Author's note: Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read and/or review. This is my first foray into writing for such a huge fandom, and while I can tell I don't fit the typical demographic, if I can give you "the feels" then my job is complete :)

4 – The Cigarette of Contrition

Bard came to the next morning with his wrists handcuffed to one leg of the massive kitchen table. Someone had propped him in a chair, and he must have spent the early morning hours with his face pressed into the table's rough wood so that the grain imprinted on his cheek. His right eye throbbed in his skull. Every part of him hurt, far worse than the usual hangover induced by an evening at The Queen's Jug. The smell of burnt chocolate hung in the air, making him feel all the more ill. He reached for the envelope of tobacco and cigarette papers in his back pocket, but was stopped short by the cuffs.

"Bloody hell."

A key scraped in a lock. Bard glanced up to see Sebastian swing open the kitchen door, looking as sleek and polished as ever.

"Good morning, Baldroy. What a joy it is to see you awake and in your kitchen at such an early hour."

"You did this to me, didn't you? Bastard."

"Consider the possibility," said the butler smoothly, "that you brought this upon yourself. Though I admit I slept easier knowing you would not bring the house down around our collective ears in a moment of thoughtless rage."

"Bah. When d'you ever sleep? You're a spoilsport of the worst kind. She was in to me."

"Was she, Baldroy?" Sebastian sat down across from Bard and folded his hands neatly on the table. "Or was the promise of chocolate sweets her motivation du jour?"

"What?" Bard thought of the warmth of her cheek against his throat when he'd carried her down the stairs. The way she'd leaned back into him when he'd guided the measuring cups in her pliant hands, so that he could feel the blades of her shoulders through his double-breasted coat. "Then she led me on in the worst way."

"Oh she did, did she?"

Bard glanced around the room. An upturned mixing bowl lay near his feet, and the tile floor was blanketed with a fine sifting of flour, sugar and cocoa. A spatter of footprints—his own larger soles and Mey-Rin's smaller ones—were pressed into the flour, looking like a diagram of ballroom dance steps. The ceiling above the stove bore a large soot-black mark. The drying rack had been swept clean of pots and pans, which lay tumbled about the sink. When he looked down at his apron, he noticed that someone—Mey-Rin?—had drawn a heart in chocolate on the front of his jacket. He could still taste chocolate, too, but by now it had gone a bit sour.

"Well, I'd say it takes two to make a mess like that, sir."

Sebastian stood suddenly and leaned over the table. With a gloved hand he grabbed Bard's collar and would have lifted him to his feet if not for the cuffs. "You know how I feel about fraternization among my staff, Baldroy," said the butler, his eyes flashing yet his voice deceivingly calm. "I never want to catch the two of you down here after hours again. Understood?"

"I—mind the bruises, a'right? That bloody 'urts."

"It should hurt," hissed the butler. "Miss Mey-Rin has a fine right hook. She gave you the worst of it. Wielded the spatula like the pâtissier you only wish you were, and gave you a fine whisking. At least from what I saw from the doorway."

"Mey-Rin?" Bard tried to think, but his brain felt as fuzzy as spun sugar. She'd wrapped her fingers in his hair, hadn't she, and pulled his face down to meet hers? And they'd danced a slow sway across the floor, with no music or proper steps, just two lonely people pressed one to the other, accompanied only by the smell of the chocolate. His only memory of the spatula was when she'd scraped it gently down the back of his arm. "If it were her, I'd like to at least remember it. I almost might 'a enjoyed myself, if only I was into that kinda thing."

"Well…I'll admit it wasn't all Mey-Rin." Sebastian released Bard's collar. "But you are getting the worst of the collective punishment because I need to trust you with the manor and the junior staff when I'm away. And I can't very well leave it in the charge of a pyromaniacal libertine, can I?"

"Is that what I am to you? It's just that a man can feel caged here sometimes."

"You were just telling me yesterday that you would rather die than leave."

"I—" Bard scowled at the butler, who smiled politely back. "Fine," he spat. "Do your worst."

"Very well." Sebastian folded his hands and continued to stand smiling in his impeccable black tailcoat that wafted gently in some invisible breeze.

