breathed a sigh of relief as he finally shoved the trash bin of papers under his desk and turned to open the door.

On the other side of the door, Loïc had a quizzical look ready for him and opened his mouth to speak, but Paul interjected.

“Bonjour Loïc, comment ça va?”

The shorter, tubby man quirked an eyebrow. “How’re you? ”

“Fine,” he ground out. “I’m fine. I just stubbed my toe.”

“...In your, ah, shoes?”

“Nevermind that!”

“If I didn’t know better…” Loïc said at length, though there was an evident touch of amusement in his voice. “I’d say you seem incredibly nervous today, Paul…what’s bugging ya?”

“Nothing important,” Vergier huffed. A lie. Today was incredibly important. Indisputably important.

“Oh ho, this must be about your Emma!”

Curse this man’s persistence!

“It shouldn't be this hard, Loïc," Vergier finally heaved. And it really, really shouldn’t be this hard to ask Emma to marry him. This was supposed to be the easy part. Well, maybe not the easy part, but all this time he believed he'd always been good with words... so figuring out the wording of his proposal really shouldn't be this difficult. The crumpled balls of paper in his bin, of course, seemed to attest another thing.

With a good-humored laugh, Loïc walked over to pat his shoulder. “You thought it was going to be a breeze, huh? Marriage proposals never are. One of the hardest, most nerve wracking things for a man head-over-heels for his sweetheart!”

Paul sank a little further down, groaning.

“Here, here,” Loïc said, and when Paul opened the small red box to reveal its single, glittering content - two sparkling princess-cut diamonds, and glistening round diamonds tracing the band and wrapping around the center to complete the look (bringing the total diamond weight to 2 carats) - his eyebrows shot up.  

“Seven hells, Paul!” he breathed. “Got a gorgeous one here!”

“Je sais, merci.” He nodded. “I thought it would look perfect on Emma.” He’d opened the box for what must've been the twentieth time that day, gazing with fondness at the shimmering band inside. The ring was styled in polished 14K white gold and instead of the traditional black velvet box, the jewellers gifted him red. “Although I am certain it will be outshone by her...” He murmured warmly.

“Oh, to be young and in love…” Loïc chanted with an exaggerated sigh. Paul huffed at the ridiculous man’s display. “Romance congeals in the air!”

“Of course...” Paul went on impatiently, “It does nothing to solve the conundrum I'm having right now. What do I say? Is there a particular knee I'm supposed to kneel on? When is the perfect time to ask?” Then his breath hitched. Or worse… “What if she says ‘no’?”

Loïc rolled his eyes at him. “Nonsense, Paul. Nonsense to all of that! And fretting over tiny details like what knee you should kneel on won't do you, or your nerves, any good. It doesn't matter what knee you get down on, anyway.”

“Even so…” Paul grumbled, sinking even farther down. "I…still haven't…gotten the speech written down…."

After a beat of silence, Loïc began again. "You know… with me and Martha..." His eyes twinkled and he blew out an almost wistful sigh as he recalled the events Vergier immediately knew the man was going to touch on. Not a day passed when he didn't bring up the story of his wife. “...I know I tell you ‘an the others this all the tim—”

“Yes, Loïc, I know.”

“I know, I know," and he held his hands up with a good-natured shake of his head. “Think of it as good luck, eh?”

Well. No amount of begging could stop him anyway. Paul sighed and gestured for the older man to go on.

“See, Martha, my beautiful sweet shining everything, was out of my league - I was just some chubby guy hanging out, and she was a rockstar! A total knockout!” He went on to explain how his then-crush was the life of the party, and how the bar he’d (at an earlier point in his life) regularly attended was lifeless without her “melodic” voice being there.

“I’d finally worked up the courage after years of tingly nerves before I got up on stage and challenged her to a battle of singsong. After she ‘an I finished a karaoke duet together down at Le Micro, Paul! I just knew I had to marry her. And I proposed to her in that same rinky dink place - and the rest you know. Point is, you'll do great, mon ami.” He huffed. “Starting off at the restaurant she always wanted to try is a good way to start! You got the incandescent ring, too - so the true hard part’s over, and… and  let's not forget, your girlfriend's completely smitten with you!”

“Loïc—”

“No, no, no, now don't think for a second that I haven't noticed the way the mademoiselle looks at you. Complete heart eyes!”

“Sil vous plait, Loïc…”

“Don't ‘please Loïc’ me, inspector. Go in there, buy her some flowers and get ‘er before I tag along and play cupid!”

Paul blinked in surprise. Oh. Flowers! He mentally slapped himself. It was the most basic of—how in the world had he not thought of that? He’d settled with one of those fizzy, what, bath bomb things? That girls tended to rave about? He settled with that at first. Although, there was also the idea that he could gift her both… but considering this was a restaurant he was about to go to...

No. Flowers, just flowers, would be good.

For now, that is.

He looked down at his clock. He needed to be walking out in about two minutes.

“Thanks, Loïc.” Paul said, shuffling up and out of his seat. He walked over to the door to leave. “Wish me luck, I guess.”

“All the luck in the world!”

As he opened his door, he nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw that the entirety of the Constabulary Headquarters were waiting for him on the other side - beaming smiles on each of their faces.

“Good luck, Inspector Vergier!” they all chanted inharmoniously.

“Have you all been eavesdropping this entire time!?”

“Mais non!” Eric, his youngest constable, spoke up. “Monsieur Loïc let us all know that you were going to propose to your girlfriend!”

Paul’s eyebrow shot up and he whipped around to face the accused. “What?”

Loïc marched out of the room. “I only said that I had a hunch you were going to propose to her!” A defiant huff. Then he added, “And I didn't tell you all to wait outside his door like you're all doing, either.”

Someone else amongst the crowd spoke up. “But you also said that you thought he was going to propose to her today.”

“And how could we not wish him luck?” another chimed in.

“Unless…” a third voice added. “You’re really not going to propose to her..?”

Paul suppressed the urge to throw his hands in the air in frustration.

“Forget it, forget it! I need to be heading out and I don't have the time to be arguing with you all. Au revoir!”

Loïc shot him a thumbs-up. "Go get 'er!"

