Author’s note: This wee slice of fic was written for the first annual CABB cyber con. Happy Juneteenth, 2001!

Disclaimer: "Beauty and the Beast" and the character Pascal and all the rest belong to Republic Pictures. No infringement is intended. That and all the rest of the legal stuff. Max and her ilk belong to me. 'Nuff said

©2001 by Kayla Rigney

[email protected]

The pipe chamber refit was a tedious, difficult job. At the end of the day, Pascal was covered from head to toe in grime. As fastidious as he was, he hated the feeling and the smell of his labors. He showered immediately and thoroughly and completely changed his clothing; but he could still taste the pungent combination of copper and sweat. Thankfully, Maxine never complained. Instead, she greeted him with a smile and cup of hot mint tea.

"You’re in a foul mood," she said, her voice warm and low. She looked tired.

Max always looked tired these days. Whenever Pascal said anything about this, she replied that it was a Baby Thing and not to worry about it. He worried about it, anyway.

Pascal reached out and took the tea. "Yes, my love," he replied. "I am in a foul mood."

"Well, you’d better snap out of it before the party."

"Party?!" Until just then, the pipemaster had completely forgotten that it was his birthday.

Max rolled her eyes. "Yes, party," she said. "In the great hall. At seven. All your friends will be there bearing gifts." She gave him precisely the same look she gave their baby when she refused to burp.

Pascal shrugged. He was tired and sore and not about to be appeased by her banter. In spite of this, he allowed himself to be led to their ratty old sofa.

Tell me about your day, Max coded. She used shorthand, and it tickled.

The exhausted little pipemaster curled up beside his wife and somehow found the words. He could tell that it didn’t matter what he said, only that he spoke. It was so nice to have someone to come home to — someone who loved him and touched him and laughed in all the right places.

"Why do I have to celebrate my birthday?" Pascal complained. "I don’t need a party to be reminded of how old I am. I’d rather spend the evening at home reading."

"Suit yourself," she replied. " But I’m going to the party. Rumor has it William made his famous German chocolate cake."

"This from a woman, who given the choice, prefers to live on spinach and tomato bits."

"Sun-dried tomato bits," Max corrected. "Distinctions in these things are important."

Almost without thinking, Pascal inched closer and closer until Max was wrapped in his arms, laughing and playing him. "I don’t believe in birthday parties," Pascal said. "They’re just not necessary."

You say that every year. "Ben, life’s too short too be so serious," she said, gently nipping his nose. "’Don’t take it serious. Life’s too mysterious.’"

"You knew I was serious on our second date," he replied, resisting the urge to smile. He wasn’t quite ready to be appeased.

"As I recall, you also slept with me on our second date." Max ran her sensitive fingertips over his. Admit it. You’re enjoying this, she coded. "Besides, forty-three isn’t all that old."

"Wait until you’re forty-three, Maxine Louise; then we’ll talk."

"Benjamin Pascal, I’m not falling for that one," she replied. "You adore that I’m younger than you are. In fact, the very idea turns you on."

Max smiled like a cat and ran her fingertips across his bald scalp.

It felt wonderful.

Suddenly, Pascal didn’t feel so old anymore.

All right, thought the pipemaster. I’m appeased.

Smiling, Pascal leaned in and kissed her very softly. He brushed his lips across her open mouth, tasting her breath. He resisted the need to caress her with his tongue. Instead, he let her draw him into a tender, hungry kiss. He came alive when she boldly entwined her tongue with his. He loved the dance; he loved her.

Oh, God, he thought. This is going to be good.

Max trailed her fingers down his neck and into his fresh, clean tunic. Her tongue lightly traced the cartilage of his ear. "Tell me you’re enjoying this," she whispered, sending shudders of pure desire surging through his body.

"I’m enjoying this," he moaned. Please don’t stop. He tensed in anticipation.

