Chapter: High Scores and Cyclopses

The gothic manor was unusually quiet that afternoon, the rain outside having finally softened into a steady drizzle that tapped against the tall, arched windows. Beckett sat cross-legged on the living room floor, trench coat swapped for a loose black hoodie over his favorite anime shirt, gloves still on, surgical mask in place. The twins were busy upstairs plotting their next miniature prank, leaving him with one of the rare quiet afternoons that felt almost… suspiciously peaceful. And Diana was busy grading school work

Terry visting, sleek and composed in her casual black jeans and fitted sweater, plopped down next to him with her console in hand. She had no roles filming right now, no fashion shows, just free time—a rare commodity in her chaotic schedule.

“You’re actually letting me do this?” Beckett asked, voice muffled by his mask, eyes wide behind his glasses.

Terry smirked, tugging a strand of her hair behind her ear. “You think I’d miss a chance to finally see if the mysterious stay-at-home prince of his misstress who is currently preoccupeid with the void realm of towering homework stacks can handle a co-op JRPG?”

Beckett flushed slightly under the mask, adjusting the controller in his hands. “I… I’m not exactly a pro this was just a recommendation Malcolm gave me not too long ago.”

“You?” Terry laughed softly, a melodic sound that made Beckett’s heart skip. “Please. You’re the one who can spend hours in darkness, analyzing every spell, every character stat, every tiny detail. You’re a natural strategist.”

He shrugged modestly, and she nudged him with her elbow. “Come on, Beckster. Let’s see if we can climb that mountain and take down the Cyclops of Doom.”

The game loaded. Their characters appeared at the base of a sprawling, jagged mountain, the clouds rolling dark and ominous. At the summit, a grotesque, bloated cyclops loomed in the cutscene: pale gray skin, twisted horns, and a surprisingly ugly resemblance to Peter Steele. Terry smirked at the resemblance. “I… I didn’t know the game designers were goth fans.”

“Clearly,” Beckett murmured, adjusting his gloves. “But I have a strategy. You follow my lead and stick close.”

Hours melted away. They navigated treacherous cliffs, scaled crumbling ledges, and evaded hordes of lesser monsters. Terry’s nimble fingers danced across her controller with precision; Beckett’s tactical commands kept them alive through narrow escapes. Every misstep prompted quiet laughter or groans from both of them, the cozy gothic manor alive with the muted glow of the TV and the rhythmic tapping of controllers.

Finally, they reached the summit. The Cyclops roared, swinging its massive club, eyes narrowed and dripping slime. Beckett ducked behind a rock, whispering instructions, and Terry executed a flawless combo attack. Their coordinated moves brought the beast down slowly, painfully… until, with one final synchronized strike, the Cyclops fell to the ground with a tremendous thud.

They both leaned back in their seats, hearts racing, breathing shallow. Then, almost instinctively, they threw their hands up for a high-five.

“High-five!” Terry said, grinning, eyes sparkling. Beckett smirked behind his mask and joined her, palms slapping together with satisfying force.

Terry leaned in, laughing softly, and hugged him playfully. Beckett froze for a second—then relaxed, wrapping his gloved arms around her in return. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“I guess you’re not entirely hopeless at this huh baby bro,” she whispered.

Beckett’s heart hammered in his chest, but he let out a soft, quiet laugh behind his mask. “I… I just follow directions well.”

“Oh, Beckett,” she murmured, pulling back just slightly, “directions are one thing—but execution… execution is an art.” She pressed tiny kisses along his cheek and jawline, playful and light, leaving faint lipstick marks. Beckett’s ears reddened behind his mask, but he didn’t move away. He let her mark him, letting himself feel the warmth of her affection and the thrill of victory.

“Mission accomplished,” Terry said softly, finally letting go and leaning back on the couch. “Cyclops defeated. Heroes victorious. And Beckett here…” She tapped his masked cheek with a finger, grinning, “…is officially the best co-op partner I’ve ever had.”

Beckett’s shoulders relaxed, gloved hands resting over hers in quiet contentment. “I… I could get used to this,” he murmured.

Terry laughed softly again, standing to stretch. “Well, my dear Beckett, I suppose this is what happens when you let a ladykiller handle the tough battles—and the softer ones.”

He quirked an eyebrow behind his mask. “Ladykiller?”

She smirked, hands on her hips, dark eyes glinting with humor. “Exactly. And don’t you forget it. Now go rinse that mask—you’ve got lipstick war paint all over.”

Beckett groaned softly, following her instructions, but his heart was light. Outside, the rain had stopped entirely, leaving the gothic manor wrapped in mist and shadow, a perfect cocoon for two introverted, slightly morbid, perfectly content souls.