The rest of the room shouted another hefty, “Good luck!” and Paul felt his nerves bumble over as he made to scoot around  group and marched for the front door.

~~~

He really hoped Emma would like the ring he'd picked out for her.

His cheeks warmed as he snuck his hand into the bag again to fiddle with the small box. Maybe it was absurd—and, really, it was—but if he didn't touch it, it was hard to convince himself it was real. He didn't even try to repress the ear-to-ear grin that he was sure made him look like a complete buffoon.

It hadn’t taken Paul long to realize the effect she had on him. Even when they’d first met on the day he remembered so vividly, she had left a lasting impression. And it was, he recalled in amusement, an unusual impression he hadn’t been sure how to define. Back then, he hadn’t believed in love at first sight. Not entirely. But all the same, their routine of having lunch together on weekdays and occasionally hanging out on the weekends when neither of them had any other plans had continued for the next four years. And somewhere along the line, between the afternoons spent teasing each other (mostly on Emma's part) and the nights at the théâtre, Paul had fallen head over heels for her. He'd asked her out soon after, and with a jubilant beam - the one that he was currently imaging to give him hope and calm his nerves - she’d said yes.

He silently prayed that she wouldn’t think of this as bribery and pay him in the second “yes” he hoped for.

“Right…” he murmured meaninglessly to himself.

He’d arranged to take Emma out to a restaurant she would always talk, always dream about going to. Unfortunately, it was unbelievably pricey, and only her most bountiful friends (the most bountiful of people, for that matter) had ever gone. But she never allowed either of those things to bring her spirits down —and up until now, she’d instead settled on imagining being there with wishful sighs. He knew the moment Emma said something about the place, and the way her eyes would spark whenever she did, he had to take her there. No matter what. So when he’d finally saved up more than enough money and made reservations for the two of them, he nearly had to hold her down to keep her from leaping into the skies — she was absolutely thrilled. No, thrilled was too soft a word — she was ecstatic, electrified, over-the-moon!

He looked down, checking the clock again. He still had about… fifteen minutes until he had to drive to pick Emma up, which should have given him enough time to run over to the fleuriste on Rue Montorgueil, especially if he disregarded the speed limit.

Just a little. Nothing too drastic.

The store bell ‘dinged’ as he opened the door and made his way in. Immediately, his senses were hit with the numerous aromas of what seemed like hundreds of different flowers and a colorful array of petals. Paul gawked, realizing that he had no idea of what kind of flowers to buy. Was this such a good idea after all?

If only Loïc had been more specific about that part!

“Welcome to Anaïs, monsieur! Do you need help finding some flowers for the lucky girl?” a friendly voice called to him.

Paul looked over to see a very young hazel-eyed girl - fifteen or so, he guessed - leaning over the counter at the side of the shop.

“Uh…”

Seeing that she'd caught his attention, the brown-haired fleuriste continued, "As you can see, we've got flowers of all kinds and can make custom bouquets that will deliver just the message you want to convey."

“Message? What, in like, er, flower talk?”

The girl stifled a snort. “Flower language, you mean. Mais oui!”

The girl recommended red roses, baby’s breath and ferns ("Red roses are known to represent love, ferns stand for sincerity, and baby's breath, everlasting love!" she said) but how typical was that? Harumpf! Instead, he'd resolved on getting something different - unique, non-cliché. Granted, he knew as much about flower language and color coordination as he did ballet pirouettes and figure skating - and nevermind that the flowers looked a little strange against one another… but in the end he thought it was very ‘Emma’ anyway.

Paul rushed back to his car with who-knows-how-many minutes to spare, hastily but carefully tucking the bouquet of flowers he had purchased into the inner pocket of his jacket. He was careful not to crush any of the pristine petals as he hurried back into his car and made his way towards Emma's house.

As he neared her home, his stomach tied and untied itself in knots as the all-too-familiar doubts rose up again. But he beat them down with a vigorous shake of his head and a mental chide. Yes, there was always the possibility that she'd turn him down, but she'd never given any indication that that outcome was likely…  

Well. He hoped so anyway.

“Paul!”

He had been so startled, that he jerked upright and smacked the back of his head against the roof of his car, cursing at the pain.

Goodness, he was pathetic.

But when he turned, he found the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen standing in front of her door (her back was turned to him as she was locking up). She was wearing a quintessential red blazer dress with contrasting golden buttons and a winning smile.

After gawking at the mademoiselle for a few moments more, Paul shook himself again and promptly jumped out of the driver's seat, out of his car, and over to the front of passenger's side, mind fluttering.

"E-Emma, je m'excuse! It's not like me to be so late, I just - there was an uh- an uhm—"

"Paulie, look at this!" She leaned over, completely disregarding the beginning of his lame excuse. "Look here. Have you seen the menu? Doesn't this all look delicious?"

He blinked, thrown for a second, before he laughed a little. Nervously albeit. "Heh, I see you've gotten your hands on the menu before the restaurant even had the chance to hand it to you." He opened her door for her.

Her eyes twinkled. "You know I had to. You know me better than anyone else could, after all. Merci, by the way - mon merveilleux gentleman."

“Always at your service.”

She hit him with the paper. “You cheeseball!”

As soon as they buckled up, Paul started up the car once again and now were they on their way to this restaurant Emma loved so much. Goodness, he was nervous. He wanted to hold her hand, but he felt paralyzed. He took deep breaths in and out to compose himself. It would be all right. He could do this.

It was a long drive there - longer than he’d ever had to travel - but once the restaurant came into view on the side of the road, he nearly couldn’t keep his jaw from dropping. The place looked… well, cut-rate, a little shy of decrepit, definitely offsetting. He looked over out of the corner of his eye to see Emma’s reaction, expecting to see disappointment there—only, there wasn’t any of that. He would’ve been surprised if he wasn’t so relieved by the undaunted optimism that shone in her eyes instead. In fact, she seemed to shine a little brighter, the smile on her lips spreading a little wider.

“There it is!” She exclaimed excitedly.

His voice quivered. “Y-yeah!”

Luckily for them, there weren’t too many other people up for expensive dining, so together with not having to wait around for a table, he’d almost immediately found a good parking spot to drive into.

They jumped out of the car.

...And it was at that awfully-timed moment his contemptible fears returned to him. Should he get down on his knee now? Right before they walked in? Dieu, he was watching Emma's fleeting figure and his heart was fumbling from the strong onslaught of anxiety. Happiness, confusion, peace, fear, and so many others had flickered and burned in his chest, and he was certain that was a bead of sweat that just rolled very uncomfortably down the back of his neck. He wasn't one of those romantic men - he fought crime! That something as soft-hearted as this reduced him to a pile of nerves was ridiculous. Sure, he might've taken her out to the théâtre, amongst other places, but even then there was a difference…

...Wasn’t there?

So lost in his thoughts, he didn't register his surroundings - in this case, eight-feet tall heavy glass - and the door he'd subconsciously held open for Emma slammed right into him, nearly knocking him off his feet.

“Oof!”

Emma whipped around and his heart leapt into his throat.

“Paul?” She ran over to him. “What happened back here? Are you okay?”

“Y-yes!” he answered quickly with a plastered grin. “Yes! There, uh, there was a bee! Flying around the entrance! I, er, was swatting it away so that it wouldn't sting you…”

“Dastardly bee,” she replied with a giggle. She seemed considerably amused. Paul smiled despite himself, and dusted his clothes off before walking inside.

It was, by far, the most… girliest place he'd ever been in. Everything was drenched in pink. Top to bottom. While he stared, gawking at the walls and chairs for its gaudy fashion and palette, Emma - on the other hand - her eyes shone with undeniable amazement. She absolutely glittered.

Hands cupped over her mouth, she gasped. “Oh my goodness… it's so-so incredibly pink! Everything is - even the chairs! And they’re shaped like tulips!”

As she stood back admiring the place, Paul strode up to the very fancy, equally as baby pink reception desk. The receptionist adjusted his glasses over squinting eyes. “Welcome to Retrouvailles. Reservation for...?”

“Emma and Paul.”

The man flipped through the pages in his book, a single finger going down the list of names. After a second, he looked back up again. “Ahh, zhere z’it is. Reservation for Emma Patronyme, et Paul Vergier.”

Just then, a waiter - clad in grey like the rest scuttling about with silver trays - led them to their table. The smile never left Emma’s face.

Almost as soon as they were seated, another waiter came around and presented them with amuse-bouches - a complimentary appetizer-sized portion provided prior to the following or main dish. In this case, there were four white spoons on a silver platter.

“Chilled, yellow cherry tomato soup with tabasco granita, brioche croutons and basil-cilantro oil," he introduced, setting the plate down. “Et, here are your menus.”

“Thank you!”

“Merci.”

While Emma turned to her menu, Paul lost himself in his thoughts yet again.

“Ooh! Their burgers look good!” Emma exclaimed brightly, but he might as well have been listening to her under water. “And the steaks, too. Have you seen them yet? They’re on page five.”

Ah, crap.

What did Loic say? … Karaoke?

No, that's absurd!

And aside from the fact that he couldn't sing to save his life (just the thought made him shudder), it wasn't like there was a karaoke stand or station, or whatever it was called in a fancy restaurant like this…

No way it would be.

“Hey, Paul...”

When he looked up again, his breath hitched. His girlfriend was wearing that smile. The one where she tilted her head and her eyes seemed to sparkle. The one that made his heart melt.

“Have you seen the steaks yet?” Emma repeated.

“Uh-” he coughed into his fist. “Uh, no - no I haven't… page four you said?”

“Page five!” she laughed, and he laughed a little himself and rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Were you even looking?”

Well, no.

But he didn't need to answer that. Emma of course was already well aware.

“But look!” She flipped the pages as she pointed to different selections of food on the menu. “The burgers, the salads, and is that— oh.” With a huff, she slapped her hands over her cheeks. “Everything looks so good! I don't know which one I should choose…”

“Emma,” he shook his head, grinning. “You can get anything you want.”

It would, of course, drain his pockets to nothing, but Emma's utter happiness, not to mention that through her giddy smile was a clear show of chastity and not a hint of greediness, made it all worth it.

Emma gave him a questioning glance. “Are you sure? I don’t want to…you know...” she trailed off.

“Non, non,” he shook his head. “This is for you. I mean it. And I brought more than enough! So you can help yourself to fifty dishes if that’s what you’d like!”

She grinned at him. Teasing. Challenging. “Maybe I will.”

Thankfully, she didn't order fifty different plates of food. She did, however, order four.

On the first plate was fresh white fish sauteed in lime juice, chiles & spices- rolled in a flour tortilla with shredded napa cabbage, carrots, and fresh pico de gallo. On the second, white sweet potato and mushroom soup with leeks, garlic, ginger and cashew cream. Third, A Pad Thai, and last, a simple burger with fried onions.

The smile was hard to fight off his face, so he didn't bother. Emma was always a good eater - right to the point where she easily put him to shame. She could eat far more than he could, and she was toothpick-thin! (Well.. he was too, but that's beside the point) Where did she put all that food?

He thumbed the red box in his inner pocket.

All the same, there was nothing not to love about Emma. Back in school, she was modest and quiet, but she wore her heart on her sleeve, and never missed a beat. The teachers favored her, and, unfortunately, some other guys did too. But he was, by no means, perfect. So it came as a surprise to him when, in an undaunted, unabashed show of optimism and confidence, she chirped, “I’ve had a crush on you since middle school!” In front, of  course, of nearly the entire school - during which he was receiving an award for good academic standing. He hadn't known what to say to that, so he pretended not to hear her over the clamor of chattering students. But boy did his heart swell. Of course, things happened and she disappeared for a while, but— no. Paul shook his head. That wasn’t the point. She was absolutely wonderful and he thanked his lucky stars he had her.

So, flooded with newfound confidence, he cleared his throat.

“Hey, Emma...”

She looked up, eyes twinkling. “Hi, Paul.”

And then like a sudden need to defecate, his thoughts fried.

“O-oh, I, uh… well..”

Nonononononono!

“Are you.. What's wrong?”

He swallowed hard.

Sois courageux!

“I... I... just wanted to tell you—" He'd just worked up the courage to confess when the waiter came around the corner, entree in hand. He mentally slapped his hand over his forehead, cursing the man for his terrible timing.

After the waiter set the plates and forks down and Emma admired the food, she spoke up again.

“You wanted to tell me what?”

He worried his lip as he ran his sweaty hands over his slacks. “That you...’re very pretty today!” Then he backpedaled. “Not that I'm saying that you don't look pretty any other day, because you do! You, ah, you look—!”

She didn't look very convinced and he knew at this point he was picking at straws.

“Paul, I—”

“You know what? I’ll-I'll be right back.”

Her doleful 'okay...' was lost on him as he turned to power walk to the restroom.

