Oh, of all the days for no one to be upstairs!

Eve Belduke—née High Inquisitor Darklaw—was in a bit of a pickle. The knights that usually stood as decorative guard in the foyer of the old Courthouse were gone today, off practicing for the Parade at the end of the week. It was a traditional Parade, done more for the nostalgia of townsfolk and delight of tourists rather than for any real purpose. They hardly held Parades anymore, thus the need for practice. Everyone had fallen out of the routine, and it was paramount that everyone remembered/knew their place so that things went smoothly.

Even ex-Inquisitor Barnham was there, directing the men as he joined the rehearsal. She hadn't felt the need to go, as she merely rode atop the float with the Storyteller. So, while he was out making a ruckus in the streets with the others, she had chosen to stay behind in their shared office and catch up on some work she'd let fall behind. But while that meant she was able to focus in the silence, it also meant that she was utterly alone.

And that was the problem.

"We need to have a talk, m-milady." The voice had at first taken her by surprise, as she had no appointments and wasn't expecting anyone to come to the office since the Parade rehearsal was in full swing. But the man acted as if he was expected, sauntering into the room. Well, perhaps he thought he was sauntering, but it was more of a dizzy weaving.

"Yes?" she asked, swallowing her frustration. She had said before that she was always available to the townspeople now that she was no longer the High Inquisitor. She ought to have expected that some would take advantage of that and forgo making a proper appointment to air grievances or suggest ideas. "What can I help you with?" When the man leaned over her desk, she fought the urge to cough as the thick stench of ale and whiskey accosted her senses. It lingered about him like cologne, permeating the air with every slurred movement of his limbs.

Staring at him as she waited for him to speak, Eve realized that she couldn't put a face to his name. He looked vaguely familiar, but he had never been a Shade and she couldn't place him as a face that frequented any of her normal haunts. Probably, judging by the patched clothes and unkempt wiry beard, he was one of those shadowy knaves that hung around the black market and the alleyways near it. She made a point to avoid those unsavory places, and tried to make Espella stay away as well; there was nothing good about the merchants or the patrons there, unwilling to answer questions about their wares and getting into fistfights that often ended in stains on the bricked alley walls.

"Listen," he began, resting his weight on one hand and winking unsteadily at her. She leaned back in the seat, fighting for some fresh air. If the alcohol stench was bad, the rotten cesspool of his breath was worse. "I've had my eye on you for some time." Well, this was surprising. Her eyebrows rose as she looked him over again, at the bags under his red eyes and the gaping teeth. No, I most definitely do not recognize him. Who was he, that he had been watching her?

"Whatever do you mean?" she asked, lacing her fingers. The tone of his voice was a mystery, and she couldn't decide whether he was here to drunkenly praise or censure her. He narrowed his eyes at the question, but then grinned and chuckled before rubbing his whiskery chin.

"Who wouldn't watch a lass like you, all fancied up in leather and ribbon?" Her limbs tensed and she felt the heat rise up her neck. What on earth? The other hand slammed to the desk and his gaze dropped to her chest, grin bordering on a full-out leer. "I've decided that you're the girl for me, hands down."

"I—I—" What was she supposed to respond with? He was clearly out of his element here, and drunk beyond measure on top of that.

"Well? What d'ya say?" he purred, already reaching across the desk with grubby, stained fingers. She pushed her chair back until it bumped against the wall and stood, cheeks burning with indignation and embarrassment.

"I'd say that you've had one too many drinks, sir." She pulled her best Darklaw scowl onto her face. "Allow me to show you out." She was halfway across the room when he stumbled past her and cut her off, blocking her way to the exit.

"You're not even gonna give me a chance, huh?" he pouted, looming over her. when he wasn't slouched across the desk, he was nearly two heads taller than her. Her heart skipped a beat and she fought to keep a neutral expression of irritation, pushing back the niggling thought that he could probably overpower her.

"I've no intention of a relationship with anyone at the moment, not even yourself." She shouldered past him, her eyes locked on the door. "If you would, please leave. I have a lot of business left to take care of before the end of the day."