"Relax," she whispered. "Just let it happens, Ben." Max laughed warmly as she spoke his name. And then she thrust her tongue into his ear deeply and sweetly. On the point of frenzy, Pascal turned his face to hers and claimed her pleasing mouth with a shout of unmitigated joy.

"Yes!"

"Shhhh." You’ll wake the baby.

Pascal nodded solemnly and stifled his cries in even more pleasurable pursuits.

Before Max, the pipemaster had not been truly experienced sexually. He knew the mechanics of sex but not the subtleties. He’d been afraid to experiment or to even ask his lovers if they were willing. Maxine Seaton was willing -- and more importantly, she taught him how to ask. They spent long, tender hours exploring each other, asking. They were both asking now.

Just let it happen.

Pascal lost himself in the sensation of kisses and nips and gentle tracings. He forgot how to breathe in the pleasure of her touch. His hands groped desperately beneath her sweater; and his skin burned. She was so different from the other women he’d known. She didn’t dress like them, or smell like them, or taste like them. And Max was so giving. Everything about her was generous and rich and as warm as mother’s milk.

No longer content with mutual teasing, he eased her down beneath him on the sofa and wantonly unbuttoned his trousers. He couldn’t wait. He pushed her skirt aside and took her hungrily, like an animal would. Pascal loved that his thrusts made her arch and mewl. He had only to look into her beautiful eyes to see that she had needed this, too — that she had wanted him all day, as he had wanted her.

"I love you, Pascal," she whispered, pulling him to her. She kissed him so deeply.

With what marginal control he still possessed, Pascal found her hand and coded I love you, too. Then he shifted just enough, and lost everything. Now, blind and aroused beyond tolerance, he could only seek release in her. In all ways. Always.

He felt her lose control beneath him. Her pleasure came in ever-increasing waves.

Max cried out his name, softly, like a song.

The pipemaster willingly gave himself over to his wife’s frenzy and answered it with his own. Unbidden, an errant thought came into his mind: I could have lost this. Lost you. In answer, his body slammed into hers uncontrollably. He knew he was hurting her, but Pascal needed release. He needed to release his ever-present fear.

Since the day of his fall, Pascal had been desperately afraid. He was afraid something bad would happen and he’d wake up and everything would be as it was Before. He’d been so very lonely — and so dead inside. He hated the man he’d been back then. He was truly old Before. Before her love. He couldn’t go back to living his life that way…

Pascal became peripherally aware of another thought, another voice.

Pascal, it said, Before is before. The voice spoke directly to his fear, wrapped itself around it and caressed it with its sound. Now is now.

Moxie, he thought. Instantly, he pulled back and stopped the hurting.

She smiled softly against his lips.

"Gently," she whispered. "Please gently, my sweet Pascal."

He forced himself to lie still on top of her; forced himself to be still inside of her. Finally, he took in a deep, shuddering breath and coded, Tell me the truth. Why are you even with me?

"Because you’re my heart," Max replied, simply.

Her hands were everywhere, pleasing him.

"And because you’re so beautiful."

It’s all right, the gentle voice assured him.

Pascal’s mind and his body finally eased then; and in this comfort, he took her gently, as she asked. As they both asked…

Pascal regained consciousness gradually. He became aware of Max’s cool hand on the back of his neck and of her slow, even breathing against his chest. His ears came back to life next, and he heard the baby crying.

"Max," he said, softly. "Are you awake?"

She nodded and sighed contentedly. "Hannah must be hungry," she said.

Reluctantly, Pascal slid out of her and righted himself. He dressed quickly.

Max remained stretched out on the couch, looking tousled, sexy, and lovable. When he held out his hand to her, she took it.

Pascal overcompensated and pulled her half-falling and half-laughing to her feet. More deep kisses, more sighs.

"I’m so happy," he said.

"Your daughter isn’t," Max replied.

She straightened her clothes, and then took his hand and led him into the tiny nursery.

