helbling | Beau Entry, Pre-Ball.

You can all blame Drew.

The first one Eve held up was appallingly small – red and flowery and with a high hemline that would expose her legs and a plunging neckline and....

“No,” said Beau, flatly.

The ghoul pouted and flounced back towards the bedroom, tossing her hair as she did so and throwing an insulting and annoyed comment over her shoulder.

Beau sighed and let herself out the same way she came in – the window – and tried not to think about what she'd let herself in for.

Sweet lord, but why, why couldn't she have picked the damn punch?

Because she was curious, she admitted to herself. Because she'd have thought an elder like Bill would never be curious about her, never bother wasting trivial boons on just asking her stuff. And not...useful stuff either.

She'd expected maybe a question about Casper's routine. The defenses on the Chantry. The stock levels in the court armoury. Something that might be of use at some point in the future if things all went wrong, even if they weren't needed now.

But he'd... well, he'd asked why she bothered him. Whether she'd ever been kissed.

And then claimed he didn't have a plan for her.

Which meant he was either lying, or there was a reason he was asking that she was trying so very hard not to think about, because that stirred up things inside her she desperately didn't want to address, because she had no idea what to do with them.

Setting her mind firmly to other things, she headed off towards Henrietta Park.

***************************************************************************

Four days later, she peered at her own hands as Eve bent laboriously over them, wondering if there was some sort of magic involved given how badly she was making them sting.

The attractive woman sighed as Beau's little finger twitched yet again. “Will you stop that!” she snapped.

“Sorry,” Beau muttered, trying to look apologetic – she had had no idea what she was letting herself in for when she'd started this, obviously. The first thing that had happened when she'd stepped through Eve's door this evening was she'd barely had time to sit down before being attacked by tweezers, and then there had been these wax strips on her legs and...other places...

She hid a shudder. So now she was wrapped in someone else's bathrobe – which was just a little too long for her – and her hair slathered in chemical smelling gunk and wrapped in a towel, while Eve was making sure her nails were pink and white and shiny and when Beau had asked why, exactly, Eve was stripping away layers of skin from her fingertips with what appeared to be pliers, she'd just gotten a dirty look and then Eve had forced her hands into what had appeared to be warm wax, but couldn't have stung more had it been vinegar with added lemon juice.

And these hours of forced inactivity were leaving Beau with nothing else to do but think, and right now that was dangerous.

'Recite the six warning signs for udder rot,' she told herself firmly, and only got to number three before her mind went elsewhere.

Why ask those things?

She bit her lip. Why say those things, for that matter?

“I fucking like you too.”

“Wouldn't want you any other way.”

“Because you're like me.”

His fingers in her hair. His hand on her shoulder. His mouth on her neck...

She stopped herself right there, because she couldn't stop a shudder running through her, and she wasn't entirely sure it was from fear.

And that terrified her.

And it wasn't as if this was new – these feelings had been rolling around for quite a while now, it was just... becoming less avoidable. And he'd certainly said things that confused her before.

Like when he'd told her he thought she was 'enthralling'. Or 'refreshing' – what the hell did he mean by that anyway? – or that she had fire.

He praised her when she got something right in training plenty – and those few words or the occasional look of pride warmed her right down to her toes. She could deal with praise – it was simple and straightforward and she knew what she'd done to earn it and why he was saying it.

These though – these made the bottom of her stomach fall away and her head spin and something inside of her want to scream both in fear and something else, and she didn't know what it was.

Because what if she lost him because of this? What if, suddenly, he stopped seeing her as Beau, but instead as the creature Eve was slowly turning her into? Something pretty and shiny and useless and vapid and their sessions in the woods – the things she enjoyed more than anything else in the world – stopped because of it?

The urge to suddenly scramble for her phone and back out – she couldn't make it, she had other plans, was tied up, was sick, was dead - was momentarily overwhelming.

“I appreciate a strong woman more than a trophy girl.”

