1881 Hameau des Artistes -- Michaud Household

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Ashton Greene

The moment Lucian took to move aside his laptop was almost painful, but was cured and soothed when he returned, the feeling of ecstasy replenished to overflowing. Her fingers trickled down to the edge of his shirt and gripped at the fabric as her head rested on the table, her blonde hair feathering out around her like a pillow. She gave a quivering sigh before her lips found their way to Lucian's strong neck, back up to his ear, where her tongue and teeth tickled at the lobe, her hot breath just grazing his skin.

Her hands searched for buttons and zippers in the dim lighting and eagerly travelled around, revisiting the land she knew well.

She didn't know if she blinked or if the lights flickered, but she moaned into a momentary darkness. She felt words tumble from her lips, but wasn't sure exactly what she said. It was something like "It's raining" as her fingers latched onto the roots of Lucian's dark hair.

The sky shook with weather and Gregory kicked against Lucian and Ashton both, making Ashton wonder if he could hear the wicked storm. He had never had protestations to her and Lucian's love making before, so surely this time wasn't what was upsetting him.

Ashton kissed Lucian again and it was like drinking electricity. Overwhelming shock waves sent a tremor through Ashton's frame.

The sky was dark with clouds despite it being mid afternoon. Rain made patterns on the window that, with the help of street lamps below, cast shadows that stretched across the table and hard wood floor. Ashton could see them making their way across Lucian's warm, intrepid hand. Her eyes rolled back to a close happily. "Christ," she breathed, "I love you."

[The Exodus]

Lucian Michaud

Ashton laid back, pulling Lucian over her and nuzzling at his ears with soft lips and strong, fierce teeth. He growled a little as they tore at each other’s clothes. His jacket was now draped over his laptop, his shirt buttons half-undone; Ashton, too, was in a shade of undress befitting her Moulin Rouge days.

"It's raining," Ashton murmured.

Before Lucian could laugh, Ashton’s nails bit into his scalp and tugged him to her mouth, which Lucian greedily accepted. He could feel the soft pulses of their son’s kicks as he pressed to Ashton; they were like little heartbeats from her abdomen against Lucian’s own. He couldn’t help but smile under Ashton’s lips. If Gregory was trying to keep his mummy to himself, he’d just have to understand.

"Christ," Ashton swore breathily. "I love you."

“I love you, too,” Lucian said, his voice nothing but quiet intensity. “I love you so, incredibly—“

A rumble of thunder louder than those before rattled the windows. Almost simultaneously, a peel of lighting illuminated the entire block. And then the kitchen lights went dead.

“—Much,” Lucian finished, amusement creeping into his voice. He looked around, then back at Ashton. His lips met hers sweetly and then he pulled away again. His eyes were still glinting devilishly, as if a little thunderstorm was the last thing to deter him. “Let’s take this into the living room. Light a fire in the fireplace… Call it an early night?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Ashton Greene

“I love you, too,” Lucian said, his voice nothing but quiet intensity. “I love you so, incredibly—“

There was crash of thunder, louder than the preceding ones and a zing as the lights fell to an off. Ashton, startled, let out a scream. “—Much,” Lucian finished with a laugh. He kissed her once more before slipping away. Ashton sat up, a pinch of embarrassment tinting the apples of her cheeks.

“Let’s take this into the living room. Light a fire in the fireplace… Call it an early night?”

It took Ashton the whole of a second to realise what Lucian had on his mind. Easing herself off the table, she smirked back. "Light a fire?" She asked. "But, my dear, I thought that's what we were doing already."

Ashton took a step and reached for the small of her back. It ached and creaked from the hard surface of the table. It wasn't surprising, but it was sore. Surely, if Lucian knew, he'd steer this love boat of a night in a different direction. So Ashton walked it off and settled herself, sprawled on the couch. She watched the flames of the fireplace reflect an orangey glow on Lucian's skin, licking away at him the way Ashton planned to. She smiled, awed by the way he looked. She could watch him light fires forever in both the physical and metaphorical senses.

"Come here, handsome," she said, curing a beckoning finger at him as the logs in the fireplace glowed red and flames erupted around them. Now, they could create a little heat of their own.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Ashton Greene

Lucian was so full of surprises lately. Ashton didn’t know he could cook more for breakfast than just eggs until this week; she didn’t know until two nights he never untied his toes. After showing her his secret haven, they had been more open with each other, unconsciously forthcoming until it became habitual. Of course they still harbored around a few secrets, but those would surely be revealed in due time.

Speaking of due, Ashton’s due date drew nearer, and her nerves were heightened with each day that ticked by. She was anxious and frightened in all the glorious and heart stopping ways . And as each day came to a close, she saw herself more and more as a mother and this surreal idea became a tangible reality. The dreams and aspirations she and Lucian drafted beneath the sheets and pillows of the hotel fort, but had to be locked away were being revisited, slowing coming to life, fulfilling the void that had dug itself inside her where her family should be.

And today, Lucian had yet another surprise planned. He took her hands and led her, eyes closed, around the house. Ashton tried to guesstimate where he had led her based on her knowledge of the floor plan. She felt along the walls and trusted he wouldn’t run her into anything.

“Jesus, love,” Ashton said, with a laugh, “where are you taking me?”

She heard a door creak softly.

“Open them.”

Ashton’s eyes fluttered open to open and were immediately fluttered with a pastel palette of blue hues and soft geometric shapes. Damien’s handiwork paid off.