~~~

Get it together, Paul! You made yourself look like a fool back there!

This was just perfect. He had made a complete fool out of himself. Now what was Emma supposed to think of him? He felt like sinking through the bottom of the floor and vanishing into thin air at the same time.

Retrouvailles’s bathrooms were just as extravagant as the restaurant. Although, the walls were more bronze in color than pink and the atmosphere was darker, but lull. There were other things in there he would have raised an impressed eyebrow to (despite not really caring for forme et détail) if he wasn't so frazzled, so frustrated with himself..!

“You good, man?”

A voice had him looking up - or, rather, down at, of all people, a child. He was staring at him with a bored look and two hands stuffed nonchalantly into his pants pockets. Even weirder, he was formally dressed - black tuxedo, a bowtie and shiny oxfords.

And then to speak like a hooligan?

Paul quirked his eyebrow.

“You're standing over the sink like you can't believe you just took that big whopp,” he went on, answering an unspoken question that made Paul's face scrunch. A big ‘whopp’?  He stared back at the kid blankly for a moment before realizing what he could be referring to.

Then realization hit, and the blood rushed to his face before he could think to control it. Not in embarrassment, but in anger. This little runt!

Said runt continued, just as laid back. “Hey. Let me know which stall you were in so I know not to go into that one.”

But he didn't even use the bathroom!

“First of all, I did not use any of the stalls.” He hotly informed him. “And I also did not take a—” his face scrunched “—whatever that was you said!”

“A whopp?”

“Yes," he hissed. “And it's not called that. Don't repeat it.”

“Poop. Manure. Doo-dee. Whatever. So what's up, man?” the tot asked, and he walked over to lean against the sink, too. “You don't look so hot.”

...Whose son was this?

“None of a six-year-old’s business.” And it really wasn’t. The scruff was so far away from proposals and marriage - why was he even sticking by to entertain him in the first place?

“I'm actually twelve.”

“Doesn't help your case any more.”

“But I bet I can help yours.”

Clever comeback. Paul's lip quirked. Even so…

“You're still too young to know about, uh—” How was he supposed to word this to ensure this boy won't jump to the worst possible conclusion? “—Grown-up business.” He settled.

The boy sneered. “Are you trying to propose to that girl with the purple hair?”

Great. First Loïc, and now a preteen? How was he this easy to read?

The boy hopped on his silence. “Thought so. I told you I'm good. ‘Saw you ‘an your lady out there, and you were sweating ab-so-lute buckets!”

“I was not!”

“Okay. Maybe that was an exaggeration or whatever.”

