What if Byleth were a lady and Dedue were her butler?

Byleth stirs at the sound of her butler's voice. Low and soft, it comes with the familiar scent of ginger tea that she knows well. Familiar because whenever he asks what sort of tea she would like to accompany her sweets, she always says ginger. She has watched him make it many times, the large man's graceful hands closed around the handle of the slender silver blade he uses to peel the skin from the pale brown root.

The motions are ingrained into her mind; first, he peels the rough skin from the surface of the root, then dices it carefully before sliding the flat of the knife against the cutting board so that the slivers of ginger will slide directly into the cup with a quick, fluid motion.

Next, he rolls a green citrus fruit between his palms before slowly, carefully cutting the small fruit into two pieces. He'd scrape the seeds from the center of the fruit, and then, clenching his fist carefully, this would be squeezed into the mug.

Last... he would glance up at her, confusion in his brow. "Milady, I do not know why you insist on watching. Is it not boring to watch me work in silence?"

"No." Her reply was always quick, breathless. Of course she would deny it. How could she tire of watching his unconscious working expression, so dark with constant determination yet with hands so light with care? He would sigh in disapproval of this waste of her time, pouring honey into the mixture with a shake of his head and the deepening crinkle of his brow. Oh, how she vexed him, and yet could not stop herself from doing so.

Perhaps it is not right to encroach on his time in this way... yet... yet-

Right on time, the water in the boiling kettle with let out a shrill noise. He would turn to complete the cup, the water filling it and breathing spiced steam into the air. The tingling sound of the spoon swirling in the mug. The scrape of the ceramic being pushed across the table. It is all a part of this ceremony, this special time that only she reserves for him, even if he thinks nothing of it. In fact, there is a secret she guards well, one that she would never say since it would jeopardize their secret moments together, and that is this: Byleth has no particular inclination towards the spicy tea.

She has never liked ginger tea, or any other. No, there is a single reason that she orders her manservant to prepare the brew so often.

There was a time, once, she peeped in on him in the garden and saw the way he tenderly brushed the dirt from the roots with brisk, careful movements.

Somehow, she thinks, if she drinks this tea, there is a chance that he will look at her the same way.

Eyes half-lidded, a small smile, his hands cradling her face as though it is a most precious thing, but as is...

His hands are gentle as they cradle the saucer before her instead. She thanks him, her gaze weighty yet missed as he concentrates on his work. "Thank you, Dedue."

"Miss." She sips the unwanted tea dutifully and lets it burn through her.

Please, she thinks. Please let today be the day.

But today, too, her prayer is unanswered as Dedue simply collects her breakfast with nothing but duty behind his brisk movements. Oh, what she wouldn't do to become ginger in his hands. The butler turns to leave, but as he reaches for the door, Byleth calls out to him. "Dedue, wait." He pauses, turns to look at her with a tilt of his head.

"Milady?" She grasps for something to say, but her mind is blank as she stares at him speechlessly. Dedue waits for her words, but when they do not come, his expression turns puzzled. "Did you want another cup?"

"No, I... was thinking that I cannot just watch any longer," she says honestly. "Dedue, would you teach me how to make tea for myself?" His brow wrinkles again as he adjusts the tray in his arms.

"Are you dissatisfied with the way I prepare it?"

She shakes her head slowly. "I am not. No." And she adds nothing more, her eyes staring at him directly. Dedue tilts his head slowly before turning back towards her.

"I'm afraid I haven't the time today..." He looks thoughtful for a moment. "After I finish my work, perhaps I can take care of it tomorrow after I serve your lunch. Is that suitable for you?"

"Any time of yours that you have to offer... I will gladly take." The words come breezily. Perhaps too much so. Dedue lifts an eyebrow at her, striking an anxious wavering into her chest. Is she... being too obvious? Byleth isn't sure as she gazes at him steadily, her expression unchanging. To her relief, a flicker of confusion briefly crosses his face as he considers, dropping his gaze to the side.

She relaxes. Confusion is good. Confusion means... well, she hopes it means that he cannot read her mind or her thoughts or her intentions.

"If you do not mind an inconvenience, then... would you mind coming to the kitchen to take your tea instead?" She shakes her head.

"I wouldn't mind it, no."

He is already reconsidering. "It is beneath you, I am well aware, and the other servants will perhaps be surprised at your presence but..." He trails off considering before his frown deepens. "Perhaps I should check with your fath-"

"I do not think it beneath me, Dedue. I wouldn't mind at all." She pauses, her lips still. "Besides, I am hardly a lady in the truest sense."

