Author's Note: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) Happy Valentine's Day, you sinners
Pound!
A teenage girl squeaked in fright and dropped her basket.
Thud!
Ms. Mailer dropped her cargo bag and letters went flying.
Wham!
Two customers that had just walked in the door glanced at each other before edging back towards safety.
Crash!
"Zacharias Barnham!" Steely eyes narrowed and the redheaded baker nearly lost her resolve, hesitating a brief moment. "G-Go down to the basement and fetch five more sacks of flour, please." The poor dough in his hands, nearly beaten senseless, was given a welcome reprieve as the ex-Inquisitor let it drop to the counter, turning without a word and stalking to the basement stairs before disappearing with the slam of a door. Espella, who had been hiding in the shadows all afternoon, ran from her place to rescue the sad little lump before the excessive kneading turned it into a rock-hard loaf of seething anger.
"What on earth has gotten into that child?" Mrs. Eclaire asked in astonishment, cupping her cheek. "He's never acted so before."
"I have no idea." Espella hurriedly shaped the loaf and placed it with the others to rise. "He just came in like that after practice at the garrison." She chewed her lip as she took the wooden paddle from its hook on the wall and began to remove freshly baked loaves from the oven.
"A face like that would turn the milk sour," Mrs. Eclaire declared with pursed lips. "He'll be scaring away my customers if he keeps it up. But I can't keep him in the basement forever," she mused, rubbing her chin. "Can I?" Espella was about to reply when the door swung open with a loud bang, startling her. Her hands slipped and the long pole slid, throwing one of the loaves down into the embers.
"Look at that!" she hissed in annoyance, whirling on Barnham, who was hefting a sack of flour on either shoulder. "You made me mess up the bread! Can't you give it a rest?" The flour was thrown to the ground, shaking the floorboards and making the customers turn around with little exclamations of surprise.
"It wasn't me," he growled, somehow looming over her though he stood an arm's length away. "Out of us three, you're the clumsiest," he pointed out callously. "You can't go a single day without making some mistake; why should this day be any different?"
"Oh!" The blonde's cheeks flushed with anger and a hint of embarrassment. "I'm going to smack you over the head with this peel!"
"May the Story help us if this isn't spreading like wildfire!" Mrs. Eclaire stormed around the counter and put herself bodily between the two of them. "Espella, go out and fetch us a pail of milk and some onions, there's a dear," she ordered, reaching into her apron and pulling out a few coins to give to the girl, whose eyes were shining with unshed tears. "And you," she snapped, turning to the irritable knight, "Why are you picking on her? She didn't do anything to you. You've been in a state since you started work today." Her voice softened in motherly concern. "What's the matter?"
"'Tis nothing." He shouldered past her gruffly and grabbed a bowl, preparing more dough. "It will not happen again."
"Well..." She took her favorite rolling pin and gave a threatening smack against her oven mitt. "See that it doesn't, or your head will suffer." She eyed him a moment more before turning to help the customers. Espella lingered while going to market, nursing her hurt feelings, and in her absence the afternoon went by smoothly. Patty left Barnham to the kitchen, where he stewed while whisking the life out of eggs and rolling out cookies paper thin. Everyone sensed the mood and left him alone, preferring the baker to handle their change and orders while Sir Barnham was ill. Even Constantine took one look at his master and headed upstairs instead of causing mischief on the first floor, his tail between his legs. Only his devoted fan club hung around, whispering over the croissants about who or what had dared to anger their precious man, and how they might go about making him smile again.
The sun was reaching its low, shining the orange and reds of a chilly autumn evening into the bakery windows when the doorbell tinkled cheerfully. Expecting it to be Espella, Mrs. Eclaire's scolding about being late died on her tongue when she saw who stood in the door.
"Eve, you haven't seen Espella on the road, have you?" Clang! There was a metallic clatter and the baker nearly leapt out of her apron. Turning to Barnham, she glared at him. "Be careful with those cookie sheets!" she chided, plump mouth frowning darkly. The man only slammed the next down with slightly less force before stomping over to the oven and turning his back to the women.
"No, I thought she was here." The dark-haired woman shed her long cloak and placed it neatly on the rack. "I was hoping to speak with her; do you mind if I wait?"
"Of course not!" Patty ushered her in with a wave of the hand. "What a pretty outfit you have on today." There was a muffled humph from the oven, but Barnham didn't turn around.
"Thank you," Eve replied cordially, spreading her arms out to let the sleeves fall and show the intricate designs of her tunic. It was a navy colored fabric that fell just above her thighs, cinched at the waist with billowing sleeves that were embroidered with a floral pattern, green leaves surrounding pink and white flowers. Her pants were tight, showing off the delicate shape of her legs and cuffing just above the start of her low heeled boots. It was the Labyrinthian take on a modernized outfit that the tourists had been sporting lately.
