"Zacharias."

"Hmm?" He was reclined against the cushions, his elbow slung casually over the back of the sofa and shirt unbuttoned halfway to allow the breeze from the open windows to reach his chest. His expression was lazy, the look of a man ten minutes away from a relaxing afternoon nap. Constantine lay between his feet, gnawing on a ragged old shoe his master had convinced her to part with a few weeks ago.

"Did you ever…" she cleared her throat, her cheeks burning at the thought of what she was about to ask. "Imagine us… together? Before we were, I mean." To be fair, she meant before the professor and Mr. Wright had visited them all, but it was hard enough to even ask the bare minimum. She stared down at her lap, feeling his gaze and too embarrassed to meet it.

"Of course," he admitted, and she felt a fresh wave of heat rush to her face before he added, "If I had not, I would have never have asked you to dinner four years ago." She fidgeted on the sofa, trying to think of a way to rephrase what she really meant to say without having to use any risqué wording.

"That's not what I meant," she finally mumbled, hoping that he could hear her. "I meant… when I was the High Inquisitor, and you were—erm—Sir Barnham, did you ever…." She laced her fingers in her lap and squeezed tightly. "Fantasize?" she blurted, knowing that the muggy spring afternoon was not what was causing her to sweat. That darn Lettie Mailer; it was her fault the idea even came up into her mind, talking on about what she used to imagine happening between her and Greyearl…. "About—well, about Darklaw—well, I suppose about me." There was a long pause, and she memorized the pattern of her skirt while she waited, unable to look at anything else.

"Did you?" Shock caused her to turn her head quickly; he was staring intently at her, all traces of tiredness gone from his face. She couldn't read past the neutral expression, and it unnerved her. He normally didn't bother to hide what he was thinking, leaving those indiscernible frowns back in the past where they belonged.

"I—" She pushed a strand of hair back behind her ear, a flood of remembered scenarios coming back to the forefront of her mind and turning her humiliation at the question into humiliation of the answer. "Perhaps once or twice," she admitted quietly, telling only part of the truth. It had been far more than a mere handful of times, though back then she had easily been able to push them aside and focus solely on work. They had been the product of pent-up exasperation and lust; she truly hadn't known him well enough to want a real connection. He had just been her coworker; he did the layman's job, she studied high profile cases, they crossed swords at times and then went their separate ways.

"Really?" Why on earth did he sound incredulous? She spared him another quick glance before turning away, a hand brushing over her eyes as though she could make the rosy hue on her cheeks leave by magic. "What were they like?"

"Why do you want to hear them!?" she protested, pulling her hair into a low ponytail and flipping it over her shoulder so that her neck could get some air. "I wasn't going to ask you that!"

"I'm curious." He paused again. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to." She struggled against her own embarrassment; she knew he wouldn't ever laugh at her, and would probably even enjoy hearing what she used to think about him. But the thought of her openly voicing what she used to imagine him doing, the things she imagined saying to him…the way she wanted him to touch her… She wasn't anywhere near as open as that loudmouthed mail courier! She didn't even dare tell him those sorts of things when they were in bed together! As the silence grew, he chuckled.

"Are they lewd?" he asked with a smirk. "You've heard how they talk at the tavern… is it worse than that?"

Yes.

"No, of course not." His smirk grew wider.

"Somehow, I don't quite believe you." He shifted closer. "Tell me, what did the cool, calm High Inquisitor used to think of the hotheaded Inquisitor Barnham?" Even closer, until he was right next to her on the sofa, his expression smug. "What did I do to you in your dreams, Eve?"

"I knew you'd get like this," she scoffed, turning away. "Incorrigible." He placed a hand on her thigh, finger tracing the floral vines until her skirt was shifted above her knees.

"'Tis true, I admit it." He watched her closely, leaning in towards her ear as he spoke. "I dreamed of you more often than I would have liked to, at the time." Another soft laugh. "Now, I find that I don't mind as much." When she didn't respond, he continued. "To be fair, you're more beautiful in real life than I ever imagined you to be." His hand reached her knee and she shivered when his finger continued the pattern there.

"I-interrogation." The word passed her lips before she could call it back.

"Hmm?" Mortification swept over her like a wave, but she managed to choke out the rest.

"That was one of them. Interrogation. In the dungeons." She felt like covering her face with her hands, but somehow managed to keep them at her sides. "One of the townspeople would see me, and… accuse me of witchcraft. And then you'd interrogate me one-on-one, but… well…." She swallowed hard, pushing past a lump in her throat.

He was quiet, and she wondered what he was thinking. Surely he was remembering how that had played out in real life, when she coldly had him thrown in the dungeon and then nearly forgot about him until everything was said and done. Of all the scenarios she had to choose, why did she tell him about the one that might bring up bad feelings!? Stupid, stupid Eve, for even mentioning the topic in the first place. You could have just asked Rouge if he ever spoke about you and she'd have told you everything you needed to know!