“I didn't mean all that.”

“I'm sorry.”

His eyes dropped in... something. (Was it shame? He felt shame over hurting her?) His eyes on hers, looking into hers. The sincerity in his voice. His hand on hers, light, calming, his fingers on her hip, soothing and something else altogether...

Jesus, but she didn't know if she was coming or going with this man. No one else made her feel such fear. No one else made her feel...whatever the hell it was that made her throat catch, and her eyes flutter closed and her mouth go dry...

She would stop thinking on it, she decided. Right now. It was doing no one any good.

“Right,” Eve said, getting up from her stool. “While those are drying, I have another dress – you'll like this one.”

Beau gave her an unimpressed look, which became confused when the other woman emerged with...something...on a hanger. It was royal blue, and an amorphous mass of floaty light, semi-transparent material.

“Er...”

Eve rolled her eyes and retreated back into the bedroom, closing the door behind her and leaving Beau on her own for a couple of minutes before emerging wearing the dress – it fell to mid-thigh, the layering of such see-through fabric giving a good impression of her being naked despite covering all the important areas.

Beau raised an eyebrow. “No,” she repeated firmly.

“Are you su-”

“No.”

A pause. “But what abo-”

“No.”

Eve huffed and flounced off.

*************************************************************

A week after that – having had Eve give her toes the same treatment she'd had on her fingers after turning down the dress, and she still was convinced the only reason it has stung that much was out of revenge for her turning down that damn dress – she was wobbling around Eve's lounge in a pair of strappy sandals with heels that were 4 inches tall if they were anything.

“You climb in through my window most of the time! How do you have such a problem with heels?!” Eve was watching her from a lounging position on the sofa, taking advantage of the fact they weren't doing a blood exchange this visit to drink, and therefore was midway down her second gin and tonic.

“If ya don't laike me usin' tha window, give me a key. An' standin' on tree branches an' shit is a little different,” Beau replied, making a grab for the mantlepiece, missing and toppling sideways when her ankle objected to the position she'd put it in. Thankfully, Eve's carpet was thick and soft, and Beau's pride was non-existent and thus impossible to bruise. “Are ya sure ah'm gonna need ta wear these? Ah can't just faind somethang flat?” she asked, struggling back to her feet.

Eve smirked at her and poked at an ice cube in her drink with the stirrer. “You tell me – how tall did you say this man was again?”

Beau cringed. “Faine, point taken.” She glanced down to her feet again. “Ok, yer gonna hafta break this down – how tha hell am ah supposed ta walk in these, rather than shuffle?”

Eve sighed. “You're walking wrong – heel then toe, heel then toe – you need to trust the heel not to snap on you.”

Trust, thought Beau, trying as she was instructed and finding it a little better, was really the crux of the matter.

Did she trust Bill, or rather, what Bill said?

Not everything. Only a fool trusted absolutely everything that came out of someone's mouth when those involved were kindred, never mind when one was an elder.

But...

It was a risk, she admitted to herself. But she was now in a place where she was damned if she did, and damned if she didn't – if she didn't trust he wouldn't think less of her for acting female, could she even act on that fear? What were her options? Pull out, run away like some coward, and lose his good opinion anyway? Not acceptable.

But, if she did trust him, and she got though it, she might keep things as they were now.

Maybe.

Eve was nodding from her position on the sofa, and Beau looked down at herself in surprise – she'd been walking steadily, easily, naturally in these damned things for about a minute now.

Experimentally, she trotted a few paces, and felt a flush of relief to realise she could.

“Well,” said the human, getting to her feet. “I have another dress for you.”

She pulled something from a cupboard and Beau eyed it warily for a few seconds.

“Ok,” she said slowly, warily, unwilling to completely commit herself although she couldn't quite see what was wrong with it...

Eve beamed, and tugged at it, revealing a side split so long that it would expose the new tattoo that currently adorned her hip.

“No,” she amended.

