Chapter Text
After years of searching to no avail, A.B.A finally finds a body that she deems suitable to be a vessel for Paracelsus.
At first, he’s hesitant.
“A… body?” he repeats her words back to her with an incredulous expression when she tells him the good news, although the tone of his voice comes off as rather flat, suggesting that he has—at least somewhat—been expecting this. “A.B.A, I have told you, I have no need for such a thing—”
And A.B.A, of course, will hear none of it.
She had been expecting some kind of protest. After all, every time she had mentioned anything about her hunt to find a worthy body for him in the past, he would shut her down or make some kind of off-handed comment about how she was “doing a fool’s errand”; which, is just a way of saying she’s wasting her time in Paracelsus terms. However, after begging and pleading doesn’t seem to do much at all to change his mind, she grows anxious.
“That feeling, or rather obsession, has an effect on him. At this rate, he won’t be able to hold any form for long…”
Testament’s warning echoes through her mind, and she nervously chews on her bottom lip, threading her fingers through her long, teal green tresses, beginning to tug at them in her anxiety.
“P-Please, Paracelsus, you and I both know that your current form has been breaking down—”
“I feel fine—”
“—But that may not last forever!”
The axe pauses, and A.B.A thinks he’s trying to come up with a retort, something that will refute her statement, but instead, he simply lets out a long sigh. Her worry morphs into desperation as tears start to sting her eyes.
“Please, dear, please, for me, just try—”
“Fine.”
This time, she's the one who falls silent, caught off guard. She stares up at him, voice quiet and hopeful when she finds the will to speak again.
“R… Really?”
“Yes,” he replies, tipping his bow. “If… that is what will grant you peace of mind, A.B.A, then I will…”
He sighs again.
“…I will attempt to tolerate a human vessel.”
He almost cringes when he says it, as if even uttering the words disgusts him, pressing his sewn lips together in a partial grimace.
She’s quiet for a second more, and then she throws her arms around him, squeezing his shaft firmly.
“Oh, thank you, my dear, thank you…”
Paracelsus says nothing, lost in thought.
A human body…
He has to admit, when A.B.A had first found him and chosen him as both her partner in battle as well as her romantic partner (much to his initial chagrin) back in Frasco, he couldn’t ever have imagined just how much trouble this homunculus girl would bring with her. But…
She feels soft from where she's pressed up against him, and he can feel the warmth radiating from her body with the limited sensory sensations that he has as a weapon. She presses her cheek against him, and due to their height difference, he can see an unusually serene smile on her face. He absently wonders if her skin would feel smooth to the touch too, and he supposes if he is going to take on a body like hers as a vessel, he will be able to find out.
Maybe, he finds himself thinking before he can stop the notion, this arrangement wouldn't be so bad, after all.
It doesn't take long for the rational part of his mind to kick in and immediately bury the idea.
How absurd, he silently laments. This girl has made him grow… soft. Paracelsus, who was once known as a “death god", an ancient war relic, a powerful, bloodthirsty demon who brought many to their untimely deaths and even manipulated and used her for the better half of their years together, and yet…
“Come,” she urges him, tugging on the strap that she uses to help her carry him around. “Let me show you the body I’ve found for you. I believe that you will find it to be… suitable for your tastes.”
…For whatever reason, he can’t really find it in himself to complain all that much anymore.
“…Well?”
A.B.A’s voice is caught in her throat. She blinks once, and then she blinks again. Her heart pounds in her chest, the rhythm of which quickly grows rapid and irregular. Blood rushes to her cheeks, causing her face to feel uncomfortably hot.
“…I…”
It’s all she’s able to say. Her eyes are wide as she takes him in—her precious Paracelsus, in all his glory, in this new body.
