Author's Note: In game, Maya points out in the Shade village that these are primitive primitive huts, because the majority of Labyrinthians don't have running water as it is. And she says at the Square that she used to go with Phoenix to get water from that fountain for the bakery.
Why on earth the Storyteller would build his utopian world… without running water… let's just chalk it up to the fact that no one in Professor Layton or Ace Attorney games ever has to use the bathroom. Therefore, the more modern conveniences of the Great Witch House are still new to poor Sir Barnham.
"You're wearing that? On a date?" Zacharias Barnham let out a low breath, clenching his jaw in an effort to reign in a snappy comeback. After a moment's pause, he felt that he was able to properly reply without sounding as exasperated as he felt.
"I've told you before, Espella. 'Tis no date." He continued to lace up his other boot, his feet protesting to the unfamiliar tightness of the footwear. These were old boots, the soles thinned with overuse and the laces lumped with knots where he had to reattach them after breaking. Along with faded jeans and a too-tight gray shirt with a hole just above his left ribs, only a hard hat was needed to create the image of a blue collar construction worker. As if I'd wear such tattered garments on an outing, he huffed to himself as he yanked the laces tighter.
"But I could have sworn you were going to Eve's house," Espella replied nosily, stirring a bubbling pot of milk with a ceaseless hand. She switched arms mid-stir as she watched him fight with the boot, her keen eyes watching his face for some hint of a reaction. Had his plans changed between yesterday and today?
"I am," he answered, finally able to get the laces up around the eyes of the boot and tie them firmly. "Eve has requested my assistance in repainting her study. 'Tis never a good idea to wear your best clothes to paint in." He adjusted the cuff of the jeans around the boot before straightening in the chair. "Old clothes are best suited for such a messy job."
"Hmm." She eyed the muscles bulging beneath the tight shirt and the low hang of the jeans on his hips. "If you say so," she dismissed lightly, turning her attention back to the pot. "Let's hope Eve isn't so distracted that she spills paint on you both."
"You think she would be distracted?" He looked down at his clothing in surprise. "Are they truly so hideous? They were slated to be thrown out, I suppose."
"I wouldn't say hideous," Espella muttered, shaking her head. He really was dense sometimes. "More the opposite." Realization dawned on his features and he looked down again before chuckling.
"Well, I am her boyfriend," he pointed out happily. "If she cannot keep her eyes away from me, I'm not the one to consider that a problem." With a spring in his step, he rose from his chair and left the bakery, waving a goodbye to Mrs. Eclaire as he passed her returning from the early morning market.
"Aren't you going to stay and work?" she guessed jokingly, as though he hadn't asked permission to skip a day of baking to help Eve with her task.
"I will be working," he assured her. "Only not here." She laughed.
"Well, make sure you clean up well before coming back. I don't want paint all over the bakery!" she advised before ducking through the open door and kicking it shut behind her.
The morning was bright and sunny; the long walk to Eve's home near the lake would be a pleasant one. He found himself humming a merry tune, swinging his arms in time as he maneuvered the winding streets through town. People called out greetings as he walked by, but he waved and continued on instead of stopping to chat as he normally might. He was expected somewhere; it wouldn't do to make her wait by exchanging pleasantries with an entire town.
The wall loomed ever-closer and soon he was passing through it, nodding at the first watch of knights that stood at the gate. The forest beyond the wall was quiet, birds chattering in the trees overhead as the last bit of dawn fog dissipated in the sunlight trickling down between the leaves. The Shade village, which had over the years become more of an outpost for those not wishing to live in the hustle and bustle of the main town, was also partaking in the morning stillness. Those that moved around outdoors were speaking quietly to one another or performing solo chores, the sharp snap of an axe slicing wood or loud smack of a dustbeater against a rug cutting through the air.
He took in deep breaths of air as he walked; he was always happier when he was out here. The air was fresher than in town, where the smells of humans and animals muddled together with waste and other less-than-savory aromas. Out here, there was nothing but the smell of nature: moldering forest floor, wild berries and honeysuckle, tepid puddles, loamy soil and the green scent of leaves. And, as always, the distinct fragrance of the crimson Eldwitch flowers that grew in such abundance all over the fields, their petals floating through the spring air like snow, their heads bent with summer heat, floundering and dying in autumn only to appear once more with the close of winter. He enjoyed their scent the best, only because it reminded him of Eve; the aroma of the ink made from them had always floated around her like a perfume, even after they stopped penning the Story.
Strolling casually down the path, he emerged from the woods and blinked rapidly at the change of light. The fields were still, no breeze moving the clumps of flowers or the tall wheatgrass. Katydids and locusts leaped from stalk to stalk, playing their songs for an imagined audience. Bumblebees buzzed lazily over the flowers, their fat bodies causing the thin necks to bend and sway with both takeoff and landing. The lake waters were still, a few geese paddling along as if gliding upon a mirror. He paused to watch them, the tiny ripples from their movements the only disturbance. Then, a fish came from the depths after a pondskater, the plop of its tail sounding loud in the absence of other noise.
He stopped only once more at the stable before Eve's house, which still held her two horses. Before they'd been used to carry the cart on the hidden path from the Courthouse to the Shade village, but after the town's secrets had been revealed she was loath to part with them. They were both fine creatures, gentle as lambs thanks to her devoted care of them. She'd refused to let them be stabled with the other horses in the garrison, stating that she preferred to care for them herself.