“Are you sure you're twelve?”

“Sure as my name's Tigard.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Is it?”

Tigard shrugged. “Maybe. But listen, the point is, I'm Tigard, I'm good, and I've got some pointers for you and your proposal. Lend a ear, eh?”

Oh well. His life was already spiralling down the drain, just like the faucet water. What did he have to lose, but a good slice of his dignity?

He sighed. “Go on…”

“Hunky-dory, mister," he chirped. “So,” and he held up an index finger. “First off, good job taking your girl—”

“Emma.”

“Emma, to this fancy o’ restaurant. It's great.” A pause. “...Except for the caviar. That's repulsive.”

That was something they both could agree on.

“Second, I think she thinks your sputtering and tripping over your words, is cute.”

“What?”

“So don't worry about all that,” Tigard continued, completely ignoring him. He held up a third finger - his ring.

“And…” he scrunched his face. “And, uhhh…”

Interesting.

Paul smirked and crossed his arms. “Uhhh...?”

“Oh! Ohhh— you know what? Why’re you even ‘frettin? Purpose to your girl—”

He shot the runt a flat look. “Emma.”

“Emma,” the boy corrected himself again, “outside.”

“Outside," he repeated slowly, and Tigard nodded vigorously. “Of all plac—”

Then he stopped himself, blinking.

Actually… that wasn't such a bad idea. It would probably be dark out and definitely not as lavish and… well, nice, as the inside of Retrouvailles was, but now that he thought about it - it would be a little inconvenient to get on his knee in the restaurant, all with how there were waiters and patrons going back and forth down the isles...

Huh.

This kid may be insufferable, but he was brilliant, too.

“Yeppers,” Tigard went on. “When you two finish up your romantic dinner, maybe French kiss for thirty minutes or more if that's what you're into,” he quickly added, “you propose to her outside.”

Nevermind, scratch brilliant.

“Fr-french kiss?!" Thirty minutes?! Paul sputtered. “You, I—!”

“Say whatever you like, mister,” Tigard waved him off. “I may be twelve, but I know adults, and I know y'all got heart eyes for eachother. So if you don't pick her up, maybe spin ‘er around, and then stare longingly into eachother’s—”

“Thanks. I've heard enough.”

Tigard cackled. “Okay. Serious mode again.”

“You never were.”

“Then after she says ‘yes’, you two can kiss it up some mo—”

“Ferme ta bouche.”

Without another word, Paul promptly walked out of the bathroom.

When he rounded the corner again, he found that Emma was watching him with an expression that he couldn't read. She didn't look away when he met it. "…What?" He asked.

She smiled a little, then shook her head. "Nothing." He eyed her skeptically - to which her smile widened - before relenting and sitting back down again. “I still can't believe you sprung this on me, Paulie.” She went on.

He coughed a snort into his hand and adjusted his tie. “Right, well, I couldn’t live with myself if I hadn’t’ve. I just wish you could’ve seen your own face when I told you I made reservations! I was afraid you’d implode you were so thrilled.”

“Yes!” She laughed, even though she was looking a little pink herself. “And that's why you're so amazing. Well, part of why anyway. You're considerate and kind, endearingly gruff, and a little dorky—”

“Hey!”

She giggled. “Sorry Paul, but, very dorky.”

“If I’m dorky,” he shot back with a teasing smile, “then what does that say about you?”

Much to his surprise, Emma gasped and her hand flew up to clutch at her necklace. “I beg your pardon?”

Immediately his heart dropped. Oh no! Crap! Had he really offended her? Mentally slapping himself, he backpedaled. “O-oh..! I take that back, I-I didn’t really mea—”

She burst into laughter.

“I was just kidding, Paul! You know how I always try to mess with you!”

He stared at her, and then mentally slapped himself a second time for gaping like a fish out of water when she giggled again. Of course she was only playing - of course. She always did. Like the time she changed outfits every thirty minutes, acting like nothing was different. Or the time the ridiculous thought came to her to switch all his socks for loony, crazy-patterned ones. Or when she super glued her pen shut and then proceeded to ask him to open it. She’d even sent him a text that read, ‘Paulie, I haven't been completely honest with you...' and nothing else. Sure enough, he was getting ready to shoot a man when he found her laughing it up to tears on her floor, followed by her practical squeal, “April fools!”

His nerves. That was all it was. Just his stupid nerves messing with him. He was going to propose to her at this restaurant, after all, so he understood why they would...

Wait.

When was the right time to actually do it again?

Oh. Right. When they left. He was going to do it when they walked out.

He pretended not to notice Tigard shooting him a thumbs-up from a table further down.

Emma continued. “Dorky, as I was saying...But also my greatest friend.”

Now he felt a small tinge of heat threatening to rise to his cheeks. For a while now he’d wondered if that reaction would ever stop; that he’d get used to the way his girlfriend looked at him, smiled, and teased him. Every time he thought it would, Emma proved him wrong.

I’m not that great, he thought, unable to contain the small smile that threatened to cross his face. Am I?

As if she'd read his thoughts, Emma nodded. “You are. And you're cute, too!”

“Emma..!"

She launched into another fit of laughter and Paul finally gave in, exhaling a laugh of his own. Absolutely ridiculous. And incredibly contagious, to boot.

Two things amongst a sea of many other things he loved about her.

“Dessert menu?” the waiter asked, swapping their plates for another menu - a separate one for treats, he guessed - when he circled back.

“Yes, thank you," Paul answered, and the waiter took off to ask another table the same thing.

He turned to Emma and watched as she eagerly scanned the brightly colored pictures of the restaurant’s specialty parfaits.

Then she gasped. “Paul, look!”

She swiveled the paper around to show him a photo of a fancy parfait, crowned with a row of chocolate biscuit sticks, layered with about five flavors of ice cream and topped generously with jeweled fruit.

“Is that what you want?” he asked, fondly shaking his head at her expression.

She nodded her head like a child.

“Then let's get it.”

He ended up flagging the waiter down and ordering the parfait. It was brought out after about ten minutes or so—ten minutes he'd somehow managed to lose himself in as the waiter came back with a bathtub in his hands.

He coughed.

The parfait, he meant.

He gaped at the monstrous and yet beautiful sculpture of pure, sugary art in front of him, and the presence of the parfait drew the eyes of almost everyone around them.

Of course, it being so large, finishing the thing took a long time, and it was late into the night by the time the dessert waiter finally took the giant cup away. Full and in utter bliss from the dessert, Emma laughed under her breath.

“So. Round two?”

Paul’s eyes snapped up. “How much space is in there?”

“I’m kidding, Paul!” She laughed. When she looked up again, she laughed even harder. “I’m kidding! Stop making that face already. I assure you, I’m famished!”

“What?”

“I mean, stuffed!”

He shook his head while she dropped her own and continued into near-silent laughter. She and her shenanigans. Finally, Emma seemed able to pull herself together and she breathed, eye set.

“Let's get out of here, shall we?”

He couldn't help but smirk in return. “Got the last giggle out, then?”

“Quit it or I'll start again.”

“After you.”

The waiters of Retrouvailles wished them a bon nuit as they slipped out of their rosy seats (him falling into step after her), out of their doors, and into the parking lot. Emma knowingly laced her arm through his and leaned against him as they walked to the car.