In the corner sat a handcrafted rocking chair, painted by Damien. The centre piece, the crowning glory of the room was a crib, equipped with more features than Ashton cared to count, unique from any store manufactured cradle she and Lucian could find. She smile at the love and commitment poured into this one room, transforming it from the elegant state it was in to the baby friendly comforting haven it now was. Ashton encircled her arms around her growing belly, now grateful for the days Damien would kick her out of the house. Her son would have a perfect place to rest and grow when he was removed from the home he currently dwelled in and was thrust into the garish and often frightening world he would enter come February. He would learn here, explore here, be loved here. And Ashton couldn’t imagine a better place for him.

“Oh my God…” Ashton breathed. “I absolutely love it!”

[The Exodus]

Lucian Michaud

The nursery was off-limits to both Lucian and Ashton. It was Damien who spent hours on ladders, painting and stenciling the walls. Damien who cobbled together IKEA-type baby furniture. It had been a point of contention between the two men at first. Lucian, trying to reason with Damien, that it was his right as a father to do some prep-work for his unborn child, was met with calm-eyed clarity.

“And that’s fine,” Damien said. “So brush off a couple of cookbooks. Baby-proof the house. Go to Daddy Bootcamp for all I care. This is my project for my brother.”

Lucian bit his lip.

“Besides,” continued Damien. “I’ve seen pictures of my nursery. Maybe you should leave it to a professional artist this time around.”

They both laughed then, but even now, Lucian was worried about what lay on the other side of the door. It would either look like something ripped straight out of Better Homes and Gardens magazine or else Damien would have turned the nursery into a medium for self-expression. The second bit scared Lucian. He had read an article the other day about a woman who had turned her entire pregnancy, right down to the labor and delivery, into an art gallery. Just a week ago, he had bizarre nightmares involving Damien turning Ashton’s entire pregnancy into a surrealist statement about mixed families. They left him standing in front of the nursery door for inordinate amounts of time staring at the nursery door, listening to the sounds of Damien moving furniture and blasting the Artic Monkeys and other scratchy-throated garage bands unsuitable for lullabies. It was the absence of ground-shaking rock music that got Lucian’s attention this morning. Well, that, and the bright pink sticky note on the nursery door.

When Lucian saw it, his usual feeling of secretive excitement was replaced with horror. He went to rip the sacrilegious thing off the door, making half-formed mental notes to tell Ashton that making love in the nursery was taboo for a reason. The only thing to give him pause was Damien’s crowded, dark cursive on the note.

Dad it said. It’s ready when the baby is. And so am I. I love you all.

Over lunch that afternoon, Lucian asked Damien if he and Ashton could see the room. Damien gave a noncommittal shrug.

“Whenever’s fine,” Damien said. He smiled.

“Do you want to be there when we see it?” asked Lucian.

Damien’s smile faltered. “No. No way. I want the work to speak for itself.”

Lucian’s old sense of dread was back. He was picturing red-stained walls and stark, abstract, black sculptures scattered where the crib and changing table ought to be. There were days when Damien was still touchy about the subject of their family in its current form. Lucian couldn’t help but blame Natalie’s prolonged presence in Paris. Just when he and Ashton had been making headway in gaining Damien’s acceptance… He rubbed his temples.

“What does that mean?” Lucian asked. “Don’t roll your eyes at me. What does letting the work ‘speak for itself’ entail?”

“Dad,” Damien said, taking the word and pulling it out the way only frustrated children could. “Just trust me. Please? For, I dunno, like… Five seconds. Trust me.”

“I do trust you,” said Lucian.

“Then trust my art.”

Lucian laughed. “When did you start speaking in sound-bytes?”

“I learned from the best.” Damien lifted his water in a mock toast and leaned back in his chair. “Seriously, though, Dad. You and Ashton look at it whenever. I just don’t want to be there when you do.”

No amount of cajoling could get Damien out to the Hameau des Artistes, despite his being only a few blocks from where Damien worked. Lucian wondered if Damien was embarrassed; he couldn’t tell. All Lucian could do was pray there was no protest piece on the other side of that door. He steered Ashton ahead of him in the spirit of fun, but all the while Lucian couldn’t help but feel like he was hiding behind his fiancée. They were making this discovery together, but Ashton would see it first. Of course, she had her eyes clamped shut right now, was letting him lead her around.

“Jesus, love,” Ashton said, with a laugh, “where are you taking me?”

Lucian smiled in spite of himself. He’d told her to close her eyes because it seemed right. Now, he wasn’t sure. They reached the door and he gripped the handle. He squeezed his eyes shut and threw open the door. They stood on the threshold silently for a moment before Lucian said, “Open them.”

He waited to hear Ashton’s reaction. His eyes were still tightly shut.

“Oh my God…” Ashton breathed. “I absolutely love it!”

Slowly, Lucian pulled one eye open. Then the next. The room around them was a light blue. Sky blue, maybe. Or robin’s egg. Or some other arty word Lucian didn’t know, but that Damien would have chosen with deliberation. A darker hue swirled in seemingly random curlicues on the wall and the white furniture looked both delicate and classic. Damien had outdone himself. Lucian let out a low whistle.

“My word,” he murmured. “This is…”

He crossed the room to touch the cradle. Damien based everything around it; he had to. Or so Lucian thought. He caressed the wood and studying the safety features, when out of the corner of his eye, he saw a familiar form. The rocking chair was old and had been in Wiltshire the last time Lucian had seen it. Up in the attic, actually. And last he’d seen it, it had been dark brown. But it was the same rocking chair he’d soothed infant Damien in; the same one his mother had when Lucian was a baby. He remembered how his mother, even after Lucian bought the house from her and she and Lucian’s father were moving to Paris, how she insisted it not be removed from the house. He was sure that even on her most stubborn days, his mum would have let Damien move the chair across the Channel, given the circumstances. He stopped touching the cradle and crossed the room.