At first they'd been wary of him, as they would be with any stranger, but he'd won them over with sugar and gentle words and now they eagerly strained themselves as he approached, reaching their heads over the gates and gently nosing the other out of the way in an effort to get the first touch. He petted them both at the same time, talking softly to them and laughing as they snuffed at his clothing and hair. The male nibbled at his side, searching for a treat, while the female rubbed her nose against his hand tenderly.
"We haven't even started and already you're slacking off," a voice teased behind him. Grinning at the light tone, he turned and immediately felt an all too familiar jolt of astonishment. It seemed like every time he saw her, she managed to take his breath away with how beautiful she was. He really ought to have been used to it by now; she had been doing that long before he'd garnered the courage to ask her out almost a year ago. But it seemed that his brain just couldn't grasp how strikingly lovely she was; however, it was 110% certain that he had never done anything worthy enough to deserve someone like her, and enjoyed reminding him of it often.
She was dressed in clothes that he'd never seen before, obviously castaways like his own. It'd seemed she'd taken warmer weather into mind as well; as the light brown pants were not only tighter than her usual clothing, but also cut off at the knee. She wore a dark green tank top, thinning at the straps and short enough that when she moved he could see glimpses of her stomach and hips. By the freer curve of her breasts, he could tell that the tank top was all she wore; he offered a quick prayer of thanks to his lucky stars for the image, along with a supplication that he might get through the day without embarrassing himself. Her hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, strands falling out to frame her face and call attention to her eyes, which sparkled with energy. He was used to seeing the expression whenever they worked on a challenging project for the town, but that didn't mean it was an unwelcome sight here.
"Who, me?" he replied with false shock. "A man of knightly honor is never a work shirker. I believe you to be mistaken, milady." She walked up to him and he bent over to kiss her.
"Well, you'll just have to work extra hard to prove yourself, won't you?" She evaded his embrace, gracing him instead with a look he knew all too well. Behave yourself. "Come on, we have to start before the sun gets any higher. The paint won't do well if the humidity is too high, and I want to get everything finished today." Swallowing his huff of disappointment, he obediently followed her up the trodden dirt path to her front door. He'd get his kiss sometime before the day was over; she never could resist him for long, thank heavens.
The furniture had all been moved out into the hallway, and he was surprised to see how spacious her personal study actually was. The few times he'd stepped into it, the room always seemed cramped with paperwork covering every surface and boxes stacked higher than he was. But now he could see that this room was probably one of the largest in her home. The walls, which were a pale off-white, were sorely in need of repainting. They had been scuffed and dinged until there were more marks than there was paint. The floor was fine, but it was currently covered in old sheets so that no spilled paint would stain the wood. In the center of the room, two cans of creamy beige were already mixed and ready to be poured.
"I'll get near the ceiling, if you take the part near the floor," he offered. "We can meet in the center."
"Sounds fair enough," she agreed, handing him both a roller and a smaller paintbrush. "Try not to get any on the ceiling," she reminded as she separated the pans and poured an even amount of color into each one. He took his and started on the south wall, which would be the hardest since it was the wall with a window. She had already taped the junction of the wall and ceiling, but he still kept as still as possible as he carefully began to paint from corner to corner with small, even strokes of the paintbrush. He heard the rhythmic sound of her roller as she worked on the northern wall, and they fell into companionable silence as they focused on their task.
By the time he reached the opposite corner, his arm and shoulder were beginning to protest for being held aloft for so long. His neck was beginning to ache from craning his head as well. He pushed aside the discomfort, happily looking over his work. He hadn't wasted a single drop of paint on the ceiling. Rubbing an itch on his face with his shoulder, he felt a wet smear and looked down to see that he had wasted some on his shirt. Shrugging, he pulled up his collar and wiped the paint off his jaw the best he could. That's why he wore these old clothes, after all. It would do no good to get upset over staining them.
He took the roller with his left arm and began to make long, even strokes as he moved back towards his starting point, taking care to keep the head well away from the ceiling. It was easy if he followed the guidelines of his paintbrush strokes, and he finished much faster since he didn't have to worry about his strokes reaching the floor. Then, without pause, he began on the next wall with his paintbrush; his right arm was rested enough by now that it didn't bother him as much.
When he was halfway finished with the second wall, he looked over to see how Eve was progressing with hers. She was nearly finished with her first wall, on her hands and knees as she methodically filled in the gaps left by her roller with her paintbrush. It was harder for her; she might not have to stand on her tiptoes to reach the ceiling, but while his paint could drip down and be covered up by the roller, her paint had nowhere to go but the floor. She couldn't afford to let too much of a thick glob slide down and ruin the look. It was good, he thought, that she agreed to do it. She was far more patient than he was, and while the job would have grated on his nerves, she seemed perfectly at ease to move just a few inches at a time while she worked.
A blotch of paint plopped onto his forehead, the beige running down the side of his nose and tickling his skin. He realized he'd been standing in the same position as he watched her, and now the paint had time to go not only down his brush, but also onto his arm and face. He wrinkled his nose, trying to stop the flow of the paint as he hurriedly wiped his arm and hand on the front of the jeans before further ruining the shirt collar. He was sure he had streaks of paint all over his face now. He'd have to bathe again when he returned to the bakery.