Paul’s throat closed up and his palms suddenly became clammy. Taking a deep breath, he reminded himself that there was no reason to be nervous right now. It was just a simple confession— what was so worrying about that? He'd fought and apprehended criminals; this should have been a breeze in comparison.

Maybe he was overthinking this. Maybe he just had to go for it and improvise. His thoughts flicked back to Tigard a second, before, gathering up his courage, he turned to look at her. "Emma."

She looked up at him expectantly, eyes still twinkling with the remaining tears of laughter.

"Ah…" his tongue felt like it had gotten stuck to the roof of his mouth. "Emma…we've, uh…been together for…uh…" he paused awkwardly. “...Five years.”

"Yes..?” She answered at length. Now her eyebrows creased a little - something he’d learned to identify as worry. He tried to beat his panic down. “Are you alright, Paul? You seem a little feverish..."

He swallowed.

Nervous didn’t even begin to cover how he was feeling right now. His insides felt like they were melting and freezing over at the same time. His palms were sweating, and his mind was going through the worst possible outcomes...

His mouth opened and shut hopelessly for a couple of beats before he looked down at the concrete. He took another deep breath and lifted his head, eyes locking firmly with hers. "Emma, we've been together for a little over five years now, and I can safely say that they've been the greatest years of my life. That said, I…" His mouth suddenly began to feel parched. "I want to…" His knees started trembling. "I want to talk to you about…" His tongue felt like it had tied itself into two hundred different knots. "About the…about the f-f-future." Mon Dieu! He mentally bricked himself. There was no way he could bring himself to face Emma like this. He must've looked like a fool, a blithering idiot!

He swallowed and tried again. “I… With that being said, I… want to...”

Oh, for crying out loud.

Fishing out the the small red box for the fiftieth time that day, he dropped to his knee. “Will you marry me?”

It only took a moment for Emma's eyes to widen. "Oh…"

Then he was nearly stumbling backwards when she pushed forward, knelt, and threw her arms around him, pulling him close into one of the most tightest hugs she'd ever given him. “Absolutely. I absolutely will,” she breathed into his shoulder, and something quivered in him at her words.

(Here he was almost in tears…)

Then the moment had passed, and she had stepped back. He took the ring and slid it on her finger, and her eyes seemed to shine as she stared at it.

Despite everything, he couldn't help but laugh. It bubbled out of him before he could think to control it. He shook his head.

“That Loic was right. Proposing was the hardest thing I have ever done before. No criminal I arrest can hope to amount!”

“I was afraid you'd never get it out!” Emma squeaked happily.

Paul mulled over her words, rapidly blinking when he caught on. “Never get it… Wait, what? So you mean—?”

“You seem to forget that you're dating - sorry - engaged  to a woman with impeccable intuition! Not to mention, I noticed how nervous and fidgety you were today. And, you tend to get like that when you're up to something.” A sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

“So, I’m that obvious…” Paul murmured, feigning distraught. Emma chirpily nodded and he made his shoulders slump. He then wiped the sweat off his forehead and finally stood up; however, almost as soon as he did, something fell from him and had them both looking down.

Paul's jaw dropped.

The flowers!

He realized with a deflated sigh that they were history. Absolutely crushed. Some of the petals fell off as he hurriedly bent down to pick the bouquet back up. He had forgotten all about them - the awkwardly arranged flowers he'd bought earlier to give to Emma.

“Merde…” he whispered.

“Paul?” Came Emma’s voice, and he looked up.

"They're for you," he blurted without any further preamble. "—well, were. I just thought... You deserved something nice, y'know? And I thought you'd like blue... The, uh, the peonies, I think, they match your eyes... I just— or maybe I shouldn't have."

“Match my eyes? Do they really?” Purposefully, she put on a goofy smile and posed next to the bouquet with fluttering eyelashes.

He couldn’t help but shake his head at her endearingly ridiculous display. It was so like her.

“They’re still beautiful flowers.” She twisted her lip as she looked at them, serious again. “Just needs some water and a pretty vase. Luckily for them, I have a perfect one at home!”

“Then I’m glad you like them.”

Her eyes met his and softened. He ducked his head slightly and adjusted his glasses.

Next to her, the flowers paled in comparison.

So he took her home - but not before without waving a goodbye to Tigard, who had been idiotically grinning at them from inside the restaurant - and she wrapped her arms around him for the last time that night, murmuring another “Thank you,” into his shoulder before slipping away.

(The following morning when he walked into work, the entire constabulary seemed to come to a standstill. Files dropped, fingers stopped typing and now everyone was watching him with widened eyes and bated breaths. Before he could open his mouth to question their ridiculous behavior, realization hit.

“She said yes.”

The constabulary cheered.)

Chapter Text

As night fell, the blue haze of day lifted to reveal the stars. A canopy of luminescent little lights materialized amongst the ocean of blackness. Some were dull, merely twinkling into existence every now and then, but there was an ample amount of shimmering stars to illuminate the skies. Charlie was watching Ace Detective when her father walked in from work—only, he was now standing stiffly in the doorway looking down at his shoes. She eyed him for a moment, before slowly popping another fry in her mouth and turning back to the T.V.

“Charlotte?” It came out so debilitated she thought he spent the entire silence trying to pep talk himself into saying it. Probably even before that - the whole him standing in the doorway.

She raised her eyebrows expectantly at him. “Yes..?”

But after a moment or two; a second or more of opening and closing his mouth and failing to formulate the right words, he shook his head. “Ah… Never-...Nevermind. Forget it.” With this, her father seemed to completely throw in the towel, and she watched as he tossed his coat over the couch and sauntered away.

Charlie sighed, paused the T.V., and turned to him before he could completely disappear. Not that she wouldn't chase him down if he did. “Something's up, isn't it?”

This time he coughed. “I was just thinking about dinner… and if you would like to go out to eat, but I see that you're busy, so-”

“Sure.” She interjected. “Why not?”

Her father hesitated. He shifted his weight. “...Are you sure?”

“Why not?” She repeated, getting up. She flicked off the T.V. Her show was recorded, so she could always watch it later.

After another unsure second, her father's uneasy expression gave way to a small smile. “Wear something nice, then.”

Ultimately, her father didn’t put on anything too special. Just a pink dress shirt, some slacks, and a tie actually interlaced right.

As far as herself, she decided to wear a dress. It featured an au courant high neck design, intricate dusty blue lace fabric, tiered shape and sleeveless design. She put on black tights to ensure her father wouldn't complain bitterly about her showing "far too much leg” for his comfort.

Puke-worthy; eye roller.

All the same, he was extraordinarily excited on the drive to this restaurant called, “Retrouvailles” - meaning, the joy of reuniting with someone after a long separation. She never heard of it, nor had he ever mentioned it to her. But now, listening to him talk and talk endlessly about it in the car made her feel lighter somehow. “Here, take a look.” He said, and he’d handed her a rustic menu out of the glove department that she immediately raised a skeptical eyebrow to. Surely, if the thing was this old-looking, the menu had changed over some time. She wouldn't shoot him down for it by pointing it out though. She'd never seen him so… riled up about something - much less a place - unless it was about solving a case, apprehending criminals, or catching…

Oh.