“He thought of everything,” Lucian murmured, standing behind the chair. “Have a seat, love.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Ashton Greene

A slew of blues, both of the bold and pastel variations met Ashton’s eyes as she released Lucian’s hand to explore. She examined every inch of the walls, scared to taint or smear if she ran her hands along it. It was clean, smooth, clean, and soft—a genuine expression of love and acceptance of his brother, an effort at the very least.

“He thought of everything,” Lucian murmured, standing behind the chair. “Have a seat, love.”

Ashton felt like she was floating on a sheer, iridescent bubble of joy as she crossed over to Lucian.

Gingerly, she lowered herself into the chair. She closed her eyes and for a moment, she could see this very scene, the windows washed navy with night. Lucian would be standing behind the chair, Ashton in it, rocking slowly to and fro, baby Gregory, faceless now in her mind’s eye, snuggled, fast asleep in her arms as she and Lucian spoke in hushed, barely audible voices soft enough to keep their son asleep, but loud enough to be understood. It was the first snapshot of the life they would have in nearly three months’ time. Ashton wanted to keep the mental image forever, pressing it into her family album of memories and moments that she kept hidden away and private. She looked to the crib and could almost heard the ghost of a whisper of her son’s coo as he was settled down and stared up at the bird and cloud mobile above him, or his cry as he woke up and wanted nothing but to be held and fed. She looked to the book shelf and could see a featureless child sitting on her lap whilst she read stories until his mind drifted to lands undiscovered and new to him. She could hear the soft music of a guitar and the lilting sound of her voice as they lulled their child to sleep.

“It’s perfect. This is perfect. All of it. I couldn’t imagine it any other way.” Ashton reached up and touched Lucian’s hand as it rested on the back of the seat. “Now I’m quite grateful Damien kicked us out all those times,” she added with a laugh. The only thing that would make this room complete was the little person it was all created for to be in it.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Ashton Greene

Ashton flicked idly through the telly channels. Lucian was balancing the check book just upstairs so Ashton had the volume down low. The TV set rarely got used, and Ashton wondered how much or how little that would change after the birth of their son. Would he get a nice balance between book pages and education cartoons? Or would the television become next to obsolete, a big, black, rectangular decoration piece? Surely she wouldn’t let their child’s mind melt as he sifted through the rubbish and the quality programmes. Just like hers was at the moment. Nothing grabbed her attention. She would rather be with Lucian, talking to him, flirting with him, getting things set for their baby or their wedding.

Ashton smirked. She reached over to the end table and scribbled down a heart and letter saying ‘Faisons l'amour’ on a vibrant, garishly pink sticky note. She was just about to place it in the hallway when she heard a loud pounding on the door.

“I’ll get that, love, don’t worry!” Ashton said, making a dash as fast her swollen feet could muster to the door, praying their visitor didn’t knock again in that heavy and urgent fashion. It could have distracted Lucian.

But Ashton’s insides dropped out of her when she opened the door.

Henry Greene stood there, fury, disgust, and shame making a pale puce hue in his cheeks.

“Dad…” Ashton breathed, with worried disbelief, discreetly crumpling the pink Post-It and tossing it hastily to the ground.

All of Ashton’s feared collided together at once, creating an explosion of emotions that shook her to the core. He was somehow compelled to see her, and not because she was his daughter, but because she had somehow messed up in his eyes. Ashton recognized that look on his face. He paced on the hearth conspiring a plan to wring Nicholas’s neck with Ashton whimpering in a tight ball on the couch. When he found out she was living with Zak, Henry threw the poor man up against the wall. When he found out Christian was the son of a substitute social studies teacher and not a doctor like he had originally claimed, that look was there. When Ashton came home drunk, that look was there. When Ashton missed his meeting with important CEOs, that look was there. When Ashton talked back, when Ashton said no to marrying Damien, when Ashton didn’t go to Oxford or Cambridge, that look was there. It signified all of her shortcomings as a person, as a daughter. Where she once wanted to shirk away and hide away from it, she now wanted to scratch that look off his face. She knew what had caused that look this time, but what Henry would do was what scared her. He was smart, strong, capable. She took in a shuddering breath, preparing her mind for the worst. All she had to do was scream and Lucian would be there in milliseconds, but this was her battle to fight. This was between her and her father.

Red in the face, Henry finally moved, pushing aside Ashton, stepping into the house, the threshold moaning beneath the heavy step.

“…Come in…” she mumbled, her mind still processing the events unfolding before. Time was suspended, drawn out and fuzzy.

“I talked to Delilah yesterday.”

Ashton had no idea where this was going, but she listened on.

“She told me a funny little tale about you. I didn’t believe her so I had to come here and see for myself.” His voice was a low growl, his body stiff, eyes falling on the growing protrusion that enclosed and protected Gregory.

“Looks like you’ve been hiding more than your education from me, Ashton Rae.” His voice bit at the edges of explosion. “And opening more that my monthly cheques.”

Ashton stood silently, the steam building up in her chest, the eyes welling up her green eyes. That wasn’t the case. But it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t of understood even if he knew the situation at hand. “Dad, I…” But Henry wasn’t listening.