Victory was sweet. Kiss marks were sweeter. And, in that quiet afternoon, with the twins plotting their next prank upstairs and the manor hushed around them, the world felt exactly as it should: gothic, cozy, and utterly, completely perfect.

sidestory a mobster goes to beckett for advice

The manor was quiet, bathed in the dim amber glow of antique lamps that cast long, exaggerated shadows along the vaulted walls. Outside, rain had returned in a soft drizzle, tapping rhythmically against the tall gothic windows. Most of the household was asleep—or at least pretending to be. The twins were upstairs plotting their latest tiny prank, their whispers occasionally reaching Beckett’s ears. Diana had long since retired to her private corner with a book and a herbal tea, leaving the living room unusually empty… except for him and Damien.

Damien leaned against the doorway in his usual casual, too-cool posture, sleeves rolled up, dark eyes glinting. He sipped from a glass of something that smelled faintly like whiskey, though the label was long gone. Beckett, seated on the oversized velvet couch with a mug of barely-steamed herbal tea in his gloved hands, was perched like a careful statue, surgical mask still on, trench coat swapped for a soft black hoodie.

“You ever feel… trapped by expectations?” Damien asked suddenly, voice low, thoughtful. Not a joke, not a boast—just raw honesty, unusual from the mobster. He tilted his head, looking at Beckett like he expected him to know the answer.

Beckett blinked, adjusting his glasses. “Expectations? All the time. People assume you’re something you’re not, or worse, want you to be someone else entirely. It… it can be exhausting.”

Damien’s lips curved into a small, approving smirk. “Exactly. Take my world, for instance. Everyone thinks it’s all power, money, respect. But behind the doors? Endless headaches, loyalties that can turn on you in a heartbeat… it’s exhausting. You can’t let anyone see weakness—or they’ll exploit it.”

Beckett nodded slowly, fingers tightening slightly around his mug. “Much like social… mismanagement, in other areas of life. People—ignorance, stupidity—they can ruin things simply by existing case in point being when i used to worked in the library before it was runned down by management to the point the entire branch had to close down.” His voice was quiet, but the subtle venom of truth made Damien chuckle.

“You get it,” Damien said, tapping his glass against the side table. “I mean, look at you. Calm, calculating, genius-level strategy hiding under a trench coat and mask. You’re a master of patience… and yet, somehow, you’re still alive in this realm we call a family.”

Beckett’s lips quirked under the mask, a faint blush rising in his cheeks. “I… have a very good teacher who i still see to this day and even share a bed with and have children with.”

Damien’s dark eyes flicked up, sharp but amused. “I imagine them must be a haughty, elegant lady with a tendency to—” He smirked knowingly. “—punish you when you misbehave.”

Beckett’s ears flushed hotter, but he didn’t move. “Mistress,” he murmured softly, voice muffled.

“Exactly,” Damien said with a low laugh, swirling the contents of his glass. “Some things are worth more than power or money. Like peace. Like knowing someone’s got your back. Like… understanding the world in your own way and not letting the idiots break you.”

Beckett nodded. “It’s… nice to have someone to discuss… strategy with, in that sense.”

Damien leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and suddenly his expression softened. “You know, Prince,” he said quietly, using the nickname Beckett had once jokingly given himself in their family circle, “I envy the way you manage to keep your world intact, despite the chaos. You’re… precise. Patient. Methodical. And it’s kind of admirable.”

Beckett, ever shy, merely adjusted his mask and nodded. “You… you manage your world too, in a different way.”

Damien’s grin widened, one of those rare, genuine ones that softened the rough edges of his mobster persona. “Point taken. But you know what? I think you’ve earned a little… acknowledgment for all your effort.”

He extended a fist toward Beckett. A simple gesture. A silent, uncomplicated acknowledgment that somehow spoke more than words.

Beckett blinked, then carefully reciprocated, the gloves squeaking slightly against Damien’s knuckles. “Acknowledged,” he murmured softly, a tiny smile visible even through the mask.

Damien chuckled, leaning back, satisfied. “And look at that, Prince. You even adapted to the herbal cigarette. Clever little workaround with the hypertension thing.”

Beckett exhaled gently, holding the thin stick of smoke in his gloved fingers, letting the sweet aroma of herbal tobacco curl into the dim room. “It’s… manageable i keep Diana sane and she keeps me from falling off the deep end.”

Damien raised his own imaginary cigar, a mock salute, and Beckett mirrored it, both men sharing the quiet triumph of an understanding reached in shadows, under gothic arches, in the sanctuary of a late-night calm that only two kindred misfits could appreciate.

Outside, the rain continued its gentle percussion. Inside, a moment of rare peace lingered in the air—chaos temporarily held at bay by the quiet bond of polar opposites, each one secretly admiring the other’s approach to life.

And for once, the world outside the manor could wait.