"Oh..." she breathed, reaching out and touching the pattern with a smile. "That's lovely... how long did it take them to sew that?" she wondered aloud.
"Too long, I'm sure," Eve laughed, before looking over to the back turned their way. She paused, and then cleared her throat. "Good evening, Zacharias." He stopped moving and even half-turned, but seemed to think better of it and went back to sweeping the ashes from the oven. "Still angry, I see." Patty blinked in surprise, looking between the two of them with an arched brow, an inquisitive grin briefly crossing her lips.
"Still wearing those pants, I see." His rejoinder was scathing, giving the baker the satisfaction of putting the two together and getting her answer without having to ask a single question.
"Yes, I am still wearing the pants." Her heels clacked against the floorboards as she stepped over to the counter. "I told you earlier that I wasn't changing just because you didn't like them." He didn't reply, but both women could see the tightness in his shoulders, as well as the way he held himself ramrod straight. "I've received nothing but compliments about—"
"I'm sure you have," he grumbled.
"What is your problem?" she sounded exasperated, rather than angry. Mrs. Eclaire busied herself with wiping down the counter tops, blending into the background as she listened.
"You know what the problem is. I told you so earlier." Ashes swept, he began putting away cleaned pots and pans in their proper place.
"That was not a problem; it was your opinion, and I—"
"What would you have me say!?" He was loud enough that his voice shook the rafters as he turned to face her, squaring his shoulders. "You won't change my feelings!"
"I don't care what your feelings are!" she shouted back. Mrs. Eclaire rubbed the dinner table hard enough that the color might have come off the wood if she'd tried. The fire popped and fizzled, candles sputtering in their holders, but none of the three people dared to break the silence before the others. Finally, Barnham all but threw his apron onto the counter.
"Excuse me." He walked past them, leaving a chill in the air that wasn't from the weather. He pounded up the stairs, clomping heavily above them before the door to his bedroom shut hard enough to echo on the landing.
"On second thought," Eve said, her voice taunt, "I should probably go home before it's dark. Please tell Espella that I stopped by."
"Oh, well, if you're sure," Patty faltered, the wet cloth limp in her hand.
"I'm quite sure." A tight-lipped smile was all the farewell she received before the young woman was out the door.
"Hmm." Mrs. Eclaire rested her hands on her hips, tilting her head. "So a lover's spat was the heart of all this, then. And to think that he nearly made Espella dash his brains out over a pair of tight pants." She chuckled to herself, dropping the dusty cloth back into the dishwater and stirring it around before attacking the flour-stained counter top. Looking back at the door, she frowned and clucked. "Oh, dear. She's gone and forgotten her cloak."
Stupid, stupid man!
Eve breathed in the soothing fragrance of her favorite tea, her hands wrapped around the cup. She'd realized that she'd left her cloak behind after turning the corner to the marketplace, but she wasn't about to go back to the bakery and ask for it. She'd have frozen to death first! The farther away from the bakery she went, the more she'd been ashamed that Mrs. Eclaire had overheard their argument.
I should have ignored him from the start. I knew that I shouldn't have said anything to him about it, after this morning. It wasn't her fault that he was being so odd about something as simple as pants, though, was it? It wasn't as if she were walking around like some of the tourists did in summer, with pants cut so short that one could see their undergarments every time they walked. She was wearing very modest tights, even more modest than the leather she used to don as the High Inquisitor, in fact!
She took a sip of the calming tea, letting it warm her insides. By the time she'd gotten home, she had been shivering from the chilly night, her teeth practically chattering. The tunic, while very beautiful, had clearly not been made with warmth in mind... Taking another, longer drink, she sighed. They hadn't quarreled like that in a long time, and most certainly not since they'd become a couple. It made her feel a little hurt, that he would become so angry with her over a silly article of clothing. Foolish man; he doesn't have his priorities straight. He'd grown agitated that morning when he'd seen her, and all but insisted that she go home to change. Then, when she'd refused, he'd grown sullen and had made an excuse to quit early, stating that the bakery needed him today more than the reconstruction effort did. She had thought that he'd merely gone off to cool down and would be fine when she saw him that evening. It seems that I was mistaken in that regard.
There was a knock at the door and she reluctantly placed the teacup on the sideboard before rising from the sofa, glancing quickly at the clock. It was a late hour, but not so late that she couldn't rule out a visit from someone. Perhaps it was Ms. Mailer with a late-evening package, or it might even be Espella, repaying her visit from earlier with Mrs. Eclaire's permission. Stretching her arms over her head as she entered the hall, she made sure her tunic was in place and hair brushed demurely behind her shoulders before unbolting the door and letting it swing open. Of course... who else.