"Oh, don't be like that." Again he was before her, but this time he reached out and ran his hand along her waist before she could stop him. Instinct had her recoiling, her hand striking his cheek with as much force as she could muster. His eye twitched, but despite the reddening handprint he acted as though it had been the touch of a butterfly's wing instead of a hard slap.

"How dare you." Her words were ice, the same ice that flooded her body with fury and made her consider lashing out again. "Leave." He only hesitated the briefest moment, the silence a constant reminder that it was only the two of them in the Courthouse.

"Feisty," he purred, shoving her against the wall. "I like that in a woman." Her heart thudded against her ribs as she looked across the room to her desk. Her dagger was with the rest of her formal uniform, and she berated herself mentally for not grabbing it when she had the chance. She glanced over to Barnham's board, just out of arm's reach. If she could duck beneath his arm, she could grab the dagger still sticking through the forehead of her cruel caricature. But she didn't want to turn her eyes away from this relentless man. Nor did she think she could outrun him to the door, not with heels on her sandals. And the shoes were strapped in two places, making it nigh impossible for her to slip out of them. Besides, placing her back to him would only make matters worse, if he managed to catch her.

She all too briefly considered calling out for assistance, but there was no one around. Even if some bystander happened to be passing by the Courthouse, there was no possible way for them to hear her cry through the thick walls. She was alone, and had to fight her own way out. Steeling herself, she glared up at him and pushed him away with both hands. He was immovable, pushing back with equal, then more strength than she possessed. He boxed her against the wall, sneering at her as he looked her over from head to foot.

"A gentleman like me can't let such a lovely body go to waste," he jeered. "I'm not asking for a relationship anyway, my dear." She pressed herself against the wall, eyes flitting to her workmate's desk. If she could somehow find a letter opener beneath the mess littering the top… or if she could lift the dumbbell high enough to throw it at him, anything to distract him or even better, to frighten him away.

"You are no gentleman," she retorted sharply. She'd met a real professed-gentleman in Professor Layton, a man who put ethics and a lady's wellbeing before his own. Even Zacharias, as sarcastic and loud as he could be, was more of a gentleman than this man. "I'll give you one last chance to leave before I—"

"Before you what?" he laughed, coming closer. "If I have to be blunt, I will. You're going to be with me, because you're the most beautiful girl in town and I am the most handsome man." Does he really believe that? She tried to run beneath his arm, but it moved down to block her off before she could fully duck. "If you didn't want to be with anyone, you wouldn't walk around turning them on with your tight stockings and leather uniforms, milady."

His hand closed over her breast and her fist struck out blindly, catching him on the bone hidden beneath the greasy beard. This did cause him to release her and lean back, jaw working as he probed it with one thick finger. His easygoing grin became a scowl and he grabbed her wrist with an iron grip.

"You'll regret that," he promised as he twisted the arm behind her back and pinned it there, using her own weight against her. She automatically rose to the tips of her toes to compensate for the pain radiating in her muscles and shoulder, teeth gritted as she swung her knee up to his groin. Despite his drunken state, he managed to evade this and shoved his leg between both of hers, preventing a further attack.

She twisted, trying to ignore the pain in her arm and escape. Greyerl could fix any damage she might do, and a dislocated shoulder was far better than the alternative he was offering. It was no good; his grip was too strong. She wrenched her head to the side, but he wrapped his other hand around her neck and slammed it against the wall, his leg pressing up between her thighs obscenely. She choked as her airway was cut off, managing to tear at his arm with her other hand and pull it away just long enough for her to gain a breath of air. Now she couldn't call out even if she wanted to, her one arm immobile and the other locked in a struggle to keep him from choking her to death.

"S-sto—" she tried to whisper, but her rasping voice was barely audible. She kicked feebly at his ankles, head spinning from the cutback in oxygen and stomach churning. He forced her to face him, thumb running along her jaw as he offered her a tanked smile that was probably meant to be inviting. She shivered; even though his fingers were dry, it still felt like a trail of slime was left in his wake along her cheekbone.