"Oh!" He had already started again with his brush, but he turned around to see what the matter was and found Eve frozen on her knees with wide eyes. She'd unthinkingly brushed her hair back behind one ear, and he saw a beige line run from her cheek to her hair, caused by her fingers. She gingerly moved her hand and looked at the paint-stained digits with a wince before trying (unsuccessfully) to rub the paint from her hair onto her shoulder.
"Here," he offered, placing his paintbrush on the edge of his tray before walking over and bending down. He pulled up the hem of his shirt, exposing his stomach as he gently took her hair and rubbed the paint off as best he could. Some still remained, but instead of drying it would most likely come off when she bathed. She remained perfectly still, and then offered him a smile when he was finished.
"Thank you," she said, her eyes locked on his stomach as he rolled the tight shirt back down to its proper position. She blinked rapidly and looked back up at his face, only to have her eyes widen even further. A wry smile twitched the corner of her lips, but she schooled her expression quickly before she could give in and laugh. "Zacharias, are you painting the wall or yourself?" He wondered if he looked that bad, but dipped a finger into her tray and added another line from the scar on his brow to his neck. Since he was already dirty, he might as well go all the way.
"Can I not paint both?" The same finger tapped her nose, leaving a perfect beige circle. "I'll paint you as well, if you like." The moment the words left his mouth, he had an image of stripping her of all her clothing and running his fingers down her every limb, painting a masterpiece on the perfect canvas. The thought nearly made him choke and he cleared his throat, trying to keep a blush from spreading across his cheeks. She didn't seem to notice his lapse in proper—pure—thinking, instead frowning as she rubbed her nose and accidentally smeared the paint across it.
"I'd rather you paint the wall," she declared, picking up her own brush again. "I don't know how well this will wash off. I've never tried this kind of paint before." He stood and returned to finish his wall. Washing off or not, he thought as he began to carefully brush the top of the wall, it feels nice. The paint was cool against his skin, reminding him that the room was growing warmer as the day went on. Eve had fans downstairs to stir the air, left over from the Shade's ink workshops, but upstairs there was no such luxury. The heat rose, and the more he worked the more sweat mingled with the paint on his skin, dripping down the back of his neck and making his hair stick to his head.
He continued to work steadily, used to having to perform through discomfort. His life at the garrison had never been easy, all the knights' training built around endurance and strength rather than looking and feeling good. Even at the bakery, he sweated over an open flame most of the day, breathing in flour dust. And before, long before, to the days he remembered only after the bell tower began ringing again and the Story was a thing of the past: his life before Labyrinthia had been odd jobs that made just enough money to keep him of the streets, slaving on construction sites or digging ditches for twelve hours a day, six days a week. He could handle a little paint; it was a trifle, harmless work that was more a chore than actual labor.
Still, he thought, aware of the shirt clinging to his back, throat growing dry as his shoulder blades ached from holding the paintbrush aloft. Still, no one enjoys these types of jobs. If it were anyone other than Eve—Espella and Patty too, I suppose—if it were anyone else than those three, I wouldn't volunteer. He glanced over his shoulder at Eve, who was halfway through rolling the last wall. Her skin was glistening with sweat as well, kneecaps red from kneeling for so long on the wood. She worked silently, with the same determined look on her face that he felt inside. But if it's to help her, I think I'd do almost anything.
They kept working as the hours passed, Eve finishing the last wall and starting on the lower half of his while he took the upper half of hers. By the time he'd rolled the last stroke on her second wall, she was brushing up the last bit of his second. They stood, looking silently at the warmer color of the room. He noticed a few spots that he had overlooked, and some that she had, but she was gathering the brushes, rollers, and trays and putting the lids on the cans.
"Lunch," she announced firmly when he gave her an inquisitive glance. "That will give the paint time to dry. Then we'll put the second coat on and fix up any mistakes we see." She rubbed her cheek against her shoulder to wipe away a bead of sweat trickling from her temple.
"It'll give us time to cool off as well," he pointed out, letting her lead the way and pulling the study door closed so that it wouldn't accidentally bump against the wall if a breeze were to stir it from the open window. When they reached the kitchen, he cut ahead of her and pumped the handle to the faucet until cool water came pouring out of the pipe. He splashed it on his face and neck before shaking his head like Constantine caught in the rain, spraying droplets everywhere. It seemed that water had never felt quite as good as right then.
She rolled her eyes and began to wash the supplies in her hands, making sure to thoroughly remove as much paint as possible so that the rollers and brushes wouldn't stiffen and become unusable. As she worked, he walked into the pantry and began looking around for something to eat. The least he could do was cook for them, since she was taking care of the paint supplies. It wasn't in his nature to wait around idly. He finally settled on omelets stuffed with cheese, green peppers, and onions; the protein and vegetables would give them energy, but the ingredients wouldn't sit heavily on their stomachs in the hot afternoon. He filled his hands with everything he needed before coming back into the kitchen, where Eve was finishing up the last brush.
"You don't need to—" she began, but he shook his head and cut her off.
"I'm going to make lunch," he declared, showing her his idea. She eyed him, but her frown tapered off and she tugged the tank top back down over her stomach, an act which did little to help it from riding up in the next moment. He caught a glimpse of the tantalizingly soft skin there, wishing that he was daring enough to reach out and touch it. It was already bad enough that the pale skin of her upper chest was right there, and now that she wasn't turned to the wall it was difficult to keep his eyes on her face and his mind out of the gutters.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" she offered, bringing him out of his thoughts. He pushed the vegetables towards her; the cutting board was behind him, which meant the omelet had less of a chance to burn with the source of his distractions out of sight.