The vessel—Paracelsus, now—towers over her, even more than he does as an axe. His blonde hair is loose, face framed by two longer strands in the front that stop just above his shoulders. The brassy color is contrasted by his tanned, olive skin, lightly scarred on various parts of his body. His cheekbones are high and defined, complimented by a sharp jawline, and his eyes are a shade of deep brown so dark that it appears black in the dim lighting of the room they’re in. His clothes—also given to her—appear rather… tight on him as if they’re a size or so too small, the sleeveless top he dons allowing her to truly appreciate the strength of the body she chose for him. His arms, covered in lean, thick muscle hang by his sides, relaxed. Her gaze wanders downwards to the taupe jeans that hug his waist, and her breath hitches as some rather indecent thoughts begin to crowd her mind.
Like this, they’ll finally be able to actually—
“A.B.A?”
His voice finally snaps her back to reality, if only briefly. He quirks a brow at her, folding his newfound arms across his broad chest. She gains a short-lived moment of reprieve when she wonders where he learned such mannerisms, as he has always been a key (at least, in her mind that's what he was rather than the battle axe he used to adamantly insist that he was) the entire time she's known him, but the homunculus soon realizes that he has probably observed a wide variety of behaviors from both humans and non-humans alike with bodies more versatile than his original form over the years, so, in truth, he has likely become quite well-acquainted with human-like mannerisms.
“A.B.A, you’re staring.”
“Ah—”
She tears her gaze away out of embarrassment, although she’s unable to keep her eyes off of him for long.
“S-Sorry. Sorry. It’s just, it’s…”
She stumbles over her words, grasping fistfuls of her shirt in an attempt to not reach out and touch him like she’s so tempted to do for fear of overwhelming him in this new state that he’s definitely not used to, but the urge grows stronger and becomes harder to resist with each second that passes.
“Go on,” he coaxes, taking a step closer to her, to which she instinctively stumbles backwards. He frowns.
Paracelsus knows how reluctant his partner can be when it comes to accepting big changes; how much stress it can cause her. He figures it must be even more jarring for the homunculus since he’s such a significant source of comfort for her (probably her only source of comfort, actually, besides her hobby of collecting keys and anything key-shaped—which, now that he thinks about it, would also include himself, too), and seeing him go through such a large shift in appearance almost instantaneously into something so unfamiliar to her must be causing the girl to panic.
“I see. It is a rather drastic change, isn’t it? If it’s too much for you—”
“No!” she interrupts, hastily shaking her head, wringing her hands as she redoubles her efforts of keeping them to herself. “That’s not it. That’s not it at all. It’s… I think that…”
He patiently waits for her to finish. She finds a sudden interest in staring at the floor.
"…I think it suits you very well,” she finally finishes under her breath. And then, even quieter, so quiet that he barely catches it, she adds, “I like it. A lot.”
He hums his acknowledgment. He doesn’t want to say it out loud, but A.B.A’s opinion does matter to him, more than he would like it to. Not only because it was mainly her choice to have him take on this body so of course whether she likes it or not is important, but also because he genuinely cares about what she thinks.
Not that he would ever willingly tell her that, though.
She looks back up at him once more. “What about you, dear? What do you think of it?”
He does a cursory glance over his new body, holding out his hands and turning them over. There’s the slightest hint of a smile on his face.
“I think you chose wisely.”
A.B.A beams at his approval, unable to hold herself back anymore. She wraps her arms around him, squeezing tightly, nestling her cheek against his chest. He jolts, unprepared for the amount of new sensations the embrace brings. Naturally, he’s used to A.B.A hugging him by now—in fact, he’s used to A.B.A touching him in some way constantly, but… when he was an axe, it didn't feel like much; it was dull, muted, distant. As a weapon, he didn't have the need for a wide array of sensory stimuli responses. That would be counterintuitive, considering the amount of pain he would be in all the time if he did happen to possess such an ability.