"Come now, isn't it better when you're nice and quiet?" he leered, giving her another wink. She felt that it was sinister in nature, though perhaps it was just her current position. "Let's have a kiss then." He leaned in and his hand wasn't needed to keep her head pressed against the wall—she was doing fine herself, trying desperately to pull enough of his hand off her throat to move her head away. "No, no, don't play coy now—" Even with the adrenaline pumping through her veins, it wasn't enough to fight him off.

Oh, of all the days for no one to be upstairs! She refused to shut her eyes, even as he came closer. If he thought he could do this to her, just wait until he let her go! She'd go straight to the Storyteller, and let the knights at him. She'd memorize every mole on his ugly face so that she could be sure they got the right one, and he'd grovel at her feet before they threw him off the pier with weights—no, cement blocks tied to his ankles! But not before she found the largest, strongest person in town to hold him down and show him just how it felt to be helpless against a wall, with someone about to do things that you don't want to happen….

A silver hand clapped onto his forearm and she took in a deep breath of air as the pressure on her neck ceased. The man looked down at it stupidly, and when she was able to turn her head her heart sang as she saw the fully armored body of her former Inquisitor. His eyes were still covered by the plumed helmet, but his mouth told enough as its slack form twisted into a scowl. He looked between the two of them and then performed a move she'd never seen before, somehow pulling his grubby hands off her body and maneuvering his own between them. She sagged against the wall, the feathers of his helmet tickling her nose; she'd never felt happier to see him in all her life.

The man was taller than him by half a head, but he lifted him easily and threw him into his own desk. Papers flew through the air, the wood groaning beneath the abuse as the man rolled off the opposite side with a shout. Barnham growled low in his throat, and it took her a moment to register that he was speaking.

"What do you think you're doing?" She'd never, never heard him speak in that tone before. Not even when she'd locked him in the dungeons, and at the time she had thought she'd never see him angrier than that. But here he was, rage rolling off his body in waves that she swore she could feel. He stomped around the desk, pulling the man up by his shirt and raising him again with one hand. She gaped at the sheer force of it, wondering for the first time just how strong he really was. Was that his real power, or was he also pumped on adrenaline?

"H-hey!" the man managed to choke, despite the collar of his shirt digging into the meat of his neck. His hands shoved and pulled at the metal fingers bunched in the cloth, but it was only when Barnham decided to throw him to the ground that he was let free. Good! See how it feels! She thought unmercifully, fingers held gingerly to her throat as she watched the scene unfold.

"How dare you." A boot stomped onto the man's thigh, holding him to the ground. "How dare you touch her!" he roared, his voice booming even in the open space of the office, louder than Ms. Mailer's screeches, louder than the roar of the Great Fire as it ate the town, louder than even her own heart thundering wildly in her ears. "You lay your hands on a woman in that manner? What sort of man are you?"

The man somehow managed to roll out from beneath the boot crushing his thigh, staggering to his feet and looking none the worse for wear despite being thrown against hard stone. He wiped the back of his mouth with his hand, squaring off against the knight as best he could despite the slight stumble to his step.

"Who're you to ask that question?" he snarled back, his own anger roused. "I can do as I like with the lady, I believe. She just said she's got no lover and you can't tell me you've never noticed that body before!"

"I'd never look at her in such a way!" he declared, the exposed parts of his face mottled in his anger. "'Tis dishonorable wretches like yourself that think such things, louses that ought to stay put in the alley gutters where they belong!" The man bellowed out an odd war cry and swung recklessly, his fist already far off the mark. Barnham ducked easily and returned the blow on his rise, the metal cutting the man's face and spraying droplets of blood over the stone. The man cried out in pain and clutched at his face, his blood flecking his beard and fingers as he cursed loudly.