"Cut these?" he asked, throwing butter in the skillet and searching around for the matches to light a fire. She shook her head and turned a knob on the oven. A little flame immediately sprang to life beneath the skillet with a whoosh and a pop.
"It's gas," she explained, opening the drawer next to the oven and pulling out a knife before gathering the vegetables and heading for the board. He stared at the dancing flame in amusement; even when he lived in modern times, he couldn't remember having gas create a flame for him. How easy it was to just flip a dial, instead of having to light a fire and get it to the heat you desired! The oven he vaguely remembered was just either red-hot or cobalt-cold, and of course the majority of Labyrinthians still ran on wood power. But then, Eve's house always had things a little different due to her knowledge of the modern world. Since she hadn't lived in town as the High Inquisitor, and the only ones that came in contact with her home had been brainwashed Shades, it made it all too easy to have a little convenience where she needed it.
He experimented with the dial while she cut the onions and peppers quickly, watching the flame dance high up the side of the skillet before dwindling away to almost nothing. It amused him to no end, but he eventually had to let it rest while he broke the eggs and whisked them to a consistency that even Mrs. Eclaire would have been impressed with. There are upsides to working at a bakery, he considered as he watched Eve carefully sort the vegetables into piles before bringing the entire cutting board to the oven. Ah, damn. Didn't think of that. He forced himself to stare at the butter in the skillet. He would not burn this repast!
He poured in the eggs and cut thin, nearly translucent slices of cheese that began to melt the moment they touched the hot air over the oven. He noticed her watching his hands carefully, but didn't comment on it; she seemed furtive, and he didn't want to embarrass her by calling her out. Instead, he waited until the egg was bubbling before addressing a spot just above her head, not trusting himself to look down further.
"Here, put them in now." She obeyed, distributing the peppers and onions in equal amounts across both halves of the egg until the entirety of it was coated with some form of vegetable. With a flick of the wrist he flipped the egg easily to the other side and let it cook while Eve poured them water into two glasses and cleared off the dining table. He watched her and the egg simultaneously, his foot tapping an errant rhythm on the tiles as he waited for it to finish cooking.
This is how it would be if we were married. The thought came out of nowhere, and it floored him. He looked again at her, watching her stack books and place them on the counter before brushing dust off the barely used dining table. His mind ran through the scenarios, cooking entire meals together, talking about their day over supper, cleaning the kitchen and doing chores in their spare time—safe, domestic… obtainable.
If I asked her to marry me someday… what would she say? The thought spread through him with a wave of nervousness, and he nearly forgot to push the egg onto a plate, folding as he did so the same way Mrs. Eclaire did. Of course, not at the moment—I have nothing to offer her, no ring, no house, no steady income, he thought as he neatly cut the omelet into two equal pieces and placed the other half neatly on the other plate before carrying them to the table. I'm still only an apprentice baker. We could technically live here, I wouldn't mind. But all the same, I want something to offer her.
"What are you thinking about?" He glanced up to see her watching him intently, her eyes boring into his with the perception only an Inquisitor—or ex-Inquisitor—possessed. It would do no good to lie, she'd see right through any falsehood, and yet… he didn't want to tell her the truth, either. They had only been a couple for one year, and they hadn't done much more than kiss and fool around; they really acted more like teenagers than two grown adults, the more he thought about it. He knew of men, fellow knights, who bragged about sexual exploits with a woman after just one date. Here he was a full year later and had never seen even her half-naked, though he'd touched her more than once.
Now, now, he chided himself as he took a bite of food to stall for time. We said when we started dating her that we'd let her take the reins. Eve was such a shy woman—he thought it the cutest thing in the world, but he hadn't wanted to scare her off by being more forward than he should right out of the starting gates. Even now that he knew her better, and knew that she trusted him—trusted him enough to be dressed without certain undergarments, given the current state of her chest—he still was hesitant to initiate something she might not feel comfortable doing.
"I was just… thinking about how nice it was to be doing this," he finally answered. Not a lie, but not the full truth. She looked confused, and he swallowed before continuing. "Er, that is—cooking together, painting… just the two of us."
"Oh." She quickly looked down at her plate, but he still caught the pink dusting her cheeks beneath the beige smears. "Yes, I find that I enjoy it as well. It's different than being with Espella, or anyone else. It's even… better, in a way." She took a large bite of the omelet and chewed, her face slowly reddening further with her admission. She's so adorable. He found himself thinking the same sentence umpteen times every day he was around her, but each time his brain reiterated it he couldn't help but smile. I'm lucky. He really, really didn't deserve her. So lucky.
"Exactly what I was thinking." He drained half the glass of water only to feel it slosh about his innards uncomfortably. He winced, trying to eat quickly and dispel the feeling. "We should perhaps do it more often?"