"Forgot your cloak." Without a word of greeting, Barnham thrust the offending outerwear across the threshold at her, refusing to meet her gaze.
"It could have waited," she pointed out. He gave a halfhearted, one-sided shrug.
"Mrs. Patty's orders." She took the cloak from him, but didn't close the door.
"Is that all I'm to get from you now? Three words a sentence?" His jaw worked and he raised his eyes to stare at some point just above her head.
"What would you have me say?" he repeated, more icy than fiery this time around.
"My name would be nice," she answered, holding the cloak to her chest as she stared him down. "An explanation about why you're still angry with me, when I haven't done anything wrong."
"You know why I'm angry with you."
"No, I don't," she insisted loudly. Out here, there was no one to hear them fighting unless they screamed loud enough to reach the old Shade village, where a few townsfolk still lived. "I don't see what the problem is!" He had the audacity to look embarrassed, glancing around as if expecting an eavesdropping figure to leap from the shadows at them. He pressed his way through the door and she allowed him to come in, waiting for him to shut and latch the bolt back before turning to her.
"The 'problem' is that you're wearing those pants!" he hissed, brow furrowing.
"I look fine in these pants!" She threw the cloak onto the hall table, where it slid to the floor in a crumpled heap.
"That's the problem! That!" he growled. "You look fine in them!"
"That can't be a problem! We're in a relationship, Zacharias—you're supposed to want me to wear nice things!"
"I do! Around me!" His face was red, but whether in anger or humiliation she couldn't tell. "But not... out!"
"Where else would I wear them!?" He ran his hands through his hair, storming past her to walk the hall for a moment. When he reached the end, he turned around and opened his mouth, but she cut him off. "I will not change my clothing for you, or anyone else. What I wear is my business, and mine alone."
"You don't know how people speak, Eve," he said plainly, pointing at her.
"Everyone in town complimented me on my outfit today!" she replied, bewildered. He ran a hand over his face and chuckled coldly, actually sneering.
"Oh, yes, I'm sure that they said great things," he muttered. She wasn't exactly sure what he meant, whether he had overheard something to make him angry or if he was just generalizing, but either way she didn't like it and she certainly didn't like his tone. Something about it harked back to the days when they weren't Zacharias and Eve but Sir Barnham and the High Inquisitor; in response, the embers of her old Darklaw persona flared into life, burning an anger through her that she hadn't felt in ages. It must have shown on her face, because his expression darkened and became just like it used to be before a big battle between them, inciting her further.
"Listen here," she warned, moving toward him like a tiger prepared to strike. She wasn't sure what she meant to happen when she got there, but her hand twitched of its own accord and she considered slapping him. There was a brief scuffle and then she gasped as he threw her none too gently against the wall, one hand pinning both of hers above her head while the other stayed free to fend off a kick or headbutt.
"You listen," he snarled quietly, leaning in close. "I will not have those brainless knaves looking at you in such a manner; they shouldn't dare to lay their eyes on what's—"
"What's what?" she questioned coolly, struggling against his iron grip. As gentle as he was with her, she often forgot that his strength was not just a generalized trait. He wore heavy armor and lifted sacks of ingredients every day in the bakery, and he had the muscles to prove it. "Yours?" she sneered. "Is that what you were about to say? Getting possessive aren't we, Sir Barnham?" The hand on her wrists tightened.
"I do not want those men looking at you," he repeated obstinately, voice low. "You are mine; you were from the moment you said you'd allow me to court you." The knuckles of his free hand brushed her jaw, tickling the skin.
"But that does not mean you can dictate what I can and cannot wear!" she protested firmly, refusing to allow herself to be distracted by him. "I don't tell you to wear a shirt all the time while you're at work out in the sun." He blinked in surprise.
"That... is different." He frowned.
"How so?" Giving up on wrenching her hands free, she instead pulled all her strength into glaring him down. "You can't tell me you've never noticed how the women stare at you."
"Be quiet," he grumbled. "'Tis entirely different."
"Why? Because it's you and not me?"
"Be quiet!"
"Because it's going against what you're arguing about? Tell me just how its diff—" Without warning he was kissing her roughly, his body pressed against hers.
"Can you not just be quiet for five minutes?" he complained, nipping at her lower lip before burying his face against her neck. "Just let me have this one," he demanded, words muffled by her skin.
"No." He was not going to win this way! He groaned in frustration, leg nudging hers apart as the fingers of his free hand delved beneath her shirt and ghosted over her ribs. "No," she repeated breathlessly, a shuddering gasp escaping when he bit down sharply on her neck in answer.