"I'll kill you! I'll kill you, you damn worthless—"

"Not if I kill you first," Barnham replied, relatively calmly to his earlier shouting. It was calm enough that panic bloomed in her chest; she knew his temper well, and if he was this unhinged, would he really lose himself enough to murder a man who hadn't been able to do more than pin her to a wall? She tried to call out to him, but he had already picked up the man and was holding his arms behind him, carting him out the door.

"Stay here," he ordered gruffly, and she hadn't the slightest intention of disobeying when she saw the way he held his mouth. The curses and threats of the drunkard faded as they moved down the hall, until she was left alone again. Now the silence seemed oppressive, and she wondered if she could call after him so that he wouldn't do anything he would regret later. The adrenaline left her too weak to chase after him, and she closed her eyes and breathed deeply to try and calm herself.

She looked down to see her legs trembling and moved slowly to his desk, pulling the chair out from under the dented wood and taking a seat. Letting out a shaky sigh, she rubbed at her aching arm and felt of her throat. A gut-wrenching feeling worked its way through her, part relief and part terror; she shivered violently a moment, wondering what she would have done if he hadn't come in when he did. Hugging herself, she hunched over in the chair and stared down at her sandals. There was a million things she could have done differently, she now realized as she replayed the scene in her head. I was blinded by panic. I should have known better. She felt dirty, disgusting, as if insects were crawling all over. The parts his fingers had touched on her face, her chest, and her hips all burned.

There was a sound and she looked up to see that Barnham had returned. Her stomach dropped down to her ankles as she saw him alone, with the man nowhere in sight. He stood in the door a moment, but then quickly removed the helmet and placed it on its stand before tearing the protective cloth covering his hair away. His signature red locks caught the light and she stared as he knelt before the chair, taking off his greaves and letting them clatter to the ground. She stared, fascinated at the intricate detail of the metal covering his fingers; she was entranced at the way they moved, allowing him a full range of motion as he unstrapped the metal plating and let the gloves slide from his hands.

"He hurt you." It wasn't a question; he'd seen the position she'd been in.

"He only twisted my arm a bit. I'm fine." She wasn't sure if that was a falsehood or not. She felt numbed, the only emotions confusion and panic now that the worst was over. "D-did—what did you do with him?"

"I threw him in a dungeon cell to sober up," he replied, taking her arm gently in his hands and moving it carefully, his eyes watching her face for any sign of pain as he worked the shoulder and elbow. "He can rot there for all I care," he added under his breath as his fingers trailed lightly over the bruises erupting on her hand.

"I punched him," she explained, for some reason content to let him touch her where he may. His hands were warm and careful as he felt of the knuckles to see if any were broken, flexing her fingers. She winced and he stopped immediately, giving them one last rub before releasing her hand.

"They'll be bruised for a while, but you'll be fine." His eyes slid down to her neck, the rage rekindling at whatever he saw there. "Here too," he murmured, his hand reaching out and pushing the hair off her shoulder. His fingers brushed her neck, lingering over the places that hurt the worst. I must have bruises there as well…. "Does it hurt?" he murmured, studying her expressions carefully, his own guarded.

"Not badly." He moved the hair off her other shoulder and examined that part as well, looking for more damage. "Thank you."

"I'm glad that I came," he said softly, his hand running down her other arm. The back of her elbow hurt where it had scraped against the stones, but it was less painful than her shoulder. "I only returned to lock the front doors. I had forgotten when I left for the Parade. If I hadn't…." he trailed off, jaw tensed. "It must have been fate," he decided. "I planned on going back to the bakery, but something told me to go check on you. You were working so hard; I had planned to invite you for supper tonight if you were still here. If I'd come back too late, or not come at all and heard about this later…. then I wouldn't have been able to control myself," he admitted.

"You controlled yourself?" she asked unthinkingly, her mind focused more on the tender touch of his hands as he examined her.

"He is still alive." He didn't look back up at her, one hand resting lightly on her knee as the other fell away. "I am certain that I controlled myself." Another sinking sensation in her belly reminded her of her earlier panic. He really was looking for blood, though he'd curbed the desire to throw the man into the dungeon instead.