"That… I thought about that too." She frowned as she raised her head, searching his face for some trace of mockery or falsehood. But he was as serious as she, perhaps even more so. He looked shocked, bewildered even, and under her hard stare he began to turn red as well. "Though… um… 'Twas not quite the same, I suppose. You were the one interrogating me, whenever I thought about it."

"What were you even in the dungeons for?" She couldn't help but laugh a little at the thought of someone turning him in; him, the town celebrity, in the dungeons for an infraction of the law! Who wouldn't turn a blind eye to anything he did? To her relief he laughed too, his hand leaving her knee and going around her shoulders instead, resting on the back of the sofa.

"It varied," he replied. "Sometimes it was public brawling, sometimes I was suspected of harboring a witch and helping her to safety, sometimes it was just that you were angry and jailed me on a false charge." She frowned, but he only shrugged. "There were times that I didn't have the best impression of you, even if I was thinking about…"

"About what? What did the hotheaded Inquisitor Barnham used to think of the cool, calm High Inquisitor?" she asked, throwing his own words back at him with a smirk of her own. She expected him to deflect the question, or perhaps ignore it entirely, but to her astonishment he began to speak.

"You'd interrogate me, of course." He stared down at his feet, but didn't stop talking. "And I'd never tell the truth, only because I was so angry that you'd even consider me an aide to witches, or a drunken brawler, or whatever it was I was accused of. I'd always say that you couldn't make me talk, and that I could withstand any torture you'd throw at me."

"Brave man," she teased as she relaxed against him, pressing her body up against his side as she curled her legs up onto the cushion. It was warm and he had been sweating earlier, but she didn't mind the dampness of his shirt against her arm. His arm fell from the back cushions to her shoulders, his hand finding her hair and winding it around his fingers absently.

"You would just laugh at me, and then say that you didn't plan on torturing me. You'd say "I already know exactly how to make you talk, Sir Barnham," and then you'd come up close and…" he faltered with a cough.

"I would what?" He grinned sheepishly at her.

"D-do you really want me to say?" he asked uncertainly. Did she? Her original question had long been answered; he obviously had had very graphic fantasies about her. But she was curious, too. Even as much as she hated the thought of herself recounting an imaginary scenario, she wanted to hear him say it aloud. She needed to hear him say it. But she couldn't tell him that.

"You can't stop the story halfway through," she answered instead. "Finish it out." He squirmed uncomfortably, but obediently sighed and began again.

"'Tis a little shameful, but… well, I was always chained to the wall, even though you know we only did that to prisoners who wouldn't keep quiet. And you'd come up and—"

"And?" He was as red as his hair at this point.

"You would lean over me and continue questioning, but you'd… erm, you'd… be close enough that I could smell your perfume, and the ink from the Story; you always smelled like the Story, and I couldn't figure out why." He laughed nervously, running his free hand over his face before speaking in a rush. "But it didn't matter, because I liked it and hated myself for liking it, and then you'd give me that smile you gave all the prisoners, the one that let them know who was in charge." She tried to recreate it, and to her surprise he gulped, eyes watching her hungrily. Did it really still affect him that much, even now?

"I'd say something like "You don't frighten me," and you'd just keep smiling, and you'd run the talons of that claw down the side of my face, over my scar and for a minute, I'd always wonder if you might try to cut me with them, but you would only barely touch me." He shifted again, and she pressed herself closer. "Then your other hand… you would reach down and I'd just… close my eyes and imagine that my hand was yours and then I… you know."

"I know?" she repeated, feeling as though the breath were gone from her lungs. The scene was vivid in her mind, her body tensed as she traced the familiar lines of his face with her gauntlet, pressing down just enough so that he could feel the metal biting into his skin. She met his gaze and they both trembled as something both dark and intimate passed between them like an electric current.

"I used to hate myself for wanting you like that," he confessed in a hoarse whisper. "For imagining those things."

"You shouldn't have," she whispered back, somehow clinging to him without having her arms around him. His gaze fell to her lips and he let out a shaky breath.

"Even then, I used to wonder," he murmured, leaning in slowly. "What it would be like… what it would feel like to kiss you…" His mouth was warm and insistent, coaxing a soft moan from her as his hand left her hair and crushed her to him. "You always said… you'd kiss me if I confessed…I was tempted…"

"You wouldn't?" She smoothed back his wild hair, resting her forehead against his and relishing the feeling of being in his arms. Every time he held her like this, as if he needed her, as if he would die without her—it was these moments where she felt alive, when she praised the whole convoluted project that brought him to her. He barely shook his head, their breaths mingling as he allowed time for their racing hearts to slow.

"'Tis dishonorable to lie, even for a kiss." She tilted her head to kiss him again, but he stalled her with one hand on her cheek. "Your turn."