"I think so." She refused to move now; he could only see the top of her forehead and her paint-stained nose as she stared down at the design along the edge of her plate. He finished eating, fork clinking against the tableware as he sat it down. Timidly, he stretched his hand across the table and laid it atop of hers—we hold hands often, so this is safe territory, right? She looked up at him then, her shyest smile playing over her face while her eyes twinkled with secret thoughts of her own. What if she's also thinking of marriage? He thought, but quickly disregarded it. I doubt it. Even if the thought did cross her mind, I wonder if I would truly be her first option. There were other, richer, more able men in town. If one of them caught her eye just right…. He pushed back the jealousy burning in his gut. No sense getting angry over something that hadn't happened yet.
"We should probably be heading back." She pulled her hand from his, fingers brushing across his palm as she took one last drink from her glass before standing up. "It's been nearly half an hour; in this heat, the paint should already be dry." He stood as well and put his dishes in the sink on top of hers, grabbing the brushes and rollers before she could. She compensated by taking the trays, and they walked back upstairs.
The room was dry, so they immediately got to work on a second coating. This time they both took longer, making sure they covered every spot that they'd missed on the first go 'round. The brushes weren't quite dry, nor were the rollers, and the paint splattered more easily as it mixed with the dampness. There were countless dots on the old sheets, Eve had to wipe spilled paint off the paneling more than once, and he constantly had to combat the paint dripping from his aloft brush. They were also tiring at this point, making more mistakes with their clothes and bodies paying the price in paint.
Finally, finally, the room was complete and all that was left was to let it dry once more. They both went around the walls, checking every nook and cranny for any more missed spots before calling it quits. The light from the afternoon sun shone across the weathered floorboards as he shut the window. Eve went downstairs to wash the brushes again while he stayed to gather up the old sheets and hammer down the leftover paint can lids so that the paint wouldn't dry out. She could use it again on part of another room, or there was enough to paint a shelf or table to match the study. He left the furniture in the hallway, where it would be safe enough until tomorrow. Paint, despite drying, usually needed a day or two before taking any accidental brushes with a desk or all those boxes. Knowing her, she'll want to sort through them all before putting them back in the room anyway. A project for next weekend?
When she came back upstairs, they looked once more at the results of their labor, standing side by side in the doorway. They smiled with pride at the job well done, the pristine ceiling, the clean floor, the evenly painted walls. The room was perfection, neat and tidy, but they were both sweaty and covered in dots and splotches of beige from head to toe. There was even paint on the heels of his boots and the sides of her calves, though it would have been nearly impossible to get it there accidentally. They looked each other over, and he had to admit it seemed as though they'd fought a long and hard battle against the paint. It was a blessing that they'd somehow managed to keep it off the floor, with the way it was spread along their arms and legs.
"I will most assuredly need another bath," he stated, holding out the hem of his shirt and looking it over. His clothes were ruined, but that was the purpose of wearing castoffs when doing messy labor, wasn't it? It would seem almost blasphemous to not have them looking horrid. "Oh, but Mrs. Eclaire said I couldn't step a foot inside the bakery in such a state," he remembered as he chipped at some paint on his forearm with a fingernail. "It's warm enough to bathe in the moat by now," he half-joked.
"The—you wouldn't!" She was appalled at him, crossing her arms with an annoyed frown. She seemed so serious that he couldn't help but laugh, trying to bite back the worst of it to keep from offending her.
"Oh, 'tis very clean," he assured, ignoring her perturbed expression. We used to take dips in it all the time, back when we lived there. Nothing better than a quick bath on a summer's day to cool off." She was even more taken aback by this, her face growing red.
"Y—in the—in front of—" she sputtered. He redoubled his effort to keep the laughter from pouring forth. It was too fun to tease her sometimes. Of course she thought he meant the front of the garrison, where the moat ran by the streets. He'd meant the back, where the moat widened as it ran back into the river before disappearing beyond the wall. No one could see them there, as it was well situated away from the main streets. A sort of private watering hole that doubled as both large bathtub and swimming pool for the men who once lived within the garrison's high walls. "Please tell me you weren't naked!"
"A bath is not a bath if you're clothed," he pointed out, letting her misunderstanding slide. No one could blame him for letting her get worked up, surely. When she got embarrassed or angry, she fell back into the persona of the High Inquisitor he used to know. It always reminded him of the arguments they used to have in their office, arguments rife with personal jabs and mutual tension that neither of them ever pointed out, but both felt. She turned away pointedly, jaw set in a tight line as she refused to take the bait.
"Fine. If you're so set on being an exhibitionist, who am I to stop you?"
"Exhibitionist?" he repeated, shoulders trembling with mirth at the thought of him bathing in front of the garrison, people stopping to gawk. That sounded quite honestly like a perverse punishment the Captain of the knights would think up, to mortify a young knave caught out past curfew. To think that he'd ever! But still, she was the one who said it, not him. "And that would bother you?" he prompted, wanting to hear more of her reasoning.
"Would it—of course it would!" she exclaimed. "Any woman in town coming by to take a look at you, everyone getting an eyeful of whatever they please, the fact that you used to do it at all is beyond me! I'm certainly glad that the High Inquisitor hardly had reason to frequent the garrisons during off-duty hours!"
"Oh, so the prestigious Lady Darklaw wouldn't have wanted the chance to see what was beneath her subordinate's armor?" She turned back around to glare at him, but he wasn't finished. "I distinctly remember you being one of the onlookers when we held the exhibition matches." Her frown darkened into a full scowl.