He unintentionally stiffens as he processes through all of it; the sensation of truly being squeezed—whereas his shaft was solid and firm as an axe, this body is much more pliable, slightly contracting under the pressure of her embrace—and the feeling of being pressed firmly against his partner, being able to sense just how soft and warm she is with so much more intensity, being able to vividly perceive every point of contact she has with him, it’s—
“Oh, I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she apologizes profusely, withdrawing from him. Much to his surprise, he finds that he has to suppress the urge to hold her in place, to keep her close to him. “I-I didn’t make you uncomfortable, did I? I’m sorry, I know we’ve discussed boundaries, I really didn’t mean—”
“It’s alright,” he assures her with a small nod before she’s able to spiral out of control with her anxiety. She perks up a bit.
“It is?” she asks, slowly drawing close to him once more and resuming her prior position. “Then… is it alright if we stay like this? Only for a little?”
He always found it sort of awkward when she hugged him before (which had always been more often than he would prefer), partially because there was no way for him to comfortably return the gesture. Now, though, as he gradually brings his arms up to settle one of his palms on the middle of her back and the other to rest in between her shoulder blades, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
He has always been aware of A.B.A’s frailness, but he never realized just how small she is until this very moment. She's so thin that he can distinctly feel her spine protruding from her back without even having to press down, as if the muscle and tissue that separates it from her outermost layer of skin are barely present at all.
He’s attempted to teach her proper self-care habits over the years from all the knowledge he has gathered regarding beings similar to herself, but she doesn’t always listen to him, stubborn as she can sometimes be. Although, he supposes that can’t be that upset at her for it—he does understand that it must be difficult for her to unlearn all of the unhealthy habits she had picked up from her time living in complete isolation.
At first, he was only doing the bare minimum to keep her alive simply because he wanted to continue to use her and eventually drive her to her full potential as a wielder, even if that meant seriously harming her or ultimately bringing her to a premature death. However, as time has gone on, he has started to genuinely care for her well-being and increased his efforts to try to get her to take care of herself. He thought he had been doing a fairly good job of it recently, but maybe he hasn’t been. Has she been eating enough? Sometimes she’ll go days barely eating anything at all when she enters into a particularly intense episode, but he hasn’t noticed this behavior recently. Has he missed something? Does he need to keep a closer eye on her?
Granted, he does suppose that maybe he simply notices the difference more in this form, being considerably larger than her in both height and stature. He’s almost afraid to touch her at all like this for fear of accidentally hurting her; it’s been more than a while since he’s had this level of strength that he’s able to use on a whim, without needing someone else to enable him. The longer they’ve spent together, the more he has developed a protective attitude towards her—if he didn’t protect her, who would? Certainly not herself—especially considering she’s particularly vulnerable to manipulation due to her background, and, while very durable, she’s also very frail. Although she is powerful and capable (of course she is, he cannot deny that; if she wasn’t, she wouldn’t have survived as his wielder for as long as she has) A.B.A has also become increasingly self-destructive with the over time, which is probably due to his initial exploitation of her. He originally thought that this desire to keep her safe stemmed from the guilt he harbors for driving her to such an unstable state of mind, but, right now, actually being able to hold her petite body in his arms, he feels nothing but a pure, unadulterated need to protect her.
Maybe…
He could get used to this pretty quickly.
“Paracelsus? Dear?”
Her hushed murmur of his name brings his attention back to the present.
“Yes?”
“Your heartbeat,” she says simply. His gaze flickers down to her face.
“What about it?”
“It’s very fast,” she replies, a small smile playing on her lips. Her lips that are a faded, dusty shade of pink, that look quite soft, and—
“It just got faster,” she comments, a bit too smugly for his tastes. He scoffs, looking elsewhere.
“Nonsense,” is his only defense against her claim.
A.B.A thankfully doesn’t call out his blatant lie, and instead simply continues to listen to his newfound heart beating in his chest, seemingly satisfied.
Never mind. It’s going to take him a long time to adjust to this new lifestyle.
True to his initial assessment, it does indeed take him a while to get used to his new body.