Eve heaved a sigh. “What if I... sew that shut a little?” She gestured on herself.

“Lower,” said Beau, giving the hand a sideways look. “No, lower than that. Lower than that.”

There was a noise of objection. “There's no point if you go that low! Time has moved on, you know, people don't faint if you expose an ankle anymore!”

Beau glared at her. “Ah ain't that old!” She paused. Possibly she had a point....she couldn't help the sigh that escaped. “Faine. But no lower than that!”

She was rewarded with a beaming smile and the dress was replaced back in the cupboard with new reverence.

Beau, sliding her feet back into her boots, tried to look pleased – she mostly failed.

*******************************************
Five days after that, and she stared at herself in the mirror in something like dismay.

Her eyes were dark. And blurry – Eve had taken her glasses, muttering something about the lenses. Her lips were stained, and she had to resist the urge to chew the oddly textured paste off them. And her hair...

Well, the only real adjective she had for it was itchy. Eve had fussed with it for over an hour, and Beau had lost count of the number of pins that had been shoved into it – she couldn't see a one, but she swore she could feel each and every single prick against her scalp, and by that feeling alone, there must be at least a thousand.

“Stop that,” Eve's hand appeared on her chin, tugging her lip free. “You're doing this so you won't fiddle with it on the night. Starting a habit now defeats the point.”

Beau tried not to squirm in place as the other woman held pairs of earrings up to her in turn, muttering things about shade and light, before stopping and looking at the vampire sat in her bedroom.

"You know this is nothing but armour, don't you," she said, almost conversationally replacing something silver and shiny and bringing out another pair.

Beau snorted. "Yeah, ah'm sure this'll do me wonders in a faight."

Eve rolled her eyes dismissively. "There is more than one type of fight. And not all of them use...fists or guns or whatever it is you're fond of."

"Oh yeah, raight," Beau scowled. "Can't count tha number o' folks who've bitten it at some high class shindig. Tha murder rate at those thangs is loopy - hey, do ya reckon we could fit some sorta stab vest under that frock ya found?" Her voice was thick with sarcasm.

Eve glared at her and pointedly shut up.

There was a couple of minutes of uncomfortable sulky silence while Eve continuted to root through jewellery boxes, producing ever more - it seemed to Beau - gaudy and outlandish pieces, until Beau's patience cracked.

“How would ya have done it then?” she asked the ghoul. “Tha git someone ta buy you a drink thang, ah mean,” she clarified at Eve's look of confusion.

The other woman shrugged. “You weren't...bad...” she said slowly, if slightly unwillingly.

Beau gave her a look.

Eve sighed. “Well, the idea wasn't terrible. Your execution of it, however, left something to be desired. But to be honest? You have tits, and you can tell.”

Beau blinked at her.

Eve sighed again, harder this time. “Fine, watch me.”

She squared her shoulders, and grinned in what Beau could only describe as a very masculine manner, her voice coming out lower than previously. “Hi, what's your name?”

Beau just looked at her in confusion.

The other woman tossed her head back, half a groan of frustration emerging. “Did you not see the interest? The leaning forward, the casual appraisal of you, the eye contact, the inflection in the voice, any of it...?”

Beau frowned. “Do it again?”

Eve sighed and did so, and Beau slowly nodded. “Ok, so...what does that have ta do with folk buyin' me a drink?”

“Because you can give the same signals back...For starters, you lean forward, like you want to invade his personal space, like you want to...touch him.”

Beau, somewhat hesitantly, tried it and the ghoul scowled. “Not like you're about to take him down in a full body tackle, for god's sake. It only needs to be a hint – just enough to make them start thinking in that direction. If you halfway climb into his lap, what reason does he have to try? Sit up a bit straighter.”

Beau rearranged herself. “Whaddya mean, reason ta try?”

Eve's hands were on her shoulders. “Better, now drop your chin and look up at him – it makes you look vulnerable – and did you pay attention to any of what Tobias said?”

