Chapter Text
[. . .]
"Honey, I'm on fire, I feel it everywhere."
[. . .]
Chapter 1
Next Door Sweetheart
[. . .]
The morning air is unsatisfyingly warm.
Benedict Wigglestein Uno Jr., otherwise known for the moniker 'Father', steps onto the front path of his stately mansion, a sour frown curling at his lips. He doesn't like mornings. He doesn't like the sun. And he certainly doesn't like the chirping of overenthusiastic robins that have apparently mistaken his marble fence for a choir loft. There is something despicable about pleasant, sunny mornings that wells up an aching bitterness from inside his stone, cold heart, something heinous that he can't quite explain, nor does he ever intend to.
He does not like mornings. He never will. Simple as that.
He adjusts his shadows with deliberate precision, letting the fire in his chest insulate him from the irritating pleasantness of the day. Several birds scatter when his heat makes contact, and he harrumphs, satisfied that the vexing chirping is no more. He only intends to retrieve a misdelivered envelope resting at the edge of the walkway and nothing more. He would have had Jenkins or his delightful children retrieve it for him, but alas, both parties are busy tending and partaking of breakfast, so he must go make use of himself like a damn dog.
It reminds him too much of Grandfather and his pesky habit of sending him off to do his bidding.
As he stomps his way toward the letter that the useless mailman left behind, his mind unconsciously drifts to the house next door, to the new occupant who has recently moved there, as of one month ago.
The Mysterious Woman Down Cherry Lane.
He has yet to see her. The most he saw of the newest resident had been an innocent, white pearl sundress shutting behind a chocolate-rich oak door, indicating an unfortunate great taste of fashion and, by the assumption that she's his neighbor, a descendant of money. Rumors have circulated that she is an apparent helper to the KND League, sent to keep expert watch on him. He's quickly based those off as baseless rumors, however, for what level-headed adult with great taste in fashion, rich, and reserved, would side with children of all things? Not even the stupidest, worst excuse for villains would even consider thinking highly of a child!
Just the thought of them grinds his teeth.
Nevertheless, he has conducted speculation and research, navigating through the data networks of their neighborhood watch to learn more about the neighbor next door, ultimately resulting in no significant findings or any sight of her. Which. Bizarre, and highly suspicious, but Father doesn't have time to deal with additional nuisances.
Villainy is hard work.
He exhales a faint puff of smoke to quiet the rage. Although he has plans for those disastrous Kids Next Door later on in the day, he'd rather not sour his morning further than it is.
Hence, he makes haste as he stoops down to retrieve the crumpled envelope from the stoop, narrowing his eyes at the visible singe he leaves upon touching the elusive paper with his thumb and index. His fingers twitch almost involuntarily, not from the paper's weight but from the silent pull of thoughts about the woman next door that abruptly come unbidden.
Curiosity, he's known, kills the Cat.
Still. He can't help but wonder if the rumors about her are real. If the other snobby adults residing in this quaint neighborhood are whispering truths behind white teeth and iron-pressed silk, intending to place meaning in her mystery. If they are wrong to consider, because their involvement in the Villain League is so little, disguised simply as bitter meetups meant to judge and accuse the wasted years of youth. If she's anything at all, someone new, someone who will mean nothing at the end of it all.
He vehemently dislikes not knowing.
But Father is not paranoid; he is simply curious.
She may well be a villainess in disguise. A child-hater such as himself, someone who may harbor intellect, or even better, passion. True, riveting, passion to destroy all that is meaningless, all that pertains to the ungrateful youths of today.
Or perhaps she's boring. Perhaps she's watching him now, behind those curtains draped with lace and secrets. Does she notice how the early sun catches the ash at the corner of his mouth? Does she know the storm simmering beneath his skin?
A faint trace of something unfamiliar—the ghost of curiosity?—nags at him. But he refuses to acknowledge it.
Grim mornings don't need distractions, especially not those wrapped in white silk.
Regardless, as he folds the letter carefully and tucks it beneath his coat, Father finds his steps unconsciously veering toward the oak door. The scent of freshly baked bread drifts faintly on the breeze, softening the edges of his scowl. He has no idea how, with such a marginal distance between his grandiose mansion and her quaint, but moderately big, family home, such sickly sweet aromas can reach. But they do. And he is living in it, breathing in something other than the mundane, crisp air of a blooming spring.
For a moment longer, just a moment, he lets himself imagine what it would be like to cross that threshold—and find light instead of shadows waiting inside.
But the thought is so fleeting that he doesn't even realize he thinks it. Loneliness carried from childhood is so profound that it's the norm for someone as sophisticated as Father. His thoughts drift to what he knows, to what he's used to, and suddenly he is vehemently angry that his delightful children have yet to head to school. He was pretty sure he told them to be out in ten damn minutes! It's no wonder he's out here playing fetch with that pesky mailman!
—Just as he makes to turn around to demand that his delightful children pick up the pace in the confines of his mansion, she appears.
Stumped stupid, Benedict Wigglestein Uno Jr. nearly trips over himself when he happens to catch an etching of a soft color drifting in the wind, framing a face leaning against the window pane lathered with starshine.
Her.
The Sweetheart from Next Door.
Ben thinks the name is dangerously fitting.