The pair decides to settle in the outskirts of Illyria for the time being. The residence they choose to reside in isn’t too big (or very nice), but they make do with ease; it is only the two of them, at the end of the day, and they’ve lived in worse conditions in the past.
Learning how to actually function a physical body proves to be difficult. It's not entirely unfamiliar—Paracelsus was able to control the bodies of his previous wielders if he chose to, after all. It's not entirely the same, though; this time, it's just him in this body, and he's the only one who's holding the reins, now. He tries to take it all in small steps, day by day, little by little. Practice does make perfect, as they say. A.B.A, caring as she is, helps as well, and very gradually he begins to acclimate to living out this new kind of existence.
She insists that they share a bed. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, honestly; they've slept side by side many times before during their travels together—well, for Paracelsus, it was more akin to going into a dormant, resting state, as, being nonhuman himself, he has no real need for sleep. Somehow, though, with this new arrangement, it seems much more… intimate. At least, to him it does.
The first night, he’s uncertain. His partner does her best to respect this and give him space to acclimate to the new circumstances, asking only to be able to touch him even in the slightest bit while she sleeps. She frequently did this when they slept with each other prior; she would typically cuddle up to him, but on nights that she didn’t, she would always staying touching him in some way, whether it was a hand laid over his shaft, or a leg lightly resting against the blunt side of his blade, she merely wanted a point of contact with him to be able to rest assured that he stayed there with her throughout the night. Well, not that he could really go anywhere without her assistance in that form, though he guessed it must’ve simply been a way to bring herself comfort while she slept.
Presently, though, she settles on solely holding his hand while she sleeps. At least, that’s what it starts out as.
As the night progresses, A.B.A ends up shifting closer to him until she’s lying her head on his chest and clinging to him with an arm draped over his torso. She seemingly does this while she's unconscious, so he can’t blame her for it too much. Despite his initial reservations, the close proximity ends up not bothering him at all, and he actually finds himself partial to this turn of events as he begins to mindlessly thread his fingers through her hair. When he was an axe, he was unable to do such a thing, and he soon becomes captivated by the way her sleek tresses slip through his hands with no resistance as if they're made of smooth silk. She leans into his touch, and he almost thinks that she had been awake this entire time and was only pretending to be asleep to get closer to him, but then she mumbles something incoherent and goes still again, and he continues stroking her hair, although gentler this time as to not actually wake her.
When she does come to and finds herself lying on him, she’s embarrassed, apologizing repeatedly, and he reassures her that it’s fine; he doesn’t mind, it’s nothing new to the two of them, at any rate.
“I-I know that, however…” she protests, trailing off.
“A.B.A,” he assures her, “it’s fine. Really.”
From then on, she sleeps cuddled up to him like she always has, and he makes no more protests against it.
The first time A.B.A suggests that they shower together, Paracelsus swears he somehow feels ten years being impossibly knocked off of his immortal lifespan.
“Wh-What?”
The homunculus furrows her brows. “You’ve seen me without clothes on before. What’s so different about this?”
“That’s—” he sputters, bewildered. “First of all, I have not seen you without your clothes before, A.B.A, I have always closed my eyes or looked away when you were in a state of undress out of respect for you—”
“We’re married,” she insists stubbornly. “What kind of married couple does not shower with one another?”
He opens his mouth to retort but then closes it once he realizes that he doesn't know how to adequately respond to that question.
“There’s no need to be shy, dear.”
She shuffles closer until she’s directly in front of him, trailing a finger down his chest. He stiffens.
“Besides, don’t you need me to assist you with washing yourself properly? You aren’t used to having such a body, after all.”
He huffs. He won’t admit it, but she does kind of have him there.
“I am certain that I could figure it out on my own.”