"What?"

"I told you, now I want to hear what yours was." He picked her up easily and rested her on his lap, his hand caressing the small of her back beneath her blouse. She shifted tentatively and he muffled a growl, fingers digging into her back as he sought to still her. "You're not distracting me from this."

"I wasn't trying to," she retorted, feeling his arousal pressed against her inner thigh and swallowing quickly. She shifted again, this time teasingly, and was rewarded with a sharp inhale. "Mine's… not that different from yours," she said quietly, feeling the embarrassment return as she tried to gather sufficient words.

"Tell me anyway."

"I'm usually on the bench, or in a chair, and you're walking around. You're… angry that you even have to interrogate me," she recalled, her eyes closed as she rocked gently. His breath quickened and she felt the bottom drop out of her stomach as desire curled within her. "You keep insisting for me to admit that I didn't do it, that I wouldn't do it, because you're absolutely certain that I'm not a witch. But you won't listen to me, or even give me time to get a word in edgewise, and I'm getting as angry as you are until we're both shouting over each other."

"Sounds about right." His voice was strained, hands steadying her hips and forcing her to keep a slow, teasing pace. "Sounds like us."

"If I'm in the chair, I end up on my feet and…" She bit her lip as he ground himself against her. "Do you want me to tell it or not?" she half-complained. He yanked her closer and buried his face in her neck, mumbling an apology. "If I'm standing, you push me up against the wall and if I'm on the bench, you… oh… you crowd me in and—I don't know—kneel, I suppose, but you're right up against me either way, and then somehow you're not wearing your armor anymore and—" She tried to twist and straddle him properly, only to have him force her back. "Zacharias!"

"Finish it first," he demanded, fighting to keep control of his movements.

"Ugh!" He glared up at her and she shook her hair back, scowling back at him.

"We end up like this, only you're whispering in my ear and it's—"

"Whispering?" Bad move, she thought with a wince. He wasn't distracted enough to keep from asking questions. She reached through his open shirt to caress his chest, but he put his hand over hers. "What do I say?"

"V-various things." She looked over his head, pressing her lips together. "I-I can't remember." She tried to straddle him again and he allowed it, only to shift their positions until she was halfway beneath him, her hand caught between their chests as he leaned in and nipped at her earlobe. "Z-Za—"

"Do I tell you how good you look, dressed in your Inquisitor outfit?" His breath was hot on her ear, his tone low and husky. "Dressed in anything?" he amended, tugging at the shoulder of her blouse to expose her collarbone. "Or do I talk about how long I've waited to do this to you, how I've thought about having you up against me like this, how no one will hear us down in the cells…." He pushed forward, renewing their heated rhythm.

"Zach—"

"Eve, I want you." There was a hint of desperation in his voice.

"Well?" She pressed a kiss to his cheek, panting lightly. "Now that I know… do you want me to get the gauntlet?"

"Don't you dare move from this spot." Not that she needed telling, with her body aching for release and his arms wrapped protectively around her. She met his thrusts with a growing franticness, secretly happy she'd chosen a skirt today. Not that she'd imagined this happening, but she wasn't complaining, either. "Oh, Eve," he hissed, voice breaking with effort. "I love you."

"I love you too," she murmured back, chest tightening almost painfully. "Why don't you take off your—I mean—" He shook his head, driving up against her from beneath. She felt the heat uncoil in her stomach and tensed, unable to bite back the soft cries that he always managed to pull from her. "Please," she gasped, pressing down harder as her legs began to shake. "Zacharias— Zach, please—"

"Just a little longer," he groaned, one hand slipping down to grip her thigh. "Wait a little longer, love, just—"

"I-I can't—" The heat exploded into overwhelming pleasure and she stiffened, trembling as his name fell again from her lips. The world tilted and she looked blearily at the ceiling, feeling the cushions against her back before drawing him down on top of her and kissing him passionately. She raked her nails through his hair as the pleasure abated, feeling him tense and let out a low hiss as he came.

When he opened his eyes, he grinned at the sight of her and then lowered himself, resting on top of her while taking care not to use his full weight. Constantine took the opening to scramble and claw his way up on top of his master's back, walking the length and licking Eve's fingers with a warm tongue before sniffing at his shirt.

"I could stay like this forever," he said, his head against her heart. She looked at his feet, dangling at an odd angle off the opposite end, and wondered if he was truly comfortable. She scratched his scalp gently, watching the lazy expression drift back onto his face and feeling like she could use a nap herself.

"Better than your dreams?" she teased, moving her hair out of her face. They'd both probably regret falling asleep, when they woke up sweaty and hot from the humid evening and he had to walk back to the bakery with stained pants. But right now, she agreed with him that there was no place she'd rather be.

"Much better. Most assuredly."

Afterword: Where did this come from? Don't ask me. Just enjoy your sin, you heathens.