Beau tried to arrange her head as instructed, and frankly felt like a small child trying to persuade an adult to give her a piece of candy – and looked it, from the way Eve grimaced. “Yeah, ah did – but a lot of it didn't make a whole lotta sense.”

“Ok, forget the look, try playing with your hair – NOT like that! For god's sake, just tug on a strand or two, don't undo the entire style; here, like this,” she demonstrated, and then rolled her eyes and tutted. “This, what we're doing, is a battlefield. What you're wearing, how you appear, is armour. What I'm showing you is combat – you want to make them want you. And in their desperation to get you, they'll do or say things to please you. Buying you a drink is a nice easy first step.”

“Back up,” replied Beau, trying to take it all in at the same time as twirling a strand of hair around her fingers in what she hoped was the right way. “Want me fer what? Sex? That's what all this is about?”

“Sex,” the ghoul leant back, appraising Beau with a cool gaze. “A lot of men equate that with power, which is why they're so desperate for it. Or they might want to break you. Or they just might want to boost their own ego by knowing you want them. But sex is generally a pretty safe bet.”

Beau rolled her eyes. "Yer kiddin'. Ain't no way this whole song an' dance is over somethang so small."

Eve threw her hands up and all but stomped over to the walk-in wardrobe. "Believe what you want - I'm not the one this is important to. We need to sort your underwear."

Beau paused, mentally rerunning Eve's last sentence in her head to check she hadn't misheard before giving the woman, who was now digging through a high-end clothing bag, a look that suggested she'd grown a third arm. "We...what? What tha hell is wrong with mah normal ones?!"

"Aha," muttered Eve, truimphantly producing what she was after and holding them out.

Beau stared at the scraps of fabric for a second. "No," she said flatly. "Just ... no. Ah have seen horse bridles with fewer straps. No."

Eve gave her a level and unimpressed look. "The only dress that your 'normal' things - if you can call those boring things normal - would fit under is the blue one. You want the one you picked, you have to wear these."

Beau glared at her.

Eve glared back.

Some minutes passed.

Eve won.

***********************

Finally, three days after that, hair done, contact lenses in (that was an experience she didn't want to repeat), make up on, perfume applied, underwear, dress and shoes all donned correctly, jewellery dangling in the correct spots, and having lost the argument about whether or not it would be sensible to conceal some sort of small pistol in her purse, Beau stared at herself in the mirror, and was proud she was so far winning over the urge to run screaming for the woods.

"Ya know tha ball itself ain't fer another week, raight?" she threw a glance at Eve, who was walking around her with the same considering look Beau's father used to use with the new steers on market day.

"Yes."

"So why am ah wearin' this...now?"

In the mirror, Eve met her gaze. "How close are you to throwing up, right at this moment?"

Beau considered. "Close as ah've been in quite some decades."

"There you are."

Looking at herself, Beau imagined walking out of the building, down the steps and up to Bill, and swallowed. Hard.

She could do this.

She would do this. Because the alternative was she risked losing...whatever the hell this fucked up not-friendship-long-looks-lingering-hands thing was that was developing between them, and she wasn't about to let that happen, even if she didn't exactly know what it was.

She tried to imagine what Bill's reaction was going to be when he saw her in this get up and her stomach gave another lurch, before she felt a familiar feeling start to surge through her - stubbornness. The same thing that kept her in fights. That made her mouth off to elders. That stopped her retreating, stopped her giving in, had been the thing that made her tell him to fuck off in the first goddamned place.

Eve had said this was a battlefield? Well, fights she could handle.

And she could lose fights. She could win them. But never, in her life, had she ever fled one out of sheer cowardice.

And she wasn't about to start now.

“Wouldn't want you any other way.”

She met her own gaze in the mirror, steely determination reflected back at her.

"Ready?" said Eve, off to one side.

Beau cocked her head to one side, giving herself one more look.

"Yes."