“I know we raised you better, your mother and I. What happened to you? It seems like after she died you’ve been the complete opposite of—“

“Of Delilah.” Ashton finished bitterly. “Don’t even. I’m not the only one who messed up after mum died. Because how can you just forget?” Ashton felt her voice rising, hoarser than she had hoped for, her face red with tears that were precariously close to spilling over. The words felt like a kind of drug. A release she would later regret, but in the moment made her high and invincible. She could say anything and she would be untouchable. Because no one, not even Henry Greene , had the right to trespass and trample on her family. “How can you just forget that you’re a father? That other people grieve, too? How can you just forget that I needed you? That you had a family and a commitment? How could you just forget what it was like to love someone other than yourself?”

“You are not putting this on me, Ashton. I had plans for you, to make you happy. And how do you repay me? You go and get pregnant by a man that isn’t the one I picked out for you. What a deliberate act of disrespect!” spit expelled itself towards her at his sticattoed words. “Now answer my question. What happened to you? What went on in that head of yours?”

Ashton sat silently. Partly to bait him; he hated it when she said nothing. Partly because the only thing that entered her mind was ‘piss off. I love him’ and that wouldn’t bode well.

Henry sighed and marched upstairs, searching for something; what it was, Ashton didn’t know.

He rubbed at a part on his arm, gripping it. His face was angry, pained as he sat himself on the couch, the cushions going lifeless. “You know,” he said, his voice weak and agonized. “When you bring your little baby home from the hospital, you imagine what they’ll be like, how you’ll feel about them. You imagine so many things, but you never imagine feeling ashamed of them. You never imagine them being more successful in the bedroom than on the stage.”

Ashton let out a raucous cry. She crumbled to the floor and looked into her father’s eyes. They reflected back at her the career she never quite managed to fashion for herself, the things she had done that she looked back on and hated herself for. And for a brief, evanescent moment, she wondered if Lucian’s eyes would ever reflect that at her, too.

“You have no right!” Ashton cried. “You have no right to come in here and tell me how to live my life. You haven’t cared for seven years! Why start now? We’re getting married and there’s nothing you can do about it!” Henry moaned as he rolled out his shoulders. Hot, angry tears ran down Ashton’s grey cheeks. “I don’t want you here anymore than you want to be here, because I know how painful it must be for you to look at your failure of a child!” Ashton exclaimed with bitter sarcasm. She wasn’t ready to confront this issue, buried underneath nearly eight years of rust from neglect. She needed to think, to prepare. She needed Lucian. It was evident now that this fight was his as well as hers. They were a team.

[The Exodus]

Lucian Michaud

There were few things Lucian hated more than balancing finances. He knew that Damien made jokes whenever Lucian mentioned the financial state of the family business (“Rich people problems,” Damien would say with a maniacal laugh), and that there were worlds of good he could do with his income as opposed to what sort of semi-selfish things he did do. But there truly seemed no greater evil than sorting through cheques and bills. The electric bill, the water bill, car payments, alimony payments. Alimony payments were the worst. Lucian didn’t understand how they worked and why they were necessary. He’d emailed his lawyer, told the man a dozen or so times that he would pay for Natalie to go to school and become self-sufficient, but he realized now that his ex-wife’s vow of “til death do us part” had been addressed to Lucian’s wallet. It was frustrating, even if it wouldn’t put a financial blockade on his wedding to Ashton or to providing for their unborn son. It was economics for the average adult and Lucian suddenly found himself missing discussion of foreign investments and the national debt.

He scrawled his signature on the necessary documents, careful to read for legal loopholes, when suddenly, there was a loud pounding on the front door. Lucian set down his pen and pushed his chair back.

“I’ll get that, love, don’t worry!” Ashton called out.

Lucian set back to work. He was half-certain it was Damien popping by, hoping to get fed or maybe to find out how they liked the nursery after all. Lucian probably had all of five minutes to reach a stopping point.

But five minutes passed with eerie silence. If Lucian strained to listen, he could hear muffled tones downstairs; voices he couldn’t yet make out. But they were on the rise. The whole house tingled with anticipation.

“You have no right!” he heard Ashton yell. “You have no right to come in here and tell me how to live my life. You haven’t cared for seven years! Why start now? We’re getting married and there’s nothing you can do about it!”

Without analyzing the whole statement, Lucian couldn’t help but think: Oh, dear God, why now?. He was still half-sure that it was Damien downstairs. It sounded like a typical reprimand for his eldest, too. Bossing others around. Growing up, Damien hadn’t many friends out of sheer stubbornness. It was only meeting the MaCarthy brood that broke his pride a little. Damien was probably downstairs now, pushing wedding plans on Ashton, telling her he’d already taken care of everything. Which, honestly, Lucian wouldn’t have minded so much. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and steeled himself for playing referee. He got up, crossed the room and trudged towards the stairs.

“I don’t want you here anymore than you want to be here, because I know how painful it must be for you to look at your failure of a child!”

Midway down, Lucian stopped and realized that he’d been listening for what he expected; not for reality. He knew before he saw him, before he heard him, that waiting downstairs would be Henry Greene. Ashton’s father. Lucian had met him a handful of times and this wasn’t going to be some family meeting where Lucian played mediator for an irritating and irritated Damien and an overly-emotional but well-spoken Ashton. No. It wasn’t that nice and pretty. Lucian saw Henry before he heard him. He was this big, stocky man. Meaty, like he’d been cut into a man-shaped slab. He was red in the face, around the ears, and Lucian’s stomach knotted in anticipation. He didn’t even have to look to guess what Ashton’s face must have contorted into.

“Don’t you talk to me that way!” Henry wagged a sausage-y finger at Ashton. “You are my child and you will respect me!”