"I am not like those other women," she hissed, referencing what Espella called his 'fan club', though he wasn't sure if that was an official title. Didn't fan clubs have to have monthly meetings? Eve had less than kind names for them, but she needn't have worried; they were all terrified of her, even more so now that she was his girlfriend and had an excuse to fight them if they tried to encroach on his person. Despite being in a relationship with Eve Belduke, the majority of those women saw only High Inquisitor Darklaw. It would probably help if she wasn't glaring at them all the time….
"No, you're not. You have access to the true show." He flexed garishly, knowing that it would only further incite her. She put a hand to her forehead and turned away again, shaking her head. He stared at the back of her head, unable to stop the boyish grin from finally taking its proper place. She was jealous! Eve, stoic and shy Eve, openly jealous of other women because they liked to look at him!
He couldn't help but feel deliriously happy at the notion, even though there was nothing on earth for her to be jealous about. He didn't care one whit about any other woman. But the thought of her being jealous meant that she wanted him for herself and herself alone. The same way he felt about her, really. He saw other men looking at her from time to time, former Shades and young townsmen alike. It was… infuriating, and yet it came with its own sense of pride that at the end of the day, only he was allowed to kiss her the way they all dreamed of doing.
"Eve," he chuckled, stepping closer and poking her in the shoulder. She didn't turn around and he sighed. Maybe he'd gone a little overboard with the teasing. "Come now, Eve. You know you're the only one I'd ever want to see me fully undressed." He had meant it as a simple statement of fact, but once he'd said it, it had sounded more like an implication.
I—I hadn't meant to say it in that manner! That sounds as if I was offering…. There was no time to remedy the situation, for she was turning slowly to face him. He was frozen, standing perfectly still the same way he had when he'd once come across a doe in the forest. Don't frighten her away now. Keep your ground, but don't make any sudden movements.
"Really." Her expression was indiscernible, fingers tugging on a lock of stray hair that fell over one shoulder. Ah, so I'm dealing with the High Inquisitor right now? Well, I once made you laugh, milady. I haven't forgotten it quite as easily as you might. He still remembered every time he'd made her so much as smile when she was his superior, treasuring those moments when his feelings were an unrequited crush (or so he'd thought at the time). Humor would salvage the situation now, wouldn't it?
"Of course!" He kept his tone lighthearted and easy, the same tone that once charmed ladies and set men at ease. He would bet his sword that it was the tone that won her over as well, though she'd never admit it. "You're the only woman I'd ever consider bathing alongside; I swear my honor on it. In fact, we can wash together anytime you please, even right now," he added with a wink for good measure. I won't scare her off, not now. I can behave. He waited for a laugh, even a good-natured sigh. But instead he received a signature Darklaw smirk that went straight to his groin.
"Alright. If you insist." His entire body froze. The earth stopped spinning one way and flipped to the other direction. Down was up and up was down and—alright? Did she just—alright?! She looked down at his chest, suddenly unwilling—or unable—to meet his eyes. "That is, if you're not just bluffing. If you really want to." He was still reeling, his heart yelling at his brain to catch up with the situation and let them both know just what the hell was going on. It was a moment before he could manage to open his mouth, much less speak.
"W-would you like to?" he managed to croak, after his brain had tentatively addressed the situation and decided that while he was playing, she was being very serious. His heart was thundering wildly, leaping around for joy. Patience… pays off? Bathe? Together? He still was unsure what she meant but—he had just said that you couldn't bathe with your clothes on so she knew that he meant to—she wanted to—see him—and her—together—naked—water and soap and—uh oh. So much for not embarrassing yourself, Zacharias. You're gaping at her like an idiot and these pants are about to be beyond the realm of too tight. You're a damn fool, but you've dug your own grave. Watery grave.
"I wouldn't be adverse to the idea," she replied, still smirking and trying to hide it with one hand. "Of course, only if you'd be comfortable with it."
"I-I—yes!" he stammered, too loudly. Coughing, reevaluating, indoor voice, solemn and serious… nope, no good. "Of course!"
"Well then." She turned and walked to the door, a little faster than her usual gait. When she spoke again, it was clear she was trying to keep the nervousness from her voice. "Come on then. No reason to let the paint dry on us." He followed her, his mind torn between two voices: reason and desire.
Yes! Finally!
Damnit, don't act like such an eager buffoon!
But it's been so long since we—and she's the one who agreed!
Now, now, there's no cause to think you're getting sex out of this. Start slower.
Who cares about sex? She's going to be naked!
Let her take the controls. If she doesn't instigate, don't press for it.
But she'll be naked!
Don't get overeager. She might still decide to say no.
But. She'll. Be. Naked!
Fine, fine. Yes. She'll be naked. So will you.
Who gives a damn?
She might.
He paused in the hallway, thinking this over as reason continued to be the only thoughtful one rattling around his mind. She might not find you quite so handsome once the clothes are off. You do have a plethora of scars, after all.
But—battle scars aside, I—
And need I remind you that you've never stripped down completely in front of a woman at all? You've always kept something on, haven't you?
Well, true, but I—
What if she takes one look and laughs at you? What then?
She won't. He balled his fists and took a deep breath. I trust her. He took one step forward, than another. With all my heart. That is enough. If she could trust him to undress and bathe with her, and she could—he'd make sure she knew it, if she didn't already—then he could do the same for her. That was the nature of a relationship, was it not?