Charlie's hand slipped from her cheek. Phantom R…

She… it had been a little while since she'd last seen the thief. Three months to be exact, but still, doubtlessly, a little while. She wondered what he was up to.

Or if he was okay.

The drive to the restaurant was surprisingly long. Well, not too long, but Charlie found herself curiously eyeing buildings, and restaurants, and others things she wasn’t familiar with on the drive there. Granted, she never ventured this far out in the city- doubtless her father would fuss her ears off if she did.

But just as they were walking through the doors, there was a boy— red hair, glasses. He looked up at the entry bell, and she thought she saw a smile pull at his lips before it vanished into a polite nod.

“Welcome to Retrouvailles,” he said, and then continued on his way to deliver the silver platters in his hands.

She never suspected what was inside. From the front, it looked just like another rinky dink, if shiesty building on the street. But upon entering, well. The best word she could use to describe it… pink. The entire decor, from the chairs to the walls, was incredibly pink. Again, the classic, simple and almost bourgeois design of Retrouvailles was sugar-coated in a pastel Ladurée-esque pink; an all-pink room with plush velour couches and chevron tiled floors.

It was definitely a restaurant for artistic expression. The tables themselves, with the gleaming white and heavy linen spread across it like a blank canvas, and even the chairs had matching pink pillows!

“Charlotte.”

Charlie turned back to her father and met his bemused gaze. Her astonishment must've been obvious.

He went on. “What?”

“The outside…” she started slowly, “...was it on purpose?”

“I'd say so.”

The third voice had them both looking up.

“Then again, I've only recently started working here so I might be wrong. Bonjour.” He said, bowing. “My name is Raphael and I'll be your serveur today.” He set two menus down on their table, and Charlie realized that this was the same boy she saw zip by at the entrance. “Can I start you two off with any drinks?”

“Just water for me, thanks.”

“I'll have the same, merci.” Her father added. “Avec le citron, s'il vous plait.”

“Right.” He said, scribbling it down on a small notepad. He looked to her. “Lemon for you too, Char-” And something caught, Raphael cleared his throat— “I mean, lemon for you too, mademoiselle?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “No, thanks…”

Then, with an “Be back in a jiffy,” he skittled off.

Huh…

Anyway.

“Father?” She mulled. She couldn't get the question out of her head. “How long has it been since you've come here?”

Her father hesitated. “...A while.”

Something broke in his eyes when he said that.

Charlie bit into her lip, managing a feeble “Oh..” before looking down to stare at the tablecloth. She shouldn't’ve asked that...

Although he was better - far better than he was before, she could even argue - her father was still hurt about losing her mother.

After she passed away, he was left torn into pieces, shambolic. Angry. Bereaved. He buried himself in his work, hardly ever showed up to support her in her football matches (again, work), was never home (when he was, he left the next second to go back to work), and, goodness, was he always fussing...

But when he'd asked to go out to this place back at home, of course she complied. Especially because she knew he was doing it in his effort to compensate for it all. Baby steps. Mom was his anchor and without her, he'd lost his way.

He was trying to get better.

His head was too big to admit it.

A cough tore her from her reverie. She looked up.

“I…” her father began, “I used to take your mother to this restaurant all the time back when we were, uh-” he coughed stiffly into his hand, “Dating. It… it was her favorite. I’m glad to see it's still retained its charm, and everything’s in the same place as it were before. Nothing new…” he trailed, eyes browsing the place. “Except for that over there in the corner, what is that?”

She snorted.

Vergier shook his head. “Anyway, Emma was an untamable eating force! Everything on the menu impressed her. The steak, the burgers, the potatoes, the salad, dessert - you name it.” He chortled. “I can’t remember if I ever left this place with at the least un euro in my pocket.”

Charlie blinked. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him laugh like that.

Forget that, smile, with so much mirth. Something that was genuine and happy, and not a chortle or a smirk for his victories over criminals.

He really loved her.

Her eyes twinkled. “Oh come off it, old man. Are you sure you’re not just pitching that on her to cover up the fact that it was really you eating the menu out of stock?”

“I swear on my badge!”

She rolled her eyes. “Uh oh. He swore on his badge.”

“She’d eat out of my plate, too. Don’t be fooled by her metabolism!”

“Look who's talking.”

“In case you didn't know, Charlotte, it goes three ways.”

So it did. She couldn't argue with that. So she shrugged in response. Then—

“Here’re your drinks! Two waters.”

Fancy tray in gloved hand, Raphael set two cups down on the table, sliding the glass with the lemon over to her dad. “One for you, and one…” and his smile broadened, “...For you.”

This time she couldn't stop the blush that burned her cheeks red when their eyes met. She quickly averted her gaze.

“Thank you,” said her father.

“Merci…” she muttered.

As the waiter walked away, the grin on his face was not lost on her.

But as the seconds passed, her annoyance slowly froze into suspicion. He seemed amused. Vastly amused. In fact…

Then it clicked.

This idiot.

Charlie slapped her forehead.

It made sense - she knew there was something oddly, horribly familiar with him the moment she saw him when she walked in! She mentally kicked herself for not recognizing him that moment there.

...Not that he really gave her time to actually get a good look at him - all with how he was practically speeding around the restaurant.

Well at least it answered her question back in the car.

“Charlotte,” her father broke in. There was a touch of amusement in his voice. “What's that look for?”

“...What?”

What's that look fo…oh, she was making a face?

“It's nothing," she hastily answered. She thought about it a second before grumbling on, “Nothing important.”

Her father lifted an eyebrow at her but didn't press on. 

“So, how do you like Retrouvailles so far?”

She took a sip out of her water. “It's really pink. It looked so crusty on the outsi—”

“Charlotte," her father hissed, looking around. Probably to check to see if anyone else had heard her.  

She couldn't help but grin at that.

“You know it's true though,” she pointed out, “You can't tell me your jaw didn't drop when you first pulled in.”

He stared at her a beat before he let his shoulders sag. “...D’accord. I admit it, I was a little surprised. Your mother would always talk about how—” His voice lowered some more “—expensive it was, so I expected something more…”

Charlie's lip twitched. “Extravagant?”

“Oui.” He nodded, and she nodded too.

Well. She never had anything against the color pink (secretly it was her favorite color), but she had never seen a restaurant so drenched in it. She was pleasantly surprised.

A streak of red hair caught her attention, and - oh. The idiot was back.

“Amuse-bouches,” he announced frivolously,”the complimentary appetizer before the appetizer.”

He set down a pretty oval tray with shot glasses of chilled, creamy soup, two spoons of braised beef, two pre-twisted forkfuls of pasta and mini croquettes.

“As far as the actual appetizer is concerned, I'll be back to give you guys deciding time. But let me first say, the cheese fondue is delicious.”

“You would say that, wouldn't you?” Charlie jabbed.

Raphael hesitated a moment. Then he exhaled. “So, the cat’s out the bag…”

Her heart dropped.

Wait. He isn't really going to—?

“Waiters do get to taste the food. But in our defense,” he shrugged, “we wouldn't really be able to recommend anything if we hadn’t’ve.”

