Sincerely,

A/N: I will ship this until I die, thanks. I have work tomorrow and I'm honestly just writing whatever came into mind. I have no idea of the what the original novel contains (but I do know that this ship isn't canon, so...

I'm taking my liberties with this story. Thanks, all.

"Will you marry me?" She had always been better than him when it came to words.

(Claudia and Cattleya, before, during, and after.)

Cattleya is a dancer.

Other people would tell you that she was, but Claudia Hodgins would say otherwise.

He would even correct you under his breath, cheeks lit with a rouge tint that would rival any woman's.

"Cattelya Baudelaire is a great dancer."

So is that why they're in a dimly lit pub on a Thursday night?

They're sitting beside each other at the bar, miraculously the only customers at this hour, their eyes downcast and lips wet with alcohol. There is a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand, and the bottle is in between hers. She glances at his face and leans her shoulder ever-so slightly to his.

It's quiet.

His fingers press hard onto the glass. He doesn't look at her.

It's so quiet.

She leans back. Breathes. Spares him a second glance.

It's too quiet.

He doesn't blink. She moves to pluck the glass from his hands...

And then he looks at her, wide-eyed and restless.

Claudia has always known how bright and vibrant and warm and beautiful her eyes are.

But his mouth is taught, pulled at the edges, tired.

Cattleya stops. Her stern expression softens, her hand that reached for the glass now falls on top of his. She pries away his fingers away from the cup and clenches them, rough and warm, in hers.

She always knew what to say, but now she remains quiet.

He knows what she's going to say.

"Let's go home, Mr. President."

He has grown too familiar with that phrase and the tone she uses when she says it–whether she is playful and coy, sour and irritated, or childish and bitter.

But now she is quiet.

And she remains quiet when he brushes a lock of hair out of her face and behind her ear, when he curls his fingers around hers, when he grips a hand on her shoulder and comes in close–

She might know all the words in the world and how to string them together, but now she doesn't know what to say.

And he wonders why she doesn't.

"What is it, Cattleya?"

He's asked her that before, and sometimes he doesn't need to ask her because she would tell him whatever is on her mind, anyway. It's not like she needs to ask permission to say anything.

So why is she so quiet?

And yet...

Her silence seems appropriate.

Her presence feels enough.

She's already so close to him that if he should try, he would be able to–

No.

Cattleya deserves more than that.

So it surprises him when she presses her lips–her soft, soft lips–against his forehead.

And at that moment, he wanted to hold her so tight and never even think of letting go, but he's scared, he's nervous, he doesn't know what to do. Is this how the night is supposed to end?

So he just lets her.

"I'm sorry, Cattleya."

And it's quiet.

Her hands are gentle around his face, nimble fingers pressed against the stubble on his cheek, and her lips are even softer as they trace down from his forehead to the tip of his nose.

And then she laughs, breathy and thoroughly amused, before she pulls away just far enough to see the entirety of his shocked expression. She smiles and slide her hands down to his shoulders to tug him to stand–

"Let's go home, Mr. President."

He nods mutely at her words, lets her lead him out of the bar and into the street, his arm swung over her shoulders. And it's quite the sight to see a woman like her hauling around a man like him as if he were drunk.

"I don't usually spend my nights hauling around men, you know." She says when they exit the pub, "So consider yourself lucky."

His face flushes. He looks away.

She just laughs, all tinkling and loud, and it fills his hears much more than the sound of cars passing by and the distant sound of people chattering amongst themselves.

"I'm not drunk, Cattleya." He tries to pry his arm away from her, but her hold on him tightens.

Claudia has never been a drinker, Cattleya knows that.

Still, who else can haul him around like her?

"And..." She whispers mischievously, "I like the feeling of your arms around me."

She gives him a wicked grin and a flirtatious wink.

And he pulls away from her immediately.

She laughs again.

And it's just...

"Come on." She says, grabbing his hand. "Let's go home."

She pulls and he comes stumbling forward.

She stifles a laugh. "I thought you weren't drunk."

"I'm not." He shakes his head. "Just..."

"Tipsy?" She suggested with a mocking grin.

"No. Whatever." He straightens up. "Let's go."

He moves forward, but stops to stand beside her. She takes the opportunity to lace their fingers together.

He thanks the warm glow of the lamps above them, else she would notice his thoroughly flushed face.

"Okay." She leans her head on his shoulder slightly. "Let's go."

They walk together.

And this how things go, this is how things are.

Claudia knows how great of a dancer Cattleya is, knows how much Cattleya enjoys dancing, knows how much people love seeing her all dolled-up and beautiful on that stage, knows how much people would give just to be with her, knows what people would do if...

Cattleya deserves so much more than this.

Claudia has believed that ever since he met her.

A/N: Okay. This was supposed to be a one-shot thing that was supposed to be romantic instead of angsty, but there I go writing so much that I have decided on writing a multi-chapter story.

It won't be as long as most, but it's still pretty long? I have a lot of ideas for this ship, so bear with me.

Next chapter's done, so expect it tomorrow.

I think I'm going to have a past/present/non-chronological thing in this story.

...But actually, the main reason I made this into a multi-chap is because I have work tomorrow and I just want to put this out already?

Anyway, feedback is always appreciated. Thanks!