The moment she saw her parents, Hannah stopped crying.

"What a good child it is," Pascal said, smiling. He reached down and lifted her out of the crib.

Hannah laughed.

"And spoiled," Max added lovingly. "The child is spoiled."

"Very," said Pascal, cradling the baby in his arms. He marveled at how Hannah looked so unlike Max. Apart from being rather small for her age, the baby looked utterly human and utterly like any other three-month-old.

"What are you thinking, Ben?" Max asked.

"I’m thinking that I wish she looked a little more like you and a lot less like me," he replied, sadly. He never much cared for his appearance, and to his eyes, he’d saddled his own child with it.

"Well, I think she looks like herself," Max said. She brushed her fingers through the baby’s wispy curls. "Hannah’s beautiful like you; but she has my hair. Sort of. I think." She didn’t sound too certain about it.

In his entire life, no one except Max had ever considered Pascal "beautiful." (In fact, a few of his lovers had gone out of their way to remind him of how unattractive he was.) But the baby in his arms certainly was beautiful by any definition. Hannah had soft brown curls, light hazel eyes, and the creamy skin of all tunnel-born children. She also had a very pleasant disposition and never cried unless she was wet, dirty, or hungry. Vincent and Mary called her ‘Honey.’

Max stood very close. Pascal’s skin rippled in pleasure from the feel of her breath. "Yes, you’re beautiful and smart," she said, tickling and then kissing Hannah’s stomach. "Just like your father. Although he never believes me."

Pascal blushed. He thought of earlier, on the couch. He’d had no trouble believing her then. Tears stung in his eyes. Embarrassed, he looked away.

"Ben, what is it?" Max asked, her voice filled with genuine concern. "Did I say something wrong?"

"I just never thought I’d have a family," he whispered.

Smiling, his wife leaned in and kissed him tenderly. "But you do," she said, softly. " A very nice family,"

"Yes," Pascal agreed.

"And friends who love you very much."

"Yes," he agreed again.

Max slipped away and swiftly began unbuttoning her sweater. "Hannah hasn’t eaten since two," she said. "She’s got to be starving."

Like all tunnel babies, Hannah was breast-fed and would be for as long as possible. Not only did the practice conserve valuable resources, but it also passed on critical immunities. Mary said that the tunnel born were generally healthier because of this; and infection rates among tunnel children were very low. Dr. Alcott and Father insisted that the tunnel born were both healthier and happier. Amazingly, Max agreed with them.

Sensing security and the prospect of dinner at hand, Hannah burst into a fresh round of tears. Max took her and together they settled into the rocking chair Cullen had so carefully carved. Pascal pulled up his own little stool and sat beside them. He loved watching Hannah nurse.

"Greedy little thing," Max said, laughing wryly.

"She’s just hungry, Moxie," Pascal said. "You said so yourself." With a single motion, he stopped the rocker and drew her into a deep, tongued kiss.

The baby continued to suck loudly at Max’s breast, her tiny fists tight in balls of concentration.

"Benjamin Pascal," Max whispered. She blushed a deep crimson and looked unbelievably sexy.

"What?" he asked, tangling his fingers in her thick, auburn hair. "What’s wrong with me kissing you like that? She didn’t even notice. Besides, Hannah should know that her parents love each other. We made her, Moxie. Our love made her."

"I know that," she replied, softly. Max looked into his eyes; and he felt her smile.

At that moment, deep inside, Pascal was happier than he believed humanly possible. He was profoundly grateful for this feeling. He sat back on his stool and took in the picture that was playing out before him. Watching his wife and daughter like this, life seemed so simple. It was simple. He lost himself in their soft sounds — baby suckling, Max singing under her breath:

It was good to lose himself there.

"Well, anyway," Max looked up and said. "Happy Birthday -- whether you want it or not."

Pascal smiled and replied, quietly, "I want it, Moxie." I always have.

It’s the simple things that truly matter.

The End.