“I beg your pardon,” Lucian said, stepping off the bottom stair and striding behind Ashton, securing her shoulders in his grasp. His voice tremored with quiet rage. “But you will not speak to my fiancée like that in our house, even if she is your daughter. I won’t have you putting her health and the health of our child in danger, Mr. Greene.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Ashton Greene

The air was thick with pressurised anger and opaque and bitter memories, rows left unsettled, and the shards and dust that remained of their relationship floating aimlessly around, catching in their throat and poisoning their lungs.

Sysmic tremours erupted in Ashton's shoulders and they quaked as Henry's booming voice ricocheted around the livingroom. "Don't you talk to me that way! You are my daughter and you will respect me." He shook his large head which grew increasingly hot and crimson. But his face, constricedwith spindly veins popping up, relaxed at the sight of Lucian. his lips moved as if to say "thank Heavens your're here." But only confusion crossed his face, his flabby cheeks sinking in when Lucian placed two loving hands on Ashton's shoulders. Her sobbing and quivering ceased as Lucian touched her and spoke. "I beg your pardon," he said in that suave, controlled tone of his. "But you will not speak to my fiancee like that in our house, even if she is your daughter. I won't have you putting her health and the health of our child in danger, Mr. Greene."

Her father's face ran the gambit of expressions and emotions. He glowered with a sickly green, fumed with a scarlett anger, and turned purple in the face as he built his ammunition up behind his wavering frown.

"Your... You...." he stammered, clutching his fists tightly. "You b*stard! I will kill you, I swear." he rubbed his arm erratically now, rising to his feet. Staggering about, pupils wide and mad, lips blue now, foaming like a bulldog. "You, Lucian Michaud, turned me into the laughing stock of the banking industry, you ruined all of my plans for Ashton!" he lunched at Lucian.

"No!" Ashton yelled, wrenching free from her fiance. "Don't touch him, Henry!"

"what did you just call me?"

Ashton went silent. Henry stood still.

"you made her worse, Michaud. I was fixing her and you ruined that! You underminded my authority!" he lundged at Lucian again, his hands reached out, eyes wild, face blue.

"No!" Ashton said again, pounding sternly on his chest.

He stopped suddenly, and the claw reserved for Lucians neck clutched at a spot on his chest. He grunted and fell backward, eyes rolling around.

Ashton froze in her place. The memories, good and bad, she had shared with her father flooded her mind. And in an instant, they evaporated. "Jesus Christ..." she said in breathy disbelief. "Lucian.... I think I just killed my father."

She didn't cry. How could she when the shock was so great, the recent memories so bad? She sat on the couch and put her head in her hands.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Ashton Greene

"You know," Ashton said to Lucian as she stirred the boilin gpot of soup on the stovetop. "The worst part about this might not be Henry's attitude or his health. I think it's his diet." Pungent and heavy tofu wafted through the air and Ashton took in a deep breath, coughing on the exhale. "But," Ashton shrugged. "Better him than us. We can still eat what we want." She ladelled the concoction into a bowl, large and deep, and filled it to the brim. "And the funny thing is, he has to eat it all." Ashton laughed not quite deviously before kissing Lucian. "Thank you for doing this with me."

She and Lucian carried a tray out to her father who sat, blanketed on their couch. "Here you are, dad." Ashton said, resting it on his lap with a huge, fake smile plastered to her face, pretending his presence here hadn't been nearly as hard and painful as it really was.

Henry looked at the soup and frowned. He caught sight of Ashton's pregnant stomach and his frown deepened, craters and wrinkles transforming his face completely. "I see she's still making food like a hippie." Henry said to Lucian, jabbing at the bobbing tofu with his spoon. "Doesn't still garden naked, does she? I always thought that was a load of rubbish."

Ashton smiled at Lucian with a playful grin. Henry spoke the truth, and it wasn't nearly as hurtful or embarrassing as the other times had been. This was something Ashton would openly admit, and the fact she hadn't tried it with Lucian in their own garden was mind boggling. "Thanks, dad for the idea..." she mumbled under her breath. "Please, dad," she said simply, "just eat your food. It's not like I'll give you food poisoning." Her words tasted bitter.

Henry's face fell. That had happened on several occasions. When he stayed home with Delilah and her as children, he would make them food. Almost every time, his abysmal cooking would give them food poisoning. Eventually, Delilah had to learn to cook and then later, Ashton, too, would be a helpful hand in the kitchen. He grumbled something or other about payback before trying a sip of the soup. "I hate it." He said, throwing down the silver spoon.

Ashton pursed her lips. This, she imagined, was the old man equivalent of when a toddler threw mashed bananas around because it wasn't what they wanted. "Okay." She said simply. "Starve then. It's my house and you'll eat what I serve. Your other options are eat what you were and have another heart attack or don't eat anything at all. So eat this or die, essentially."

"Fine. I'll eat this cack, but just a word of advice. If that little schpeel was any indication as to what kind of mother you'll be, I can tell already you have a lot more to learn from Delilah than you think."

Ashton felt her anger rise. She flared her nostrils and pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth. "Except it wasn't because you're not my child. You're my father."

"And you'd best remember that. Back me up, Michaud."

Both Henry and Ashton looked to Lucian, both with eyes that reached out for support.