"That's not the right answer, Eve." She froze, having never heard that sort of tone come from him before. He leaned up and rested his temple on his bicep, forcing her to look up to see his face. His expression was a tranquil mask, eyes darkened by desire but mouth set in a small, neutral frown. It was the face of someone in control of himself, who thought he was in control of her. Her fingers curled, hands twisting again against his grip. "What must I do to get you to promise me that you won't wear these pants anymore?"
"You can't," she whispered, confused at how aroused the situation was slowly making her. There was just something about the way he was staring at her that made her insides twist in anticipation, though she was supposed to be angry at him. "You'll have to resolve to overcome your jealousy," she added, swallowing hard. He grinned smugly.
"How easily you forget, precious Eve," he murmured, hand slowly traveling back down her side and leaving a burning trail in its wake. She squirmed, heat rising to her face and unable to look away. Her breathing became labored as he traced lines across her stomach, the lightest touch of his calloused fingers sending a thrill through her that she hated and loved at the same time. He pressed feather-light kisses along her jaw until he reached her ear, breath warm against her skin. "I have no resolve."
"Zacharias!" He chuckled again; this time, the sound sent shivers down her spine, a warmth spreading through her abdomen.
"Tell me, Eve: Up?" His fingers found her bra, thumb brushing the underside of her right breast. "Or down?" Just as suddenly they were at the hem of the hated pants, running just beneath the waistline. She bit back a moan and clenched her fingers into fists, nails biting into her palms. I will not... I will not! Just what she would not do was quickly becoming debatable. "If you promise me, I'll let you choose."
"I promise nothing." She was proud of herself for sounding calm in the moment. He paused for a moment, as if considering, and then his frown curved into a smirk.
"Then I'll choose... down." His nimble fingers undid the clasp of her jeans and slid beneath the waist before she could react. He pressed though her underwear, rubbing in small circles until her legs trembled beneath her. "Eve, do you think you might want to promise now?" She didn't trust herself to open her mouth, but managed to shake her head quickly from side to side. "Hmm." He continued to tease her in his unhurried way, changing pressure and speed until she couldn't help but rock her hips against him in a silent plea. He ignored her, pausing until she stilled before resuming his ministrations without a word.
"More," she whispered, when it became absolutely unbearable.
"Ready to surrender?"
"No!"
"Then no," was his simple reply.
"Zacharias!" He huffed, but obediently slid his fingers beneath her underwear before continuing. Her toes curled, body tensed from the sensation of his fingers sliding over her. She moaned softly, angling her hips more as he absolutely refused to hit the spots she knew he damn well knew to hit. Forcing her eyes open, she looked up at him; whenever they'd been intimate before, they'd stayed pressed up close and practically intertwined. Now, he stood almost separate from her, the only real points of contact being his hands. It was different, and while it was exciting...
"Kiss me." It wasn't quite a plea, nor a command, but something in between the two.
"No." He smiled down at her, a real one this time, soft and loving. "I'll miss something. I want to watch this."
"Then let me touch you," she demanded, giving her aching arms another tug. "I want...need..." She wasn't sure how to finish the sentence, not with his other hand distracting her and her own shy nature telling her that it was silly to say such things aloud in the first place. He hesitated, but then his grip on her wrists loosened and instead went beneath her back to help support her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and dragged him towards her, an act he allowed to an extent, his eyes still locked on her face.
"Eve..." She could feel his arousal against her thigh and tried to rub against it, but he only moved away again. "Eve." A warning this time. She scowled at him and got a mirrored expression back at her. Then, his demeanor changed and he redoubled his efforts, his knee spreading her legs wider and chest pressed against hers. She gritted her teeth against the onslaught of sensation, nails digging into his shoulders as she shuddered and rocked against him blindly. She felt her orgasm coming and nearly screamed when he moved his hand away at the last instant.
"What—What are you—"
"Promise me." He was stern and stalwart, despite how obviously the situation was affecting him as well. She groaned, silently imploring with her eyes. He frowned. "Now." There was a terse pause, she still on the brink, he waiting for an answer. Finally, she leaned her head against his shoulder, clutching him to her in a tight embrace.
"Zach, please." He stiffened beneath her, and then sagged against her in clear defeat.
"I never could deny you anything..." It was what she needed, him holding her close and safe, his fingers teasing and mouth tender. It took no time at all for her to find release, gasping his name as the tension left her leaning against him for support, weak-limbed and satisfied. He removed his hand from her pants and wrapped both arms around her, stroking her hair as he waited for her to fully relax. She let him hold her for longer than necessary, her thoughts catching up to her. He hadn't technically made her promise to not wear anything, but now these pants would forever be associated with this memory—not in itself a bad thing, per say, but more than she wanted. It might have been his plan all along, but she doubted it. He was too blunt and forward to be sinister.
"Zacharias?" she ventured.
"Hmm?" She smiled against his shirt.
"If you keep doing this, I might have to wear these pants more often."
"No!"