Baphomet rarely knew what he was going to get when he ventured down the dark tunnels to the equally desolate storage room where he'd meet with Marian.
There was a pattern, of course: Morrigan demanded he submit, Badb took whatever she'd have from him - her pound of flesh, usually made literal - whether he liked it or not, but Annie? She would ignore him. And sometimes, that was even better.
His heart was already racing with just the thought of his dark mistress, but Baphomet could feel it skip a beat when he opened the door to see Annie.
She didn't acknowledge him. Baphomet shut the door and knelt, his breath coming fast before his knees had even hit the cold cement. Annie continued tending to the plant in her hands, still facing away from him - close enough that Baphomet could reach out and touch her if he were inclined to break the rules - coaxing it to life with skilled fingers and gentle encouragement.
But he didn't want to disobey.
Baphomet kept his gaze focused on his own thighs and embraced the stillness, the calm that Annie wore about her like a burial shroud. She would never comment to one affect or the other, but he held his back straight, his head bowed. He wanted her to be pleased with him.
For once, the voices in his head were silenced, falling to Annie's charm the same way he had. It was so much more than enough to be on his knees for her - mute supplication, worship even. Baphomet would have nothing more than this: Annie's continued presence, gracing him so long as he could endure.
And endure, he could.
Baphomet relished the burn of his muscles, the cold seeping into his limbs. He gave her his suffering, so much the more precious because she would never raise her voice to demand it. He'd never give her reason to. For Annie, he would do anything: would crawl on his hands and knees, would take the pain and the silence and the tension prickling in his shoulders, down his spine, as Baphomet battled himself over being her martyr and the need to have her glance his way. To feel her hand caress the chill from his brow.
The words he couldn't speak weighted his tongue, coating it in copper that could have been metal or blood - begging Annie to bring him to life the way only she could.
He would remain here an eternity, if only for a word.