He looked around and found that he'd lost her. Peering through the open doors, looking for a washroom, he finally found her shoes and hair-tie on a chest in… her bedroom. Licking his lips, he slipped into the room, looking at previously unentered territory—he respected her privacy enough to let her keep the upper floors relatively unexplored. It was as Eve as a room could be, from the wrinkleless bedclothes to the carefully brushed carpet. Her furnishings were oaken, sanded smooth and gorgeous in the afternoon sunlight streaming in from around the partly-open curtains. Her uniform stood ready on its stand, the unlit lamps at each bedside table perfectly centered to the surface, a large looking glass showing his unsure reflection hovering near the doorway.
"E-Eve?" he called out hesitantly, hoping that she was actually in here and he hadn't entered her space uninvited. He heard the creak of a door and light shone in from the opposite side of the heavy bureau. He crept around the side to see a door he hadn't noticed at first glance leading to what appeared to be a small washroom. Stepping into it, he closed the door behind him to give him more room to move about.
It was not a large room by any means, serving only as a personal bathroom to the bedchamber. But, despite the size, every facet of the room was organized and put to good use. The shelves were stacked above the lavatory, holding fluffy towels and washcloths folded into neat squares as spare bedsheets and even a small vase of Eldwitch flowers. The vanity was nestled into an alcove, another looking glass hung just above the deep washbasin. The marbled counterpane was stacked with bottles and vials of things he could only guess were various lotions and soaps, the same kinds that littered the women's shelf on the washroom at the bakery. Without anyone to share her space, he surmised that she had let her hoard grow and spread until it filled the counter. Still, they were lined neatly against the mirror and seemed to be grouped by some design—function perhaps? Beneath the sink's piping, there was a small hamper for used towels and an even smaller bin. A silken dressing gown was hung on a hook near the door, and he couldn't help but imagine her dressed in it, the smooth fabric hugging her curves.
He tore his gaze away, looking around for a bathtub and finding none. Instead, there was a translucent pane of glass separating the wooden floor from a tiled one, slightly raised with a drain the center. There was steep, thin shelving that held soap and at the top, a pipe came from the wall. For a moment, he couldn't decide what it was supposed to be. Then, like so many modern terms, it came up from the depths of his being without being sought. Shower?
To him, the word 'shower' was synonymous with 'bathe', though the former specifically meant a pageboy at the garrison tossing a bucket of cold water over one's head in a narrow wooden stall. There were too many men at the garrison and not enough space, so showering was the only alternative to swimming around in the moat or the river during the summer. Some men didn't even shower at all in winter, though he couldn't stand the feeling of grime and dried sweat on his body. It was far worse than braving icy buckets of water over the head; after all, you could dry by the hearth and get warm again quite easily.
But yes, this was a shower, with piping instead of drawn water. He was used to drawing water for a bath, though between him and Espella it was not a hard chore in the slightest. But he was also used to pipes, thanks to the Labyrinthian reconstruction effort. They hadn't moved to homes yet, but the Courthouse and the other major tourist spots all had running water in their restrooms. One could get cold, hot, or warm water by choosing the taps instead of just dealing with what you had. Perhaps it was spoiling, but he had to admit it was a novelty.
He hadn't thought about putting the two together and being able to bathe with pipes. Hot shower, he thought now, part of him recalling that hot showers felt better than hot baths, only because they took far longer to turn tepid. As the only male in the house, he was often the third to bathe in the evening and the water was, by then, often lukewarm at best. To be able to stand under a hot stream, hot enough to even burn him on accident… how amazing! Had he experienced such things before? He closed his eyes, drawing from the memories that were so far off and yet only so distant because he'd chosen to forget them and get new ones instead.
Tiny stall, cracked tiles, water's red on account of pipe rust. Cockroach? Cockroach, ugh. Squash it, the water will wash the guts off, damn blighters swarming all over this damn flat. Ah, hot water, good, that bugger finally got around to paying the handyman. So good.…
He opened his eyes memory shower paled compared to this one; it was almost disgusting in comparison, really. That washroom was even smaller than this one, and looked a very unsavory place to be. He shoved the memory back to the hole he'd found it in and focused on the here and now, where Eve was leaning against the counterpane with her arms crossed and an eager, but nervous look. What was he supposed to do now?
"Suppose we get undressed." He tried to laugh, but his throat was dry and he could only manage a short chuckle that sounded more like a wheeze. He felt such a myriad of emotions—fear, excitement, fulfillment, desire, nervousness, happiness—and he had no idea what to do with them all. Her arms tightened over her body, but she pushed her hips off the marble and turned to face him fully.
"Suppose." It was more of a squeak than her usual confident voice, a wobbly smile faltering on her lips as she looked at him. "D-do I go first, or do you?" Suddenly he felt nothing but tenderness for her, wanting to pull her close to him and somehow assuage all her fears with one word. But whatever magic word it was, he didn't know it, so he settled for the next best thing.
He'd undressed many times in front of others, men and women. Sometimes it was necessary, sometimes it was just for part of training. He remembered the shame and nerves of the first time the seamstress had made him undress to his skivvies so that she could get a proper inseam, but he'd grown used to it over time. He had no idea whether or not she had ever had to go through the same thing, undressing in front of anyone, especially a man. There was no real way to protect her from the inevitable, even if he were to be the bolder one and offer to strip first. There was no shame in bearing her skin in front of him, but he knew how nerve wracking it was to undress with someone else watching.