“Paracelsus,” she whines in protest, dragging out the vowels of his name and tugging at the bottom of his shirt. His lips twitch at the high-pitched noise. “What if you hurt yourself? What if you hurt yourself and I’m not there to come to your aid? You’re not used to feeling pain much at all, either, are you? I—"
"A.B.A," he cuts her off to prevent her from working herself up into a panic. He’s… unsure how he feels about this; that being completely stripped bare in front of an equally exposed A.B.A in such a small, enclosed space for a considerable amount of time.
He has seen her practically nude before—she often wears so little clothing that there’s not much he can't see when she sleeps, telling him once that it was more comfortable like that. He didn’t think too much of it in the past, never allowing his gaze to linger on her body for too long merely out of common courtesy. One of them had to be mature and responsible and draw boundaries somewhere for the sake of keeping their relationship at least somewhat healthy—or, to continue leading it more towards that direction—and Paracelsus decided long ago that he would take on that role for the both of them. Because he already had a decent amount of knowledge and first-hand experience of the world when he and A.B.A met, he naturally ended up falling into that position, considering that, at the time, the only knowledge she possessed was acquired from the countless books she had read in her time of isolation in Frasco. She, on the other hand, lacked any context of how any of that information fit into the ways of the outside world and also lacked any actual, physical experience with it. Inevitably, she would ultimately look to him for guidance, and he did his best to stay level-headed and refrain from giving into any of his more impulsive urges, although he only truly became capable of doing that more recently after he swore off unneeded violence for good.
Something about the present predicament, though, is… different.
As an axe, it was essentially impossible for him to be put into such a vulnerable state—at least, not in the way that was possible for A.B.A. Obviously, when he was a weapon, he didn’t need clothing, so he could never be bare, per se, and A.B.A could. But, now that he possesses an actual body…
His eyes fall onto the sink, and an idea forms in his mind. He decides to compromise.
He tells A.B.A his proposal; he'll allow her to help with washing his hair (something he admittedly has no idea how to correctly go about doing), and he'll do the rest himself. They'll work up to showering together eventually, of course, although… he's not ready for that quite yet.
She's silent for a moment. When she does speak, her voice is quiet and unsteady.
“After all of these years, dear, you… you still aren’t comfortable with me?”
She looks genuinely hurt, maybe even on the verge of tears. He curses internally. That’s not what he meant.
“No, that’s not it. Just…” He sighs. “I need… more time. Remember what I said? About not rushing into anything, taking things slowly between us?”
Eventually, she nods, and honestly, he does feel a sense of guilt for refusing to bare himself to her, especially since he had taken advantage of her in some of her most vulnerable moments and used her for his own gain in the past when she had entrusted herself to him completely, however… he isn’t used to this new body enough for him to have the level of confidence required to comfortably do such a thing.
And with that, they begin to wash his hair in the bathroom sink.
A.B.A makes an effort to not make too much of a mess as she carefully works a clear solution into his scalp, lightly scraping her nails against him as she does so before coating the rest of his hair as well. The feeling that the contact causes is new to him, but not at all unwelcome. In fact, it’s rather pleasant, so much so that his eyes fall closed and he leans into her hands, knees practically buckling beneath him.
Eventually, she pulls away, and he immediately misses her attentive touch, hardly able to keep himself from reaching for her. He has half the mind to be mortified by the muffled, breathy noise of disappointment that slips past his lips from the loss. He is hopeful that A.B.A didn't hear it as he patiently waits for her to bring her hands back to his hair and continue with what she was doing before, but she remains quiet and unmoving from behind him, and he finally turns to face her.
“…A.B.A?”
She's staring at him, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. And then, she laughs softly.
“You are just so cute, darling,” she comments earnestly, prodding at his cheek. Had he not known better, he would’ve returned to his old habits and bitten her entirely out of embarrassment and spite. “You enjoyed that, didn't you?”
He scowls, averting his gaze. “…Perhaps.”
She giggles once more before helping him rinse off the lather.
