Chapter Text
You were a baseball player who'd seen better days; Mostly before the scandal. She was a beautiful Norwegian model, by the name of Vader Eloha. You'd loved her, and for a while, she loved you.
Three months after Hugo had been - illegitimately - born, she discovered that your name wasn't the only thing you shared with your father. You have his hands, his height, and most importantly, his anger. You haven't seen your son since; She won't allow it. You still pay child support, though, because that's the kind of man you are.
So, you went away, hoping to slip under the radar until the heat of your relationship with Vader was off; Maybe you could get back to playing. You didn't plan to stay in France long, as your French was rusty and the apartment felt a little too big. A little too empty. And you were just a tad lost, and possibly drunk.
That's when he approached you, obviously trying to sell you something. You can't really recall, now. Looking back, though, you do recall sex. Sex with a masked man that you'd never met before, muttering things in French you were too drunk to understand.
That seemed to catch things up to the present.
Upon waking, you were assaulted with two thoughts: The first being My fucking head hurts , the second being This is not my apartment. Cautiously, you pull on your discarded pants and exit the unfamiliar bedroom. The scent of food wafts up from downstairs, signifying somebody else is here.
Without turning around, He greets you as you stumble into the kitchen. "Good morning, sunshine~" He's got a lilting sort of voice, cheerful and warm, someone who's practiced in the art of dealing with people. Somebody who knows how to talk someone into just about anything.
Belatedly, you remember fucking him senseless, the night previous.
"I don't believe I caught a name, last night, amigo." Spanish? That was interesting. You could've swore he'd been speaking in French, before.
He'd turned, and was looking at you. Or, so you assumed.
It was hard to tell, with that mask covering his face.
"Batter. People call me The Batter." And, that's as close to a name as you ever planned on telling him. But, much like you'd not planned on staying more than a few months, things would have a way of proving you wrong.
"Most people call me Zacharie." He chuckled, scooping some stereotypical breakfast foods onto a plate, handing it over. You grumbled something, probably a thanks, though it was hard to tell behind your confusion.
Zacharie fixed himself a plate, though made no move to eat as he sat down at a small dining table. Secretly, you wanted him to, if only to see the face of the man you'd apparently slept with.
"You're from the US, I'd guess? Somewhere up North, judging by your accent?" He asked as you ate. It was good; probably the best you'd ate since...
Well.
You nod. "I thought you were French."
He chuckles. It's a stupid, silky, melted chocolate kind of chuckle - one that you fantasize about; imagine drinking down like a fine wine. It's the kind of noise someone could get off to.
You try not to think further on that topic, lest you miss his answer.
"I am, my dear Batter! You didn't seem to have the best grasp on the language, though, so I thought I'd make it a bit easier on you." Zacharie hums, and you could picture a coy smile on his face, if you knew what he looked like.
But you don't.
"Second language." You reply, partially in defence, partially because he has a way of making you talk.
"Ah!" Zacharie chuckles again. "French is my native language. Spanish my second, English my third. So, I apologize if I misspeak."
Somehow, you didn't think he was afraid of saying something wrong.
He was too coy for that.
Zacharie was bragging in a soft, run around kind of way. It was fucking irritating - It got under your skin.
You loved it.
That's how things had started. You'd run into him a lot, putzing about the city.
Zacharie would try to sell you things - himself included - in that strange, satiny voice of his. He gave you his card, complete with address and phone number, in case you needed anything. Directions, mostly.
It was easy to brush him off, at first. It got harder as time went on, and you felt strangely pressured. Zacharie wasn't forceful about his propositions, and was - all in all - quite casual about the whole arrangement. You weren't sure why it was so... troublesome.
You weren't sure why it drove you to lay awake, a nervous sweat soaking the sheets of your bed; Too big, too empty. Eventually, countless nights of imagining what kind of face a voice like that had wore on you.
It didn't matter. You'd come here to relax, unwind. Get away from it all for a while. And if the 'fine wares merchant', as Zacharie called himself, was offering, who were you to deny him?