[The Exodus]

Lucian Michaud

Lucian had never been a big fan of miso soup because of the tofu. It had no flavor, but a strange texture and odor. Usually, when dining out, he dodged the lumpy cubes of soy, swallowing only the broth and heaving a sigh of relief when the waiter came to take it away and deliver a plate of chicken teriyaki or vegetable tempura. Now that his kitchen smelled exactly like a Japanese appetizer, Lucian was half holding his breath. This was not in the Terms and Conditions of an engagement, as far as he knew, but as long as Henry Green was staying with them, Lucian and Ashton would have to accommodate his doctor’s orders. Stinky tofu included.

"You know," said Ashton "The worst part about this might not be Henry's attitude or his health. I think it's his diet."

She was cooking, mostly, with Lucian’s occasional sous chef aid. He grinned a little, even as Ashton coughed. At least she agreed.

"But better him than us. We can still eat what we want."

“Thank God,” Lucian muttered, smirking just a bit. When Ashton was done in the kitchen, he was making real food, complete with a thick layer of cheese.

"And the funny thing is,” Ashton said, smirking more than Lucian was. “He has to eat it all."

Lucian started to laugh, but was silenced swiftly with Ashton’s kiss. He murmured in quiet, disgruntled protest when Ashton pulled away.

"Thank you for doing this with me."

He smiled and nodded, then followed her out of the kitchen and into the living room. Henry Greene, Ashton’s father, sat bundled up on their couch. Lucian couldn’t help but think of him as an obstacle to an otherwise enjoyable holiday season. One of them—he or Ashton—had to be home with Henry at all times to make sure he wasn’t taxing his body, which made Christmas shopping, baby preparation, and other errands difficult. Never mind that with Henry in the house, Lucian and Ashton’s usual libidos were replaced with this sluggish and embarrassed thing. Kissing was furtive now because Henry could come shuffling around the corner at any moment to grunt and make a comment or two, usually in the vein of “Hands where I can see them, Michaud”, as if Lucian was some horny teenage boy dating Henry Greene’s virginal angel of a little girl. Lucian was just glad Henry hadn’t the foresight to bring along a shotgun when he came to Paris. If he had, there was no doubt that one of them would be dead the next time Ashton left the pair of them alone.

"Here you are, dad," Ashton said, smiling. Lucian hovered behind her, doing all he could to make his presence clear. His shoulders were drawn back, chest out, head high. Henry didn’t look at him, but at his soup. A scowl etched itself on the other man’s face. It struck Lucian—perhaps too gleefully—just how much older Henry Greene looked than he did.

"I see she's still making food like a hippie." Henry poked at the soup. "Doesn't still garden naked, does she? I always thought that was a load of rubbish."

Lucian’s lips parted, jaw hanging slack. Perhaps he ought to let Ashton tackle the garden out back. Suddenly, images flooded Lucian’s mind; images he should not be entertaining with Ashton’s father two feet away. It was his right as Ashton’s fiancée to fantasize about her; to make those fantasies a reality. But not with Henry around. Lucian looked at the ceiling and pretended the crowned molding was interesting. Instead, all he could do was imagine Ashton covered only by strategic flower arrangements.

Not now, he told himself. But even still, he couldn’t help a distracted grin.

"Just eat your food,” Ashton said. “It's not like I'll give you food poisoning."

There was silence, then the swill of liquid being stirred and slurped. Finally, there was a clatter of metal spoon hitting porcelain bowl.

"I hate it."

Lucian wasn’t surprised. It smelled disgusting. But saying as much wasn’t fair play. Still, he didn’t turn his eyes from the ceiling. While looking there, he was free to his imaginings and didn’t have to face the reality of Ashton’s tyrannical father kvetching about miso soup and Ashton’s gardening habits. Neither of which seemed all that objectionable to Lucian, after all…

"Okay." Ashton said. "Starve then. It's my house and you'll eat what I serve. Your other options are eat what you were and have another heart attack or don't eat anything at all. So eat this or die, essentially."

"Fine. I'll eat this cack, but just a word of advice. If that little schpeel was any indication as to what kind of mother you'll be, I can tell already you have a lot more to learn from Delilah than you think."

"Except it wasn't because you're not my child. You're my father."

"And you'd best remember that. Back me up, Michaud."

Lucian looked down at his name and saw two pairs of eyes trained on him, pleading with him the way defenders and persecutors pleaded silently with the jurors or the judge. Lucian blinked.

“Hmm?” he murmured. He’d been thinking about Ashton and gardening; their argument had hardly registered. And then it hit him. Henry was implying Ashton would be a bad mum on one level. On another, he was asking her to respect him the way a child ought to respect their parent. Lucian disagreed with the first bit; agreed with the second. He bit his lip. “I don’t think Ashton asking you to eat your soup is an indication of poor parenting skills. Quite the opposite, I think. If she can get our children to eat vegetables, it’ll be a miracle. More importantly, it means she cares about their health. Yours too, come to think of it, if she’s telling you to eat them. After all, she started making me eat more vegetables. You raised a smart girl.”

He smiled as winsomely as he could. That was a fair assessment, right? It would make him the best fiancée and best future son-in-law he could be. More importantly, it sealed all the loopholes Lucian could think of. There would be no bloodbath and—more importantly—Lucian wouldn’t have to sleep in a different bedroom tonight.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Ashton Greene

"Hmm?" Lucian brought his attention back to the people in the room, not to the ceiling. “I don’t think Ashton asking you to eat your soup is an indication of poor parenting skills. Quite the opposite, I think. If she can get our children to eat vegetables, it’ll be a miracle. More importantly, it means she cares about their health. Yours too, come to think of it, if she’s telling you to eat them. After all, she started making me eat more vegetables. You raised a smart girl.”