Eventually, they finish, thankfully with little to clean up. He thinks that they’re done and ready to move on to whatever else that needs to be tended to today, but then his partner retrieves a tool that he recalls seeing her use on herself in the past to start combing through his hair. A “hairbrush”, she calls it; a rather unimaginative name, in his opinion. She takes great care not to pull, although, since his hair is wet, she gets the job done painlessly with ease.
It’s… unfamiliar to him, to feel doted on in such a way. Obviously, A.B.A has always doted on him, even about the smallest of things, but now that he has this body, it seems as though it’s on another level, somehow. It's more personal, more… intimate.
He isn’t against it, however. In fact, after all these years…
He finds himself truly thinking about how he can begin to return the favor.
Over time, they begin to pick up each other’s mannerisms.
A.B.A has always bitten her nails when she becomes overwhelmed by stress and anxiety, and over time, Paracelsus finds himself chewing on his as well in moments of intense distress, although those have become far and few between since they started their new life together.
She tends to twirl a strand of teal green hair around her finger when she’s deep in thought, which translates to Paracelsus raking a hand through his own. Sometimes, he'll click his tongue at her when he disapproves of what she’s saying or her behavior, and much to his lighthearted annoyance, she has started to do the same to him. He has also picked up a recent habit of cracking his knuckles, originally for the sole reason that it was fascinating to him—that joints and bones are able to make such noises—and A.B.A ends up picking this up, too.
He never really noticed it, but he must’ve rubbed at his temples at least once or twice when he was bothered by something (he’s not completely sure where he picked this up from; he theorizes that he had seen one of his previous wielders do it in the past and it’s merely something he unconsciously integrated into his now various physical mannerisms) because A.B.A has started to come up beside him and use her own fingers to massage the area with small, soothing circles before he can even get the chance to do it himself. In turn, he will stroke her hair when he can tell that she's beginning to get upset, and he always sees her shoulders visibly relax as soon as she feels his touch.
It’s admittedly such a small, normally unnoticeable thing, but Paracelsus notices.
What it means in the context of their relationship, however, is still something that he’s trying to figure out.
Slowly, he attempts to reciprocate the love and affection A.B.A has always shown him.
He starts off small—an off-handed offer to brush her hair so she doesn’t have to, a gentle hand on her shoulder every now and then in passing; he even takes up cooking in an attempt to lower the stress she has surrounding the frequency of which they have to leave the house to find food or ingredients to use. He doesn’t think he makes anything particularly special in the beginning, but A.B.A always praises whatever he presents her with to high Heaven and eats every single bit of it too regardless.
He watches her closely when she eats, mostly out of curiosity. He doesn't really have the need to eat himself, although he supposes that it wouldn’t be a bad idea for the sake of keeping his current body in good health, but… he digresses.
One day, his partner notices his meticulous gaze.
“What is it, dear? Is something the matter?”
He blinks, snapping himself out of his stupor.
“…No. Everything is fine.”
She remains unconvinced. After a moment, though, a smile begins to tug at the corners of her lips.
“…Oh, I see. Are you perhaps feeling a bit jealous?”
He regards her warily, slightly apprehensive at the playful tone she's taken on.
“Jealous?” he parrots, bewildered. What could he possibly be jealous about at this very moment in time? It's only the two of them here. “What do you mean by…”
He doesn't finish, staring at her blankly as she lifts a morsel of whatever it is that she’s eating up toward his mouth. He recognizes it as something he had gotten her during their time in the city, some kind of sweet she had expressed interest in wanting to try, although he can’t remember the name.
“It must be tedious, to always be the one doing all of the cooking but never being able to try it yourself,” she explains lightheartedly, tilting her head. “Surely, you must feel incredibly left out. After all, dear, you’ve had nothing to replace the sustenance that blood used to supply you with, isn't that right?”
Paracelsus scoffs. “Truly, A.B.A, you should certainly know by now that I have no need to engage in such—”
“—Trivial activities?” she predicts the remainder of his sentence before he’s able to say it himself. He narrows his eyes at her in suspicion of where she’s going with this. “That may be so, but if it is precisely so trivial, then why not allow yourself to indulge in such a menial act? Especially now since you have a body that allows you to do so properly.”
