No Capes!
Well if you are expecting a dark fic or anything related, I'm afraid you have come to the wrong place. But if you have come for fluff and humor, I believe this little story will suffice.
For Queen-of-ice101, who probably didn't think I would actually write this but clearly she should not have underestimated me because here we are. I regret nothing.
Actually they had been getting along fine for weeks before that. According to all credible sources this was due to the agreement they had established between them. (Some less credible sources, i.e. Yemite, babbled about it having something to do with neutrality and the position of the stars, et cetera, et cetera, blah blah blah, Mel fell asleep at this point and was late to breakfast as usual even though she was the only one eating.)
This "agreement" consisted of Gyendal promising not to call Mel by any disgusting diminutives, like "lamb" or... just lamb, really. (At least he never called her "succulent chopstick." That would be... ew.) And Mel had agreed, with great reluctance, to refrain from bringing up all the times she had bested him in battle, or the fact that the world had yet to be plunged into eternal darkness, or that those contemptible orbs were destroyed, and—
Well, the point is her portion of the agreement was of a significantly greater length than was his. And Mel was of the highly controversial opinion that this was so not fair.
And that is why one particular day, after what seemed an eternity of what Te'ijal described as wedded bliss and Galahad most eloquently called "heck," Mel finally took the opportunity to do what she had wanted to do from the moment the agreement had been established. It happened while she and Gyendal were coming back from a long day of Aislday shopping— which had been Te'ijal's idea, and Mel suspected originally it was Galahad's idea but the vampire paladin would never admit it— but anyway she and Gyendal were coming back from it, and Gyendal was walking in front of her down the hall, and his red, red cloak was billowing out behind him dramatically. And intimidatingly. Maybe even a little alluringly. Alluring, that is, in a way that made Mel walk a little faster and lift her booted foot a bit higher off the floor than she might have otherwise.
She couldn't stop herself, the idea was too enticing to abandon. She caught up to the billowing scarlet cloth, finally, and she lifted her foot and stepped— on— his— cape!
"Argh!" Gyendal yelled, his arms flailing out to prevent his inevitable fall—
Actually apparently his fall was evitable because, it didn't happen.
"Lam— Mel!" he protested, whirling to face her. "What do you think you are doing?"
Mel refrained from cackling— she'd picked up the habit from the witches who traveled through Ghed'ahre selling curses. Yemite loved curses, Mel liked Yemite well enough she supposed, stuff happened. But anyway, Mel did not cackle at this time.
"I'm just walking!" she said innocently, widening her eyes at him.
Gyendal shot a glare at her, but then turned around and continued down the hall.
He was letting it go! Ha! And Professor Gray thought she couldn't lie!
Mel smirked to herself, and then—
And then.
She did it again.
Or she tried to, but suddenly the red, red cloak was swished away and instead she was staring up into red, red eyes that were a tad bit too murderous for her to really feel very comfortable.
"Mel," he said, very slowly and distinctly and as though what he actually meant was I will kill you and not regret it remotely. He leaned towards her until she could feel his breath on her face, and he hissed, "Stop. Stepping. On. My. Cape."
If she shook it certainly wasn't out of fear. It was just that his breath was cold. Also, he pronounced his p's with a careful pop and it was... funny.
"You know," she began with great indifference, popping her hip like he popped his p's and pretending to examine her nails, "you could easily solve this problem by not wearing a cape."
She pointedly emphasized the p, and looked up to meet his red hot gaze with cool defiance.
He glared back.
She blinked and went back to her nails.
"Honestly, it's ridiculous," she informed him. She didn't have to look to know his scowl was deepening and his eyes were sharpening to two red points like the ends of twin poisoned daggers. "It drags on the floor everywhere you go." She pretended not to notice his building rage. "It has to be inconvenient. I bet it gets in the way of every simple thing you try to do."
"It's an intimidation strategy!" he protested, waving his arms angrily. "It heightens the drama!"
"In fact," she continued as if she hadn't heard him, "I bet if you didn't insist on always wearing such a pompous piece of cloth, you wouldn't have lost all those battles so miserably."
She had said it. Her end of the agreement was broken. Galahad would be ashamed. So would Stella, and Edward, and Ulf and so many others. But Te'ijal would laugh, and Mel would laugh with her. And Gyendal...
Gyendal.
Could vampires self-combust? He looked like he was strongly considering doing so, regardless. He had his arms folded across his chest, his hands clenched into fists so tight she could see his lifeless veins sticking out from parchment-white skin.
"Just think of it," she said, now smirking at him. "All your grand plans of eternal night and world domination thwarted by your poor fashion choices."
Surely that was the proverbial last straw. He would begin raging any moment now. If she was lucky he would kick that stupid vase she had been trying to get rid of for months, and then she could be free of the vase and that cursed agreement.
But... he wasn't kicking that vase. He wasn't raging at her. He wasn't even glaring anymore, he was smiling. Actually smiling! Why was he smiling at her?! Great, she had broken her husband-
"I suppose that is an interesting point," he hissed softly. And then, a mere breath later, "Lamb."
"Gyendal!" she squawked, feeling herself flush a bright angry shade of pink. "You promised!"
But he just grinned wickedly and winked, he actually winked. That was it. He was broken. She had broken him. She had only meant to irritate him, not drive him out of his mind! There was only one thing to do.
She must irritate him further.
With one quick movement, she grabbed the ends of his cape and wrapped them tightly around him— she had always been rather good with knots— and she pushed him against the wall and pulled his head down so she could glare into his eyes and be sure he understood the full magnitude of her undiminishable rage. And as much as she was concerned for him, she was full of rage; after all, he had called her lamb.
"Why don't you say that to my face?!" she shouted to his face.
"I did say it to your face! Lamb!"
Again! She had asked for one thing, that was all. She opened her mouth to retaliate. "I am not a baby sheep— mmph!"
His cold disgusting lips were moving over hers and this was greatly injust and also greatly concerning—
"Mel," he breathed against her mouth, and never mind about the other thing, here was the least fair and most unsettling thing that had happened that evening and even that month—
"Let's not fight," he continued in the same low voice. "We must set a good example for my sister and her snack."
Mel meant to roar and seethe, until Gyendal was also roaring and seething and everything was returned to its natural state. But instead she snorted, and the worst thing she could think to say was, "Her husband, you mean?"
"Whatever she's calling him these days," he said with a wry smile. Then he frowned (and she quickly decided she would tease him relentlessly about his pouting later, when she felt like teasing again). "I prefer to call you Lamb."
"Well, I prefer to— to—"
They say showing is better than telling, so she showed him very decidedly what she preferred, which was—
Well, I am quite embarrassed to tell you, and I suspect Mel will repay me rather unpleasantly for my divulgence, but if you must know, and if you promise to exchange all the fluff for this invaluable information, I am willing to risk it.
You see, what the former Miss Mel Darkthrop preferred, was to be called Mel Ravenfoot, and to press her lips soundly against those of Mister Ravenfoot (who preferred to be called Lord Ravenfoot, thank you very much, you miserable mortal), and to live in perfectly happy wedded heck for the rest of her absurdly unfair life.