"Thank you," she repeated, unsure of what else to say. "I… I'm glad you were around. I don't know what I'd have done without you looking out for me." He looked back at the bruises on her hand and picked it up, carefully pressing his lips to it in a gallant half-bow of chivalry, the cloak pooling around him on the floor.

"I will always protect you," he whispered to her fingers. Her brow furrowed, wondering why he thought the need to say it aloud. She knew he placed the townspeople's safety above all; that had been going on since the witch hunt days. She, if anyone, ought to have known it. She had been the one to hear it often enough.

"I know you will. You've protected everyone since the day you first arrived in Labyrinthia." He didn't let go of her hand, but he looked up at her and after a moment gave a warm, if not worn, smile.

"Of course," he agreed, though she picked up on something hidden in the timbre of his voice. She couldn't make it out, but it made him sound… disappointed? Sad? Melancholy, though perhaps it was just because the anger had taken so much energy from him. "I do my best, as always."

"And my hand feels better already," she tried to joke, wiggling the fingers. The opposite was true, really, as it was beginning to throb. But saying it would only concern him. He stared blankly at her, the joke flying over his head. "Er… my father, when I was very small… he used to kiss my bumps and bruises. It's supposed to make them feel better, I suppose," she muttered, feeling foolish as she explained it. But despite her growing humiliation, he nodded solemnly.

"My mother as well, whenever…." He trailed off, shaking his head. "'Tis a time-honored tradition, I assume." He pressed his lips to her knuckles again, faster and lighter this time. "For aided healing." She nodded, and his gaze slid up to her shoulder. He paused, looking back at her. She saw the question hiding behind the grey irises and nodded again.

He swallowed hard and stood, armor clanking as he stepped around the back of the chair. The air was electric in his wake, a lingering tension awakening in her limbs and keeping them tensed as he pushed her hair to her far shoulder. She waited in anticipation, eyes sliding closed when his lips found her shoulder through the thin fabric of her blouse. His mouth was as gentle as his hands had been, his fingers brushing through her hair. She trembled again, this feeling entirely new compared to her earlier fear. She'd never felt this way before, both filled with a salacious storm and yet empty and yearning for something that she had no name for. It went straight from his lips to her stomach and settled there with an urgent need that almost hurt, it was so intense.

"I—I shouldn't be doing this," he said suddenly, detangling his hand from her hair and backing away. "I'm sorry, Miss Eve; I shouldn't do this to you, not after what you just—what just happened." He crept back around the chair, looking almost fearfully at her. "I guess I can't control myself after all," he chuckled nervously, still backing towards the door and leaving his greaves on the ground by her feet.

"Sir Barnham." She was on her feet, the fiery craving in her veins spurring her on. She took a breath, feeling the rapid pulse echoing in her shoulder and hand. He watched her warily as she pointed to her neck. "You forgot this place." The silence stretched between them, palpable and thick. They both stood, frozen in place, staring into the other's eyes.

"M-Miss Eve," he breathed, stepping back until they were toe to toe. She waited for him, unsure if it was alright. Somehow it felt right, even if he had been the one whose morals had urged him to stop. Now, his hand came up and rested on her neck, thumb caressing her jaw. Unlike with the other man, there was no disgusting feel to his touch—only the warmth of his skin burning beneath her own, telling her that this was something she wanted to happen. She let her eyelids flutter closed as he tilted her head, the breath catching in her throat at the first sensation of his mouth against the marks on her skin.

He methodically covered every inch of her neck in open-mouthed kisses, not missing a single mark. His arms supported her frame, hand tilting her head as his tongue occasionally joined his lips, tasting her skin curiously before retreating. She pressed close to him, hands clutching his shoulders for support as soft cries escaped her. They seemed to encourage rather than dissuade him, and when he was finished with her neck he pulled back just enough to follow his thumb's path up her cheek.

Their eyes met once more and she saw that his were darkened with the same hunger that she felt in every pore, grey nearly lost to the blackness of his pupils. He eased his grip on her hair and she leaned up to kiss him properly. His mouth was still half open and she shyly ran her tongue over his lips as they brushed against hers firmly, his hand holding her head in place.