"Alright," grumbled Bard after undergoing the butler's silent treatment for roughly a minute. "I get it. You win." He unclenched his fists and bowed his head. "Just tell me what to say that'll get you to undo these cuffs. If I don't have a cigarette my heart'll stop."

"You could kowtow."

"Kowtow? What the 'ell is that?"

Sebastian glanced at his pocket watch. "Never mind, there's no time for a lesson. Just say that special little phrase, and say it like you mean it."

"Sebastian sir, I'm sorry I was disobedient to you, an' behaved disgracefully to Mey-Rin, and I'll never do it knowingly again."

"Not that phrase Baldroy. The other one for the young master. I need to ensure that you still sound sufficiently dedicated to his service."

Bard sat up as straight as he could, let his eyes rest on a stain of soot on the far wall, and shouted, "Yes, my lord!"

Sebastian removed a tiny silver key from his pocket and inserted it into a slot in the handcuffs. As Bard rubbed feeling back into his wrists, Mey-Rin opened the kitchen door. She took a few steps in before she flushed bright red, and stopped in her tracks. She started to back herself out of the room, but Sebastian froze her with a look.

"Do come in, Mey-Rin. Baldroy has something to say to you."

"I do?" Bard deftly rolled a cigarette before Sebastian could change his mind about uncuffing him. He had to force himself to look in the direction of Mey-Rin's eyes which she'd hidden again this morning behind her thick glasses.

"Yes," said the butler. "That first phrase from before. Now is the correct moment."

"But Mey-Rin," said Bard, beseeching the scarlet-faced maid. "You didn't mind kissin' me, did you? You seemed eager enough, an' you even pushed my goggles up on my forehead when they got in the way."

Mey-Rin wrung her hands. She stared first at her shoes, then turned her tumbler-thick glasses in Sebastian's direction. Her mouth moved slightly.

"Please speak up, Mey-Rin," said the butler. "We can't hear when you mumble."

"Well if'n I'm to be honest," she said a shade louder, glancing at Bard, "the kissing weren't half bad, 'cept maybe fer the s-smoke. What you did next wi' your hands though, that crossed the line, it did. I'm not that k-kind of girl." She looked back at the butler and wobbled on her feet, as if about to faint. "Am I?"

"No, Mey-Rin. You behaved well enough given the circumstances, though you really must learn to avoid being led astray by profligates such as Baldroy in the first place."

"It—it won't 'appen again, sir. I p-promise." The tilted up her glasses slightly as if to wipe away a smudge, and shot Bard a murderous look.

Bard couldn't even summon a smirk. Was Mey-Rin twisting the truth? Had she perhaps caught a glimpse of a certain butler in the doorway, and then changed her mind about the whole thing? He blew a funnel of smoke at his shoes in exasperation.

"Bard," barked Sebastian, and the chef jumped in spite of his determination to remain externally unruffled. "Where is that apology? I want to see a formal one. Like I taught you."

Bard pressed his palms to his apron and bowed from the waist, until his back was parallel with the floor. "I beg your forgiveness, Mey-Rin," he said, holding the bow, "for my 'orribly presumptuous behavior towards you. I also apologize to both you and Mr. Sebastian for burnin' the chocolate, ruining a good pan, an' knocking a bowl of flour to the floor in my shameful state of distraction."

Mey-Rin said nothing, and Bard wondered if she'd already fled the room. Sebastian cuffed him smartly on the head. "Rise, idiot. Mey-Rin, I want you to wash and press every curtain in this house. Baldroy, you will clean this kitchen until it sparkles while I go dress the young master."

"Yes sir. And for the earl's breakfast, sir?"

"For the young master's breakfast you will sit there on your hands touching nothing, as you contemplate my own competence and your utter lack thereof."

Just after Sebastian had left, Finny stuck his head in the door, his expression reading full saturation on the enthusiasm scale. "It smells like brownies! For breakfast!"

"They're all burned up, Finny," said Bard darkly as he sloshed his mop across the tiles. "Burned to hell. Along wi' everything these hands 'ave ever touched. Now even Mey-Rin's turning against me. Stand back if you don't want to be next."

Finny's smile faltered. He had a brown paper package clutched to his chest. "I'll just leave this here then." The boy darted in and dropped the package on the table. "You an' Mey-Rin are both so weird this mornin'," he said sulkily, then fled for the gardens.