Title: Organic Fishcakes For Dinner
Author: aldiara
Fandom/Characters: Alles Was Zählt, Celine/Bernd-the-gentle-mobster
Word Count: 500 words
Warnings: This fic contains Celine and tomato fertiliser.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: Far from Essen’s daily dramarama, Celine discovers the joys of a simpler life.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of this, OMG THANK FUCK.
A/N: Written for the Celine Laffort NDFUG Fic Challenge, which is to say I REFUSE TO ACCEPT ANY BLAME. Thanks to lilithilien for beta-ing! Your organic brain bleach is in the mail.

Organic Fishcakes For Dinner

The first time Celine sets eyes on Casa Piccionaia, she knows she’s come home. The commune is nestled into a small valley not too far from the fishing centre of Mazzara; a number of low-roofed stone buildings circle a dirt-packed courtyard, surrounded by rambling gardens and neat vegetable beds. It smells of citrus trees and homemade bread.

The others come out to greet her warmly, exclaiming over the state of her poor feet in her Jimmy Choo stilettos. Bernd introduces her as his life partner, one hand proudly on the swell of her belly. Later he presents her with a box that contains Birkenstocks and a soft, homespun dress that has plenty of room for the little one. Celine has never felt so comfortable. She shakes out her hair, puts away her toiletries bag, and doesn’t even bother with make-up.

She knows it was a crazy decision, but every morning when she wakes up in Bernd’s strong, hairy arms, she knows it was the right one. Sometimes she still marvels at how quickly her life changed. One minute she was alone at No. 7 and a tall dark stranger burst in, demanding protection money and threatening to return tomorrow; the next, she was crying in his arms, babbling at him about her horrible daughter, the misunderstandings with Richard and the baby nobody knows about. She remembers Bernd gently wiping off her tears and giving her a foot rub as he apologised for scaring her. No other man had ever shown her such tenderness.

Three days later, they were on a train south to Sicily, Bernd with a briefcase full of money and Celine with her small suitcase and her recipe books stuffed into her purse.

At Casa Piccionaia, far from the callous streets of Essen and its ever-turning drama carousel, Celine finds peace. She gets up at 6 a.m. to feed the chickens and help Bernd with the tomato fertiliser before he rides his ancient moped into town to blackmail officials and go to the fish market. Celine and the other women tend to the gardens and squash grapes the old-fashioned way, jumping around barefoot in large buckets full of ripe grapes, laughing and joking. She doesn’t speak their language, but that’s okay. They understand each other anyway. There’s olive bread for lunch and organic fishcakes for dinner.

Every once in a while, someone visits the commune and stays for a few days or longer; often, these are people Bernd has previously threatened or helped. He’s a good man, Bernd. He calls Celine his fertility goddess and understands why she doesn’t want sex past the sixth month. He croons in Italian when she uses her mouth on him instead, and smiles gratefully when Celine carefully spits the sperm into the little bottle she keeps handy. It’s good for the tomatoes.

Life is good, and on a shelf in the bathroom, Celine’s mascara dusts away. All the tears she cries these days are tears of joy.