Dedue's gaze is severe. "Who told you such a thing?" Byleth stares towards the window as she stands, brushing crumbs from her dress. No one needed to tell her, not really. Her father is a mercenary turned merchant-one whose skills on the battlefield and constant supply ships to the right place and time had earned him a knighthood. In that sense, yes, it is a title earned but...

There is more than a part of her that itches under the gaze of born and bred nobility in Fhirdiad that tells her of her true place with eyes alone. And not only that...

"Another family rescinded their offer of marriage when they found out the terms." As far as she knows, no one wants to inherit the businesses either. It's much more work than having everything done with a steward and signing off on a few sheets of permissions, but her father is unwilling to give such things to the lose eyes of another.

She looks at Dedue for his reaction but... there is none aside from a nod. "I see."

Before she'd felt rather... neutral when Jeralt first reluctantly reveal the king's suggestion that they cement their new title through marriage. He did not seem to like the idea, Byleth had noticed, but as he explained to her once in a rare moment of vulnerability, she is his only daughter, and if he could give her the comfort and stability his since-passed wife never had a chance to enjoy, then... there is not much he is unwilling to do if she consented.

As she had.

That was the time before Dedue Molinaro had entered into her family's service, after all.

How she wishes he would react to such news so she could tell her father there is no reason to search any longer... but she cannot make Dedue interested. She can only make her own moves and hope that he responds. "Dedue, if I marry, what will you do?"

"Me? The same as I have always done. Manage your affairs." He pauses. "Though I suppose it would then be the affairs of yourself and your spouse."

It is not the reply she wishes for. Stretching lightly, she looks back towards him with her quiet, pointed gaze. "Tomorrow, Dedue."

Dedue has the table prepared for her when she arrives, post-lunch, for the tea lesson. Motioning with a piece of cloth she has never worn, she turns around while he slips the apron around her neck. As Byleth feels his strong, gentle hands touch lightly against her back, tying the string, she wishes that he were not already wearing an apron just so she could do the same to him. In such a gesture lay a challenge. Could she... stir his heart with her hands if he gave her the chance? Could he hear or... feel her own heartbeat, stuttering in her chest?

Unaffected by her floating thoughts, Dedue carefully hands her a knife and a piece of ginger.

"Show me what you can do." It seems simple enough, and certainly she has watched him enough times to know in theory... but the moment she begins to cut, already he is correcting her movements. "You'll lose fingers cutting that way. You'll want to guide the knife like this." He takes the knife to demonstrate, her direct, unblinking gaze directed towards him-not his hands, not his movements, but him-looking with eyes that drink him in without pretense.

Glancing up after the explanation to ensure she understands, Dedue balks for a moment at the strength of her stare. "Milady? Are you paying attention to the instructions?"

"...Sorry, I was... distracted."

He sighs. "If you wish to play, then I can findyou something much more entertaining to do."

"Unnecessary. Again, please."

Concise as usual. He slices a few more strips of ginger, then hands her the knife and watches her mimicking his cuts, slowly but safely. She shakes the fringes of her hair from her eyes. Once. Twice. Three times.

As she moves to shift it again, Dedue lets out a tight, low breath of... she isn't sure. Frustration? Displeasure? Her eyes quickly flit upward in concern, a question in them-but he only shakes his head. "I don't know how I did not notice before. Your hair is distracting, I see. Perhaps it would be best to tie it away..." He always carries spares for his own neatly tied style, reaching into his pocket to lightly touch the elastic.

"Oh, that. Yes." She turns back towards the cutting board, stilling completely as she waits. "Tie it back for me." How easily she commands him without a thought to his feelings. Still, Dedue can and does. His fingers slip through her hair as he slicks the strands backwards to tie it securely away from her face. When his fingertips brush against her scalp, she stiffens for a moment, then relaxes completely with a slow, near silent breath. He has never touched her scalp before, but he can see her expression reflected in the pots hung above the kitchen stove. Eyes closed, half leaned into his touch, there is a strange part of him that feels as though he is doing something much more elicit than just running his fingertips through her hair. He indulges her a bit more-or perhaps indulges himself to note more of this expression-massaging her scalp for a few more moments before pulling her hair upwards into a neat bun.

Guilt pierces his chest as she quickly opens her eyes, a slight flush coloring her cheeks. She is his master and such actions are hardly appropriate... even if she seems to enjoy his touch, it is selfish, he thinks, to impose his feelings on one in whom he has been entrusted to care for. He puts space between them, turning to start the stovetop flame and heat up the kettle. As they wait for the water to boil, Byleth touches the back of her neck lightly, slipping her hand upwards along the glossy strands to the space where the bun is tightly wound. "Thank you," she says finally.