She doesn't lean so much as drift with a delicate expression. The beautiful lace of her dress collar looks like morning dandelion fluff. Her hands fold loosely in front of her, sporting a woven basket dangling from one wrist, half-filled with paper-wrapped parcels and what looks suspiciously like pies. Her hair, bewitching and wind-swept, pronounces in the morning light much like an incandescent thread. And her eyes... his own flick up in spite of himself. They're the color of early spring—blooming with warmth.
She smiles, basking in the glory of morning dew.
He immediately hates it.
But he cannot look away.
He studies her entirely, fascinated, enraptured by the aura dancing with sparkles of a time left cradled inside the darkest pits of his mind. It’s long been left neglected, a time he longs for. She stands at the window like a vision misplaced from another world, wrapped in morning light that spills over her in golden silk. The air around her seems to shimmer, admired in the golden lace of the sun. There's a hint of domestic flour on her hands, but she looks divine, picturesque in something remembered from a dream half-forgotten.
He doesn't move. He doesn't blink. What he's seeing makes no logical sense. No one—nothing—glows like that. Not in this world. Not in his. And yet there she is, real and radiant, gazing out to the world beyond her window with the prestige visage that it still holds beauty worth believing in.
A sudden, grotesque jealousy claws through him, searing and alive. UGH!
An acid so potent nearly brings him to his knees.
How dare she?
How dare she be better than him?
A breeze lifts the edge of her sleeve. She tucks her hair behind her ear and turns to go, leaving the basket on the windowsill, a mockery of invitation.
Like nothing.
Benedict stands unmoving, the sun pressing too warmly against his back.
Behind his eyes, an old feeling stirs.
Memory.
Want.
The rumors have done her no justice.
No.
Not at all.
Father knows good and well what she is, now. She is no dainty, quaint neighbor from next door. She is no lovely woman, just down Cherry Lane.
She is an intruder. An enemy.
A foul, infuriating beast of a woman, for daring to flaunt her divine, sunlit presence all over his godforsaken front yard!
Well.
He puffs malignant smoke through his precious pipe, thinking, thinking, and thinking some more.
He'll show her just who he is for messing with him.
[. . .]
The Delightful Children sit at attention when Father returns to the breakfast table.
They keep quiet, watching the man's jovial step intently. Curiosity peeks behind a slumbering, dark corner in their minds.
What has Father so happy, they wonder?
"Change of plans, kiddos," The man declares lowly, profoundly ominous with a tone laced with the glee the Delightful Children have come to associate whenever Father ravishes his expensive chocolates when he thinks they're not looking. He waves an envelope waxed with the League of Villains insignia, letting out a delighted chuckle so free of malice they are momentarily confounded. "Forget the Kids Next Door. I have a new mission for you in mind today."
The children tilt their heads, withholding from voicing their disappointment and joy. "What is it, Father?" They chorus together, ideas running rampant. Is it a new device for evil? Is it a punishment for waking up late? Is it another homework test? Or could it be, finally, the chance to frolic in the fields, a chance to rest their perfect, obedient minds?
Father moves the pipe, the shadow of it flicking the familiar char of smoke. "I'm sure you've heard the rumors of our new neighbor...?"
The Delightful Children perk up.
"Miss Mother from Cherry Lane?"
Father pauses. His eyes narrow.
"I beg your pardon?"
The Delightful Children shrink in on themselves slightly at the sudden change in tone. What have they done wrong now? "...We assume you are referring to Miss Mother, the new occupant inside Moonshine Grove." They state, trying to find meaning in Father's growing irritation. But they are stumped. Not an uncommon factor, but one they are dreadfully tired of. But they would never admit that to Father, their loving and kind parent. They understand that they are not so perfect.
Father, surprisingly, falters. His shoulders slump, narrowed eyes softening to incredulity. "That's her name?"
The Delightful Children tense. "Yes, Father."
"What!?"
The Delightful Children take a moment to thank the universe for standing opposite Father, behind the protection of the table's poultry distance. For Father erupts in his usual anger, adamantly ranting about stolen identities, mockery, and other things the Delightful Children hope to understand one day.
From within, however, they vehemently stomp down the visceral anger bubbling at Father's irrational behavior.
Just as quickly as the fires flare, fortunately, Father suddenly calms down.
He exhales with profound exhaustion, running a hand through the shadows of his hair, grumbling nonsense.
"Well," He huffs finally, regarding them with his molten eyes. "It seems I need to get out more." He mocks, eyes gleaming dangerously. "Is there anything else you can tell me about this... Miss Mother?" He spits, rolling his wrist in snobby disgust.
The Delightful Children pause to think.
They tidy, repulsed. "She is nice to children."
It's safe to say, for the Delightful Children, they run a tad late for school thanks to Father's fires. And his terrible, no good, road rage. It's not the first time they hear of it, but it is rare, as it is usually Jenkins who wastes his time taking them to school. But oddly enough, Father has chosen to gift them with his presence this contemplative morning.
"Children," He calls for their attention once he slows the car to a stop, just before they scamper out.
They stop to listen.
He eyes them from the rearview mirror.
"After school, your new mission entails discovering just who this Miss Mother is. Understood?"
The Delightful Children smile conspiratively.
"Yes, Father."