Ashton smiled at Lucian silently, wide and enthusiastic. There once was an interview with Henry about Ashton's attendance at Falmouth in which he said "I would like to thank my supporters and members of Greenback Banks. It has made an education for my child a reality. If it weren't for your support, and in turn, my salary, I don't believe this would be a possibility. Like I'm always saying "where brains can't get you, money will""

The words burned and Ashton burned the article in her dormroom, causing sprinklers to shower her and soak all of her things through. Hearing Lucian, an incredibly intelligent man, call her smart, meant the world to her.

"I wish that were true, Michaud." Henry said with a shake of his head, his joules undulating beneath his chin. He groaned. "I suppose I should eat the rest..."

Ashton bit back a bitter tone. "Yes. You should."

"You know, Michaud," Henry said between messy slurps of his miso soup. "I like you. Which is why I'm telling you now: it's not too late to get out of this. If you really want what's best for you and for your kid, you should get out now. Ashton's a handful-- I should know-- and isn't quite mother material yet."

"I'm right here..." Ashton offered weakly, unheard, even on Henry's large ears. She tried to busy herself with cleaning up the clutter that had accumulated from neglect as she and Lucian's attention shifted from house keeping to care taking.

"I can remember back when she was eighteen, and we talked about this. Remember, Ashton? What did I say after you had been with that boy?"

Ashton remembered that day. It was a blur now, completely insignificant to her current life. She had almost forgotten about it. It was six years ago and she missed a period after a night with a boy she hardly knew. Fortunately, it had just been from the stress of her recent move to a new city, a completely normal result, but it didn't stop her naive and impressionable young mind from worrying. She moved on from that short-lived relationship, and life carried on like it always does after a hiccup in the road. In fact, she hadn't thought about it in years, especially not now that she and Lucian were starting their own family together. Leave it to Henry to reopen closed cases.

"I don't remember," Ashton lied nonchalantly, giving Lucian a look that assured him that she would explain later when Henry wasn't in the room to give his own version.

"I told you that you were too young to be a mother. And that stands true today."

"Yes, but the average of 46 and 23 rounds to 35, which, I'm sure you'd agree is a perfect age to have children. So Lucian and I will be fine." Ashton sadi, trying to wave away the topic.

"Michaud, back me up."

That seemed to be his catchphrase lately.

[The Exodus]

Lucian Michaud

Ashton smiled. Lucian could hear a little voice in the back of his mind congratulating him on crisis aversion. Unfortunately, Henry didn’t look nearly as thrilled.

"I wish that were true, Michaud." Henry said with a shake of his head, his joules undulating beneath his chin. He groaned. "I suppose I should eat the rest..."

Lucian frowned. Ashton had gone to Falmouth. It wasn’t a bad school. It wasn’t Oxford, but somehow, Lucian felt that his usual light teasing would be inappropriate now. He folded his arms over his chest and tried to understand what kind of father said his children weren’t smart. Not a good one, that was for sure.

"You know, Michaud," Henry said between messy slurps of his miso soup. "I like you. Which is why I'm telling you now: it's not too late to get out of this. If you really want what's best for you and for your kid, you should get out now. Ashton's a handful-- I should know-- and isn't quite mother material yet."

Let the baby grow some more, Lucian thought, half smile quirking his lips as the response tickled his throat. I guarantee you, by February, he and Ashton will both be ready for this. And maybe I will be, too.

"I'm right here..." Ashton said weakly. She was picking up papers and other junk off of the coffee table. Lucian’s half smile faded and he tried to think of something to say, something a little less cavalier…

"I can remember back when she was eighteen, and we talked about this. Remember, Ashton? What did I say after you had been with that boy?" Henry continued.

“What boy?” Lucian asked, unable to stop himself.

"I don't remember," Ashton said. She caught Lucian’s eye, but that didn’t console him much. She didn’t remember what Henry said, or which boy. Lucian’s stomach roiled. It was a blasphemous thought. Thinking of Ashton’s past. Not because it was sacred, but because this was. Their relationship was free from taint by her ex-boyfriends and by Natalie. They were past all that.

"I told you that you were too young to be a mother,” said Henry, ignoring Lucian. “And that stands true today."

Lucian felt queasy. He knew he hadn’t the right. But thinking of Ashton as mothering someone else’s child, marrying another man, sleeping with someone else, all hit Lucian in the gut—hard. His throat was tightening. He told himself he was being a hypocrite. He had a grown son by his ex-wife. But as he’d once told Ashton, that was it. He didn’t fill his closet with skeletons. He cleaned it out as often and as quickly as he could. Thoroughly. He wanted to be honest with her. Always. But now he wanted to know how many other blanket forts in hotel rooms there had been, where Ashton mapped out her future with a lover. How many last names she’d tested against the first name “Gregory” for a firstborn son. How many last names she’d tested against “Ashton”. Maybe there were apartments covered in green and blue and yellow sticky notes back in England. Lucian hardly realized he was swaying in place, his fists clenched tightly.

No, he told himself. You know Ashton. Grow up and stop being jealous.

He was still swaying.

"Yes, but the average of 46 and 23 rounds to 35, which, I'm sure you'd agree is a perfect age to have children. So Lucian and I will be fine."

"Michaud, back me up," Henry said again.

“I can’t,” Lucian said weakly. His chest was tight with held breath. He let it out shakily, but the feeling wouldn’t disappear. He shook his head. “I had Damien at twenty-three; I’d be a hypocritical git if I said twenty-three was too young.”