"It suits you well." He does not compliment her often, but he has imagined braiding her hair up and away from her face many times. When it comes to grooming, she has always been an impatient girl, prone to chopping away at her own mane with haphazard strokes of any sharp object she can lay hands on, if only to avoid the hour long journey to a salon.

Such styles fit her well, he thinks, but...

He is an impeccably groomed man, one who takes much pride in his appearance as to best represent his employer. There is a part of him, vaguely curious, that wonders how he would react if she asked him explicitly to groom her for the day. He imagines the foam of shampoo suds coating his fingers as they slide through her hair. He imagines she limber in his arms, letting him rub the strands clean, her weight resting against him.

"Do you think so?"

Think so about...? Ah, she is speaking of her appearance. If he thinks it suits her.

"Of course." His answer is too quick. "I would not lie to you. You look-" he stops abruptly, eyes widening at his mistake. He had not meant to compliment her directly. ...He always says too much.

"Neat," he finally allows himself to say. "And proper. Perfect." She latches onto the last word, her posture straightening with hope.

"Perfect?" She echoes him, her eyes pale and bright.

"Perfect," he confirms again, because as he looks at her, his brain cannot find an alternative. Until it does. "Perfectly... perfectly neat."

Her voice is a murmur. "You said 'neat' already."

So I did.

They stare at each other wordlessly, neither of them daring to move or breathe or speak until-

The shrill sound of the screaming kettle acts as a rude awakening. Dedue starts first, turning away to cut off the flame, and when he turns back around, Byleth too has thawed, busying herself by scrapping the chopped ginger from the cutting board to the mug. An image flashes in his mind of him standing behind the young woman, his hand on top of hers as he directs the kettle carefully. She is small and warm and earnest as she pours the tea in front of him, and when the mug is full, they carefully place the kettle aside.

"You have done well to make this tea," he imagines himself saying, and her lips, usually so taciturn, tilting upwards into a glimmering hint of a smile. "Perhaps together, we can enjoy the fruits of your labor." She turns around, wraps her arms around him. "Milady? What are you..." And he would trail off as she presses her face into his chest.

"Shhh..."

"Dedue?" The thought has more power than he expects. He blinks rapidly to rid himself of the dream, only to see Byleth waving a hand in front of his frozen expression. "Dedue, the water's ready, isn't it?"

"It... is, yes." He swallows, his throat bobbing dryly with the motion. "Shall..." Shall we pour it together? "Shall I pour it for you, then?"

"Let me. This... isn't for me, after all." He blinks at the claim as she takes the pot, filling the cup with water. Stirring the water into a whirling pool, she looks at him, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "Dedue? Would you have this tea? It is my... my last time to make it for you, after all."

He stares at her uncomprehendingly. "Last time?"

Her heart pounds with the lie on her lips. "I will marry." He still does not react, but she hopes... she hopes that somewhere, deep within...

"You will marry and yet... you wished to make this for me?"

"Yes."

"Not for your future beloved?" His expression turns aghast.

"No."

Dedue's voice comes weakly. "But I... I am just your humble servant."

She nods again. It is a fact. "Yes."

"Yet you wished to soil your hands in my behalf."

She sets her jaw firmly. "If it is in your behalf," she admits after a pause, "there are many things I would do." He gathers her face in his hands. "Dedue?" He looks down into her eyes. There is no excuse on the tip of his tongue, nothing more he can say if she rejects his advances now. He draws her forward, the movement painstakingly slow. She will marry, she says? So at last, the day he has dreaded for so long as finally come.

He should release her with a chaste smile, but...

He kisses the skin of her cheeks tenderly, his hands cupped lightly against her face as though he is showering affection onto a fully blossomed flower bud with new, soft petals. He is deliberately gentle as she freezes under the touch of his lips in surprise-and she right away melts into him, her soft body pressing towards his. When his mouth finally touches against hers, he only means for it to be brief-but her tongue lightly strokes against his lips the second-or third, he isn't sure-time they light against the surface of hers. He parts his lips with willing abandon.

Dedue does not quite mean for it to go so far, but... his own waiting tongue slips against hers gingerly with anticipation, then with more confidence. His hands trails to her shoulders to press her even closer.

Byleth...

His mind is full of her, full of this moment, fully aware that it should not be.