He considers her reasoning, glancing between her and the sweet she holds in front of him.
“And if you dislike it, you can spit it back out into my hand, alright?”
He cringes. “A.B.A, that’s disgusting.”
She pouts, appearing ready to falter, and he rolls his eyes. He guesses that she’s right; there’s no harm in trying it, particularly if it’ll make her happy.
He leans forward and takes the piece of confectionery from her fingers into his mouth, forcing himself to do it before his self-consciousness gets the better of him, accidentally brushing his lips against her skin in the process. In the past when he identified as Flament Nagel, he surely would’ve sliced off the tongue of anyone who dared to suggest that later down the line he would be allowing a girl to lovingly feed him, particularly now that he has the viable means to do it himself; it would have never been something he would have considered even for a second.
Her eyes widen in surprise, and she lowers her hand, carefully studying his reaction. He attempts to mimic the actions that he’s seen A.B.A perform every time he’s closely observed her while she eats—slowly, he bites down on the morsel and begins to chew. The sweetness immediately overwhelms his taste buds as the smooth, hardened shell of the candy gives way to a softer, sticky inside that has a taste reminiscent of citrus (not that he’s ever eaten fruit before, but if he had to guess what it would taste like from the scent alone) with a liquid consistency that actually vaguely reminds him of the blood he used to consume previously.
Although it’s fairly… sugary for his preferences (nothing can compare to the way the salty thickness of blood coated his tongue) he doesn’t dislike it by any means. In fact, the taste is rather… pleasant.
“It’s called ‘chocolate’, and it’s apparently quite popular among humans,” she happily explains to him. “The piece I gave you contained a strawberry filling, which I thought you may enjoy, considering…”
She doesn’t elaborate, but he knows what she’s referring to.
“Lovers often gift such candies to each other as a show of affection. It’s good, isn’t it?”
The homunculus is smiling at him, looking and sounding terribly proud of herself and the fact that she was able to prove herself right.
“You like sweets, don’t you, A.B.A?”
It would make sense to him; he distinctly remembers that, despite the strong metallic taste of her blood, it also always had a unique hint of sweetness to it, although not enough that it was overbearing. Maybe that’s one of the reasons he enjoyed it so much.
She purses her lips. “I suppose I do, yes.”
He makes a mental note to remember that.
“Ah, personally, I tend to prefer a taste that’s more of the… salty or bitter variety, in other words.”
“Oh,” she replies, face falling in disappointment. “So, you didn’t enjoy it?”
He clicks his tongue. “I didn’t say that.”
She hums, suddenly appearing thoughtful.
“Alright,” is all she says in response.
Seemingly keeping his statement in mind, she comes to him again a few days later with a new candy for him to try—”salted caramel”, as she calls it. This one he actually ends up liking a lot; it’s not overly sweet, the taste likely being balanced by the presence of the salt. It’s just similar enough to the flavor of blood without actually being blood to satisfy any of his buried, forgotten cravings for the substance.
A.B.A is elated to find something he enjoys, and eventually he begins to sometimes join her in consuming the various dishes he makes for the two of them. She insists on feeding him whenever he chooses to do this, and despite his initial protests, he eventually gives in like he usually does.
She spoils him too much, he thinks. Sometimes, he tells her this, and she is quick to shut him down.
“But I love you, darling,” she insists, and gradually, Paracelsus realizes that he’s finally beginning to become acquainted with what the term “love” truly means. “Everything I do for you is out of my own volition. And, besides, you deserve to feel loved and cared for.”
“But I don’t,” he wants to argue, the guilt from the way he used to treat her weighing on him heavier during these times, but he knows that he would never be able to get A.B.A to agree with him.
Instead, he continues to do the best that he can to repay her acts of care and affection in turn.