"What if we turned around and… both did it at the same time?" he offered gently, "And then we'll turn back at your call." She nodded quickly, something akin to relief passing over her face. He swallowed hard and turned his back to her, reaching down to unlace his boots. He realized that he could still see her in the looking glass if he turned his face just a fraction of an inch to the right, but forced himself to stare straight at the door as he pulled off the boots and stuffed his socks down into them. To peek, however tempting it might be, would be the most dishonorable thing to do. After all, he had given his word, and she had to be able to trust him.
She could also theoretically be watching you, his reason prompted. You have no real way of knowing if she turned around. What if she's not even undressing? But that was folly, of course. Even as he thought it, he saw a flash of dark green and her tank top crumpled to a heap near his ankle.
Well, she's topless at least! desire cheered. He hurriedly yanked off his own shirt, only to find that it was too tight to remove in his usual manner. He had to roll it up from the waist, wriggling and nearly dislocating a shoulder before his arms were divested of the sleeves. I shall not wear this infernal piece of clothing again! he swore as he only just managed to peel it off his head. He threw it, not caring about where it fell. The air was colder, fresher against his skin after the tight, sweaty shirt, and for a moment he simply relished the feeling of cool air playing across his bare chest.
"A-are you ready?"
"Not yet!" He fumbled with the clasp of the jeans, pushing both them and his boxers over his hips in one movement and nearly tripping in his hurry to step out of them. Ah yes, the day is over before it began simply because Barnham cracked his head against his girlfriend's marble counter, he berated himself sharply. Take your time! His heart quivered, skipped a beat, continued on stronger than before as he stood naked for a moment, gathering courage before kicking the jeans beneath the washbasin pipes and straightening his posture. "I'm ready now. Are you?" There was silence, and then she cleared her throat.
"Yes. On the count of three?"
"Fine with me."
"One." He steeled his resolve, offering up a prayer that he wouldn't make a complete and utter fool of himself. Oh, what he wouldn't do for some extra courage from the Story!
"Two." The Story wasn't real, so any courage he had would have to come from himself. He heard her shift behind him and poised to turn, hands balling into fists to keep from instinctively covering some part of himself.
"Three." They both turned he took a step forward, seeing her do the same. Her hands were clasped tightly behind her back, her entire body tensing. He felt his muscles do the same, and forced himself to meet her eyes before looking down at what he'd dreamed of for so long.
It was just as perfect as he'd always imagined, on the nights where he lay awake and tried to map her body from the remembered feeling of his hands on her. Her hair was loose and tumbled over her shoulders, down her back, the skin pale and creamy where the sun was never allowed to hit it. He longed to reach out and trace the smooth plane of her stomach, to brush her thighs up to the curve of her hips and back down to her knees, to the paint-stained calves, to her tiny, dainty feet.
He tried to swallow, eyes traveling back up her legs, resting at the apex of her clenched thighs with the trimmed curls, all the while entirely aware of her scrutiny of his own form. Her hand unclasped and slowly rose to hug herself, her face red. He followed the movement, lingering on her pert breasts that he knew by touch, but not sight—until now, anyway.
"I—I know they're not… the largest…" It took him a moment to register what she was talking about, his brain still turning over the ethereal image seared into it for good with a cry of triumph. He reached out, brushing his fingers over her arms to give her ample time to back away before carefully pulling them to the side and letting him see the full beauty before him again.
"I don't know," he disagreed amiably; happy to look as long as she'd let him. "I think they're perfect." Her eyes moved from his face to his crotch and back again in one quick blink, her cheeks darkening further as she looked away. He released one wrist and reached up to run his thumb along her jaw, brushing the hair over her shoulder. She made a small sound and shivered, nipples tightening as gooseflesh spread across her skin. "Are you cold?"
"Well—perhaps a little," she admitted, shifting uncomfortably.
"Then come here." He drew her close, wrapping her in an intimate embrace and taking a moment to thoroughly enjoy the feeling of her bare torso against his, her naked legs brushing against his thighs as he sought to let some of the heat in his limbs warm her up. Her fingers twitched against his chest—do you want to touch me? It's okay, you know—and then she was tugging on his neck in an effort to make him bend down. The action pulled at his sore muscles and he winced involuntarily.
"Are you alright?" He smiled at her, trying to dispel her concern.
"I'm fine. Just a little sore from holding up the brushes all day. I'll be fine," he repeated, when her brow wrinkled in worry. "Come," he murmured, brushing his lips across hers teasingly. "Is this what you wanted me to do?"
"Don't get cocky," she huffed, and he silently rejoiced at the brusque tone. If she's annoyed rather than nervous, I can handle that. He kissed her properly in apology, tangling his hands in her hair. It was hard to do that when she had it tied up in her usual braid, which was more often than not. Each time he could feel the soft strands running between his fingers, he felt it a personal victory. She pushed him back after a few minutes, running her tongue over his lower lip before holding him back at arm's length. "We'll never shower at this rate, Zacharias."
"I'm fine with that."
"But I'm not." She leaned back and let him have one of the challenging grins he loved so much.
"Now, are we going to do this, or not?"
Afterword: This is a two parter, only because I wrote nearly too much and I hate having extremely long oneshots. This part is a low T for naked folk, but Chapter 2 is M so youth beware? I guess? I'm not'cha mama, police yourselves. See you next week! :D