But eighteen? His Ashton, at eighteen, years before they met, entertaining the idea of motherhood? With someone else, no less. Lucian squeezed his eyes shut. When Ashton was eighteen, Lucian was forty. When Lucian was forty, Natalie first began her affairs and Lucian first began his embezzlement trials. When Ashton was eighteen and Lucian was forty, they didn’t know each other. He had no right to be jealous, no right…

“And speaking of Damien,” Lucian said, seeing a tiny light at the end of this tunnel, “I promised to give him a call.”

He would. Eventually. Later. Right now, he wanted to be alone. He didn’t need Henry poisoning his and Ashton’s impending marriage. And at the moment, he didn’t want to look at Ashton and speculate about the nameless, faceless men of her past. Ignorance wasn’t bliss; it was Eden. And once you ate from the tree of knowledge, there was no going back. Lucian wasn’t ready to make an honest assessment. He would. Eventually. Later. Right now, he wanted to get out of the living room.

“Enjoy dinner, you two.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Ashton Greene

Henry Greene was a talented man. He could calculate numbers as fast as a calculator, could build an empire of banks in five years, and could probably win at Final Jeopardy if he had the inclination. But he was also very good at making things uncomfortable. He excelled at making things seem worse than they were. After Ashton made him comfy on the sofa, head propped up and blanket draped over him as if it would make him disappear.

Ashton rubbed her eyes in irritation, fingers sliding down her face in hopes she could scratch the sleepy dread that was clinging behind her eyes. She needed to talk to Lucian. The poor man was probably running through the worst scenarios imaginable, trying to make sense of a piece of Ashton's life she forgot to tell him. It was an accident, really. It was something she never thought of. Not because it was painful and not because she worried he would love her less for it, but because when put up against everything else that happened in her life, it seemed overshadowed and of no importance.

She creaked the bedroom door open slowly, almost scared to see what was on the other side.

"Lucian?" She said, her voice low enough to not wake Henry (since the only alone time she and Lucian seemed to have was when Henry was asleep), but loud enough to be heard and sound important. She found him sitting on the bed. "Hey..." she closed the door softly and nearly tiptoed to him. "Let's talk."

[The Exodus]

Lucian Michaud

Lucian couldn’t shake the dread in his stomach. He’d tried for what felt like hours. He went outside, he paced, he read a book, scheduled a sales meeting, called Damien, and took a shower. None of it helped. He would close his eyes and imagine an alternate reality—perhaps a real version of the past—where Ashton was in love with someone else and Lucian was alone. He would close his eyes, squeeze them shut as tightly as he could, hoping that he could block out imaginary screams of ecstasy—Ashton’s, as she cried someone else’s name. He pressed his thumbs to his eyes hoping to erase imaginary scenes or Ashton kissing someone else, wearing someone else’s ring, carrying someone else’s child, living under someone else’s roof. It was a flashback for Lucian, who’d spent months worrying that that someone else would be Damien. The threat now wasn’t his son; that was laughable. The threat now was nameless and lurking in Ashton’s little black book of her teens and early twenties. She was allowed her past. Of course she was. Everyone had a past. Everyone came from somewhere, something. But Lucian’s imagination, which usually contented itself with recipes and lovemaking schemes and business plans for the vineyards was now expanding into dark, twisted territory. It wasn’t unfamiliar, but it was uncharted. It was the seamy underworld of love and marriage that happened behind closed doors while Lucian was in London, trying to provide for his family, or in Paris to bury his uncle. Lucian hadn’t bothered to acknowledge—let alone map—the shady alleyways of infidelity six years ago, two years ago, whenever, when he was married last. And this was why. It cast a shadow over the good and all the bad came out into the garish light. A younger Lucian was flawed with being too busy, being too passive. But now Lucian lay prostrate and naked to a blinding light that highlighted every age-line on his face, every moment he snuck away from conflict like a great, yellow coward, every rash decision, every time he was too tired or busy to be there for Ashton. As if to show him that that boy when Ashton was eighteen might have been better husband material than an old, spineless, hasty, selfish man when she was twenty-three. The faceless, strong boy from those days taunted Lucian in the back of his mind, telling him he wouldn’t measure up. Anthony Walden chimed in every now and again to tell him that if one woman left him for a better man, who was to say Ashton would never stray? Who was to say that forever lasted a lifetime? Lucian had already once failed to keep the promise of “til-death-do-us-part”. History was one big, fat circle. Given enough time, everything repeated itself.

Nothing quieted his mind and now, it was dark outside. Lucian didn’t hope to sleep; he wasn’t that naïve. But he laid on the bed, propping his torso up with pillows, anyways. He stared at the bluish screen of his cellphone. His screensaver would come on every few minutes: Ashton in their garden, drinking tea and grinning over her cup at him. He would smile for a minute and it would hurt his jaw and his eyes would go watery and he would touch the screen to get rid of the picture for another thirty seconds. He felt pathetic, doing this when the real Ashton wasn’t far off, but he knew that if he saw her right now—the real her—he wouldn’t react right. He’d say something harshly, or maybe he’d say nothing at all.

"Lucian?" The real Ashton stood in the doorway. Lucian looked at her. His chest didn’t relax happily the way it usually did when she distracted him from stressful thought. Instead, it squeezed tighter, harder. It was like his ribs were collapsing around his heart.

"Hey..." Ashton she closed the door softly and nearly tiptoed to him. "Let's talk."

“What about?” Lucian asked. His voice was emptier than he thought it would be. It surprised him, how bland it sounded, how dejected. He couldn’t even lift the corners of his mouth into a smile.