Dedue is the one to initiate the intimate touches but he tears his lips away, his voice unsteady and breathless. "We... we should not do this, Lady Byleth. I am below your station, it is not proper for me to-" She ignores him, pressing herself upwards to meet his lips again. He holds her body tightly against his, a desperate sound of longing of which he is undoubtably the source, murmured between them. He breaks it again. "Wait, please. Think. Are you certain you wish to-" kiss a servant? He thinks to ask, but he cannot even finish the sentence. Her fist is filled with the edge of his apron as she jerks him back down to meet her lips once more.

They should not do this, Dedue already knows, but he is the one who chose to play this dangerous game. Surely he could sense the outcome when he has been aware of-and ignored-Byleth's interest. But... he has allowed the idea and thought of stepping his feet on equal ground beside her rest as a lingering temptation when he should not have done so for much, much too long.

How many nights had he prepared her room for bed and wished to be the one laying beneath the sheets beside her? How often had he mended her clothes and wondered what it would be like if he were the one to tear them away if she would allow it so? And the meal times where, again and again, he is so close, yet cannot sit beside her if he wished it on the greatest of comets.

And such was before he knew of her interest. Not that she had a chance of hiding it for long: the weight of the looks she would give him.

How difficult it has been to pretend that he does not see when she carries the subtlety of a coming storm. She'd been a woman waiting to be promised to another and he has nothing to offer. No title, no training in matters of merchandise-he does not measure up the least of her candidates, and yet... Dedue finds himself in his bed each night, wondering what it would be like to call her by name.

...He can still remember the first time he noted her piercing gaze on him as he hung the laundry to dry. At first he thought it mere coincidence, but for her to be in the window each and every time, yet look away whenever he glanced in the direction of her balcony...

It was the first seedling of hope, one he should not have planted.

But once noted, it could not be unseen-the way her eyes followed him like a shadow pressed against his toes. The soft, warm affection in her voice as she called his name. The way she said nothing in words but everything with the gentle touch of her hands, not to mention... that fateful day when she approached asking him to make her ginger tea-his favorite tea-and the hope that one day he could grow the confidence to ask that they might drink it together was planted.

It had yet to happen but...

But as their lips move together as one, the smell of ginger on his hands and pressed against her skin, he is certain that she would answer yes, no matter what he asked of her. The desperation gives way into something softer, and his fingers gather against the base of her neck to bring the warmth of her lips closer still. She tastes him delicately, tilting forward to the tips of her toes to bring herself closer. Distantly, the thought comes to her mind.

He tastes nothing of ginger.

She is grateful. She never liked the taste. Instead, she finds his lips much more intoxicating than any brew he has ever prepared.

Unaware of her thoughts, Dedue again pulls away as he feels her hand brush down the buttons of his butler uniform. "Byleth." His voice, normally so controlled, so smooth, is hoarse. Her wordless gaze touches his mouth longingly, then his eyes, prompting him to continue. "I must confess." He takes a step away to look at her in earnest. "Yesterday, you asked me what I will do if you marry another. I... I lied. I could not be by your side anymore. Not when I have such feelings for you." His shoulders droops. "I am sorry to say it, but... Byleth, I adore you." She nods slowly, her gaze sliding to the ground for a moment.

"Then it is good there is no proposal."

His eyes widen with shock. "What?"

"I... I have a confession to make as well." He waits for her reply as Byleth brings her eyes up once more. "I never liked ginger tea. I have only wanted your company."

"My company?" He crosses his arms, slightly confused. He is not a man who speaks often, after all, and another person desiring his presence is hard to fathom. She clarifies softly.

"I have only wanted you." He sucks in a breath through his teeth, then releases it slowly. Dedue has always sensed her feelings but... to hear her say such things aloud, and with such serious eyes... they somehow hold a type of power that her sharp gaze alone could not communicate. "I accept your resignation. Would you consider a new position instead?" He uncrosses his arms as she edges towards him in a way he would call shy if not for the fact that, as usual, her expression does not betray her.

"A new position?"

She nods. "Love is, in fact, a part of the contractual agreement."

Ah.

He has an inkling of what she wishes to ask of him. He smoothes his hand against the slicked back hairs of her head affectionately. "And is the seal of approval a kiss, then?"

"You know it well," comes Byleth's serious reply. Her fingers edge to his apron collar, drawing him closer and closer to a sealed fate. "Will you agree?"

His lips part in anticipation as he dips towards her. "I do."

This was originally written in a Twitter thread as a "ficlet". I decided to turn it into a full story. I hope you enjoyed this one, too!

Feel free to tell me what you thought? Which did you like better?

(What if #2's) Lord Dedue or Butler Dedue? Lady Byleth or (What if #2's) Maid Byleth?