“Then the fondue sounds nice,” Vergier hummed, ratified. “What do you think, Charlotte?”

“Sure…”

“You got it.” With this, he politely nodded to the both of them and walked away.

Slick. He would be of course.

Before she was able to delve into it any further, a grunt from her father and the sound of him turning a page caught her ears. “I wonder if they still have the… ah! There it is!”

Her eyebrow quirked. “What're you getting, Dad?”

“Their steaks were always my favorite. You should get one, too.” She waved her hand at him.  

“I'll pass. I think I'll just order a burger.”

“You always order burgers,” He pointed out flatly.

Charlie rolled her eyes at him. “It's the only thing I'm comfortable with. Can't go wrong there. Besides,” she added, “you always order steaks.”

“Oui, but never châteaubriand.”

“Same difference.”

Her father grinned. “Actually—”

“Keep your steak trivia!”

This place was fancier than she'd forethought. First the pink walls, flower chairs, and ambient lights (there was even a “caviar man” offering the grotty stuff in teeny glass bowls), and now a whole string quartet playing softly in the background. Her father was unfazed by it all - he had been there several times, so of course he wouldn't be - and resorted to watching her reaction (sometimes with a fond smile that she pretended not to notice; all he was going to do was cough awkwardly into his hand and sputter out a lame, equally as awkward excuse) instead. She wondered what else Retrouvailles was going to dish out...

A waterfall, maybe.

At this point, she wouldn't put tiger cubs on dazzling leashes past them, either.

“Here’s your fondue!”

All of a sudden, there were two ‘clinks’ as a bowl of melted cheese, and a smaller glass bowl chock-full of 1 inch, French bread cubes were placed on the table. “Flag me down if you need refills.”

“Ah, this all looks good.” Her father breathed, hands hovering a little over the food as he looked. Then he stood up. “Excusez-moi, Charlotte. I have to run to the restroom. Do not eat up all the fondue!”

“Who do you take me for?” Charlie called back.

As he walked off, retorting something that sounded vaguely like, “Your mother!” Charlie turned to stare at the napkins Raphael was now setting on the table.

“So,” she said casually, “Took time for you to decide to appear again, huh?” The accused’s face betrayed momentary - if fabricated - surprise, but he said nothing. Charlie rolled her eyes at his silence.

“You’re not slick, Phantom.”

That got him.

This time, Raphael made a sound in his throat that was almost a snort and snapped his fingers. “Right on, Charlie. You're one good private-eye!” He paused, then sat across from her. “But uh, you're not ‘gonna...you know…”

“Rat you out to my dad?” He nodded. Charlie shook her head. “Non. It would be funny to see his reaction though.”

“I'm just a wee bit surprised to hear you say that,” He said, grin broadening. “I never really took you for someone who enjoyed a little hoopla. I'll keep that in mind.”

Charlie scoffed. “Please don't, idiot, you do enough already.” A pause. She bit her lip. “Where did you disappear off to?” she asked, voice strangely calm despite her inner confusion and secret disquiet.

The rhythm thief chuckled. “Have I entered a parallel universe? Or was that worry I just heard in your voice?”

“Just answer the question, you dingbat!”

Another aggravating laugh from him. “Well, you know how I roll. A phantom’s ‘gotta stay a phantom.”

“Not a good answer.” She rolled her eyes, but decided not to press on. She knew Raphael was looking for his father, and he was more than likely still on that case - none of her business, she supposed. Still… “What're you doing here?” She asked, genuinely curious.

“Can I throw that right back at you? I didn't expect for you to show up.” He grinned, folding his hands under his chin. “Imagine my surprise when I saw you walk through that door. And—might I add, you look darn good.”

She rolled her eyes for the fourth time that day. It was so like him to point out the unimportant details. Even so, she felt her cheeks heat up at the compliment.

“My father and I are just out to eat.”

“I could've told you that.”

“Yeah, whatever!”

“Anyway,” he started again, and she resisted the urge to blush all over again as he gave her a once-over. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine,” she shot back, hiding her smirk behind her cup, “until I had to see your pesky mug today.”

Raphael's laugh came again. “If it's any consolation to you, I'm only here to make some extra cash. Not to make a scene this time around.”

“Good. Because I would hate to have to—”

Someone clearing his throat had them both looking up.

Her father did not look happy.

Raphael jumped up. “Oh. Oh uh… Sorry about that, monsieur.”

Vergier shot him a look. "...Do you two know each other?"

Charlie's lips twitched, giving away the smile she was trying to hide. She pulled her drink up again. "You do seem somewhat familiar. Have I threatened you before?"

“Nah. I haven't seen you a day in my life.”

Her father's eyes moved slowly, warily between the two of them, as if trying to scan for anything hidden. He studied Raphael for a moment longer, before relenting. "…Okay.”

In the corner of her eye, Charlie could've sworn she saw something in the boy unwind. She stifled a snort.

Finally her father sat down. He adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, glowering at the covert rhythm thief as he walked away.

“What are you doing, papa?"

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say that night owl was hitting on you!"

She nearly choked.

“Don't think I haven't noticed the way he looks at you. And then he has the audacity to sit across from you in my absence!” He growled. “The cad.”

She didn't know whether she wanted to laugh or cry more.

“Oh, come off it, dad!” She flushed. “...It's not like that.”

“Your blushing seems to suggest otherwise.”

“How else am I supposed to react to you practically telling me some guy is trying to bat eyes at me?”

She didn't bother to hide her satisfaction when her father grimaced.

“Don't use that word.”

“Fine. Flirt with.”

“...Moving on.”

“Sweep me off my feet!”

“Charlotte. Moving on!”

“Be still my heart,” Charlie snickered on anyway, rolling her eyes, “I think I've fallen for his roguish wiles.”

Her father finally threw his arms up in exasperation. “Fine. I take it back! Just - end these ridiculous synonyms!”

A not-at-all guilty laugh bubbled out of her.

“You are ridiculous.” Her father went on, shaking his head at her. He was grinning. She swallowed her surprise. “Just like your mother.”

“Y’know, none of this would've ever started if you hadn't’ve said—”

"Yes, I get it.”

Eventually the food came around. Although it wasn't Raphael who served them, Charlie quickly found that the atmospheric, pink restaurant divided their servers into sections. There was an amuse-bouche and appetizer waiter, un plat principal waiter, and last, the dessert waiter. She figured Raphael fit in the formermost with how he wasn't coming around anymore, however, she did occasionally see the redhead scuttling about (and glared at him for the winks and sneaky comments he’d shoot her way in passing) with more plates, trays and platters.

The idiot.

...Though, with amusement, she had to admit it, it was entertaining—him being there.

It was fun.

Sappy as that sounded.

She ordered and got a burger with cheddar, pickles, panko onion rings, lettuce, tomato, and “Signature sauce” (really, it tasted like a combination of ketchup and barbecue sauce. How innovative). It was served with a side of BBQ sauce and fries.

Her father, on the other hand, had a filet mignon seasoned and topped with spicy citrus-chile sauce, grilled avocado slices, garlic roasted tomatoes and cilantro. It was served with a fresco salad.

“So, uh… how's your food?” Vergier spoke up.

Why'd he have to hesitate there? Way to make things awkward.