"Miss Eve," he moaned hoarsely, the words tickling her mouth. A thrill went through her, a surge of prickling heat rising to her face at the sound. He kissed her hard again, coaxing more sounds from her as he pulled her flush with him and only released her when they both needed to breathe. "Oh, Miss Eve…" She groped blindly and found his hand, squeezing his fingers as she ran them over her hip the same way that excuse for a human had touched her.

"Zacharias," she whispered, her body thrumming with a myriad of emotion. "T-touch me," she pleaded, drawing his hand up her body, tangling it with her clothes until his palm closed over her breast. She wondered if he could feel her heart racing, if his was beating just as fast. From the way he was panting, she was almost sure of it. He shook her hand free and mirrored it with his other, running from her chest to her hips and around her back, counting her ribs and exploring her with obedient, questing fingers.

"Miss Eve, let me—let me protect you," he begged as he returned to her neck, his hands running over her hips to her thighs and back up, this time delving beneath her blouse and igniting a new fire with every pass of his calloused fingers across her stomach. "Please, allow me to—just let me—ask me—"

"Protect me," she complied, not really a request but not an order. "Please, just stay beside me." Her hands found their way to his neck, tickling the skin near his nape as she felt the soft hair there. He shivered, nodding before teasing her lips once more.

"I'll always protect you," he repeated in the same tone, although this time she understood that he didn't mean—hadn't meant—the entire town. This was just between them, a promise for her and her alone.

"G-good." She rested her forehead against the cool metal of his breastplate, trying to calm the hellfire inside of her. One hand rested against the small of her back, the other returning to her head and stroking her hair as he apparently tried to calm himself as well. After a moment, he shifted uncomfortably and she pulled away to see a faint flush rising to his cheeks. "Are you alright?" she asked, a little breathlessly.

"Ah.. heh…" He turned darker and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm under control… I believe." He shifted again and she realized what the matter was, her eyes going to the ceiling instead of to his groin as her curiosity dictated. It didn't help that she was still tingly and wanting, her mind giving her helpful hints to make him lose whatever control he thought he had. "F-forgive m—"

"N-no, it's alright, I…" Despite the fact that she'd just put his hand on her chest voluntarily, she felt hesitant and bashful. "It's alright," she simply said with a shrug, after searching her traitorous brain and finding nothing.

"I… erm… I meant what I said, you know." She looked back at him to see his face was suddenly as solemn as ever. "I want… I want to protect you, and I—I like being near you." He rubbed his chin, looking over at the statue in the center of the far wall. "If you would permit me, I'd like to, sometime when you're free, of course, I'd like to… take you to dinner." He glanced back at her, and then immediately away again. "If you don't want to, I—um, well—"

"What makes you think I don't want to?" she asked in genuine confusion. "After we just—what we just did?" She waved her hand between them.

"You're just giving me that look, is all."

"What look?!" He had the audacity to appear sheepish.

"That… Lady Darklaw look…"

"Only because I'm trying to decide what sort of man asks a woman out only after making out with her for a solid ten minutes, and stumbling over his words at that!" Indignation flared to life in his face along with a blush, and she fought to hide her smirk. It was far easier to rouse his anger than dwell on an awkward silence; she'd learned from personal experience just how long he could stretch out a silence, after all.

"I didn't expect you to ask me to continue, and I wasn't about to stop kissing you to ask if you minded that I wanted to court you!"

"Maybe I do mind!"

"Why did you let me continue then!" She grinned at him.

"I wanted to test your resolve, sir knight."

His answering cry of frustration kept her laughing for weeks.

Afterword: The Storyteller built a stockade in the town square just so that he could throw the harasser in it as a public deterrent. Afterwards, it became a tourist gimmick like the ones at Disney World. Eve suffered no lasting damage, as they sent the guy off to get professional help and she had Barnham for a guard dog, staring down any man who dared to even look at her funnily afterwards. The End.