But in truth, it was probably the best burger she'd ever eaten—though, she found herself saying, “It's good,” to keep her dad from getting too chummy about it.

“How’s your—” she looked over “—puny steak?”

“I'll have you know châteaubriand is supposed to be small. It's the cut.” He informed her. A pause. “And it's delicious by the way.”

“Right.”

Silence seeped in.  She wasn't sure how long the moment stretched before her father finally seemed to find his voice again.

“Charlotte, I...I—” And something caught. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I just wanted to apologize. For everything.”

She opened her mouth to interject, but he cut her off with the shake of his head.

“Before you say I already apologized, don't. I know. But that didn't count, not when that dastard Phantom R was still at large…” Charlie tried not to snort at the contrariety. Her father went on. “I know apologizing isn't going to make up for all the time I spent away from you, but... I know I don't always get things right, and I'm sorry for that. I will make it up to you.”

Maybe your head isn’t so big after all, old man..

At length, Charlie crossed her arms. “Well…” she sighed, twisting her lip. “...If you're going to apologize, then I guess I should also. You know,” she added after a moment, a teasing grin playing at her lips. “For being an ‘impertinent’ child.”

“Well. About that," he muttered, shifting uncomfortably, uncharacteristically. He coughed into his hand. "I also apologize about…that…"

Darn. That wasn’t what she was going for. Charlie scrambled for her words.

“Dad, that's not— quit it.” She finally huffed out. “Impertinent’s far better than ‘sweetheart’, or ‘honey bun’, or something equally as sappy that you probably used to call mom, right?”

She watched as her father's vexed expression gave way to a small smile. “Amongst other things—”

“Gross.”

“—But right.” He chuckled, and he looked down at her plate. “That established… can I have a taste of yours?”

“Absolutely not. Hands off, you old coot.”

~~~

“Are you ready?” Her father piped in as he finished up. She had already finished her burger while her father took a bit longer to finish his own food. Though he did have more on his plate than she did. Fancy side salad and all.

She said “yes” in a wordless nod, and after her father cleaned up a little (make it so the waiters wouldn't turn their noses up at him for being ‘sloppy’, she guessed), he paid the bill and slid out of his seat.

Charlie stood up from her chair, following in step with him. Up ahead, Raphael turned around just in time to spot them leaving and walked over to hold open the door.

“Thanks for eating at Retrouvailles.” He said with a respectful bow. “Bon nuit, monsieur!”

Vergier shot a glare at him before he grumbled out a half-hearted, “Merci. You too,” and walked out.

As she was nearing the redhead, she found that his eyebrows were raised ever so slightly. 

"Wow.” He chirped, though there was an evident touch of amusement playing beside the phony surprise in his voice. “Your father doesn't even recognize who I am and he still manages to hate me?"

"You're surprised?” She shot back with a snort that brought a smirk to his face. "You, Phantom R?” She added, quirking an eyebrow at him. "All the same, you weren’t exactly making it hard."

“True, true.” He relented with a chuckle. “But I couldn't not talk to you. This place is so pent up and high class, and you never really get to hear anything other than ‘my exquisite pearls! ’ or ‘marrying my son, prince fancy-name, into a rich family’ and all that jazz.” Charlie stifled a snort, certain that Raphael had noticed because his grin broadened ever so slightly. He shook his head and went on. “Anyway, point is, it's nice to see some familiar faces. Even if one of them was your angry dad's.”

“Righ—”

Well. Speaking of her father.

She heard him call her name from somewhere outside. Doubtless he was going to circle back any second now to question the delay.

"Here,” said Raphael simply, and Charlie blinked at the small card he had just placed in her hand. “Tell him I was holding you up with this."

"...What is it?"

A careless shrug. "Just a ticket the restaurant occasionally gives out. The next time you drop by, something of the three courses is supposed to be free."

Charlie flicked the thick card to its back and front sides, reading the letters a second time before she looked up to fix Phantom R with a dry look. “You're going to get in trouble.”

“Nothing I haven't gotten into before.”

"Speaking of trouble,” she quipped, “I wonder how things would've changed if I did end up ratting you out to my dad.”

“Please, you know I'd already be gone by the drop of a hat; not mine by the way.” He added with a wink.

She rolled her eyes at him.

“Au revoir, idiot.”

But when the door opened and Charlie finally moved to exit the restaurant, she felt a shift of weight behind her. She glanced over her shoulder.

Only—she didn't have time to question the thief before he reeled her around and then she was being thrown into him as he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in close into the first hug he had ever given her.

For a moment, Charlie forgot how to breathe.

"It was nice seeing you again." His words were clear. As was the smile in his voice. "Take care."

Charlie thanked Le Dieu his face was to her back so that he didn't see the heat that blossomed in her cheeks. She'd never heard him so… sentimental. With Marie maybe, but never with her. 

Was he messing with her?

"Wh-what's this all about, Phantom?" She tried indignantly, her voice coming out softer and more panicky than she had intended. Of their own accord, her arms drifted up to hesitantly return the embrace. "You're all sappy now. You're a sap bucket!"

“Maybe.” He said, breaking away. His eyes twinkled as he paused a beat. “Or maybe I just wanted to see your reaction. I always get a kick ‘outta those.”

Charlie glared at him. “Why is it always fun and games with you? You're insufferable!” 

If only she had her football on her... He’d be French toast!

He snapped his fingers and winked at her again. “You know how I roll. Anyway, better make like eggs and beat it before your da—”

“Wait,” she said, stopping him in his tracks. “Here,” and she shelled out a couple of euros and handed it to him. She nearly forgot all about it - tipping him, she meant. Although she had no intentions of ratting the thief out to her father in the first place, something in her ached when he mentioned he was only working there for extra cash. Something that reminded her - for far too long he’d had no one but himself and his pup. She wouldn't allow her expression to betray any emotion from it though, so she kept it stoic. 

“You mean all this?” He blinked at her, warily going on. “...Are you sure?” 

Charlie nodded once. “My father won't like it very much if he finds out, but this one's on me.” Then her gaze flattened. “Don't get all sappy.”

She watched as his shocked expression gave way to a grateful smile - one that made her see stars for a moment, one she surprisingly found herself mirroring. Just a little. 

“Then, thank you, Charlie,” he said, stuffing the money into his pocket, “I mean it.”

She knew.

With one last nod to him and a near silent, Tu le mérites, more than anyone, she wasn't sure he’d heard (she was already turning away to keep herself from looking), Charlie swivelled around and made for the parking lot.

“Charlotte?” Her father was jumping out of his car. “What happened?”

“Ticket.” She answered, holding up the card Phantom R had given her. She mentally fist pumped when his face dropped at the sight of it. That stopped him from asking questions! “One of the waiters handed to me.”

“Is that..?” His vexed expression broke into an all-too-happy grin as he took the card from her and took a closer look. “Impossible, mais c’est! Retrouvailles rarely passes these things out, but how-?” He shook his head. “Emma also got one of these, once..!”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Just how rare are those things?” She muttered as they hopped into the car. As her father rambled on excitedly about it - amongst other things - on the drive back home, Charlie's thoughts drifted.

Retrouvailles, huh?

The irony.