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The moment the heavy door swings open, you know something's gone wrong. You can hear it in the uneven steps, the slight stumble-and-drag of boots down the hall. Throwing propriety to the winds, you sprint to the entryway.
The young master is leaning heavily against the wall, muddy and disheveled. Your eyes flit over his body frantically, rushing to take him all in. Thankfully, there's no blood. You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding.
"My Lord," you say, with the barest tremble in your voice.
Barok van Zieks holds up a hand, and with difficulty, you will yourself still. His eyes are closed, and his breathing is heavy. After a long moment, silent save for the ticking clock and his heaving breaths, he straightens. He's calm and stern again.
"Pardon my state, ______," he says. "It's nothing of importance."
"Another attack, My Lord?" you ask.
"As I said, it's nothing." His voice is still steady, but his gaze flickers. "I should like to compose myself," he says, quietly.
"Of course, My Lord," you reply.
He turns and heads down the hall, and you follow. At the end of the hall, Barok turns left and disappears into the master bedroom. You turn right, into the bathroom, and begin to fill the tub.
As the hot water pours into the tub, you inspect an array of soaps and scents, wondering which would soothe him today. In the five years you've known Barok, you've developed an uncanny intuition into his moods. You've worked closely with him during those years, first as an errand boy, then as a servant, and finally as head butler.
He'd had a hard time filling the role for a while, with that Reaper of the Bailey reputation hanging over his head. His original butler had fled after being accosted for information one too many times, and Barok didn't blame him: being chased home from the market by a crowd thirty-strong had been terrifying for the man. There followed a number of short-lived hires: gossips, self-proclaimed detectives, and undercover reporters seeking to get an inside scoop. A year into his hiatus from the courts, his household staff had dwindled to a dozen servants, and two years on, that number had shrank further to just five.
It's ridiculous, that Reaper business. Anyone who spends any time with the man can see that. You remember clearly the day you'd told him, in no uncertain terms.
"How can you tell?" Barok had asked, his lovely blue eyes going wide with shock.
You'd shrugged and struggled to answer. "It doesn't seem like you. Maybe because you're punctual. You're home near the same time each day, down to the minute. Or how you run this household, strict but fair."
He'd stared at you in silence, and you'd fidgeted.
"Look, I know none of this would hold up in court. It's hard to explain," you'd said, a touch of defiance creeping into your voice. "But I see you, My Lord, day in and day out. You are the same gentle, fair person you were before, and you haven't changed."
"Haven't I?" he'd replied, gesturing at his scarred and scowling face.
"Sure, if you mean that you're cold and guarded. But not in h-how you. . . ." You'd faltered, your teeth gritted and your hands balled into fists at your sides, but you'd found the courage to speak plainly. "Not in how your eyes turn steely when you hear of wrongdoing, or how you smile at children when you think no one's looking. Not in how you live. . . and how you love," you'd finished in a whisper.
"______," he'd murmured. Your name had never sounded so beautiful before.
". . . go ahead and punish me for speaking so plainly," you'd added.
His lips had twitched into a smile. It was also the most beautiful smile you'd ever seen.
Things are different between him and you after your near-confession. Fewer words, longer touches, and more searching looks. There's an electric current simmering between the two of you; you're pretty sure he harbors a spark for you too. Often, he seems on the verge of a decision: he turns to you, a hand fidgeting at his side and words just on the tip of his tongue. He always stops himself, and you wonder why.
The tub is nearly full now, delicate tendrils of steam curling up from the surface. You ponder for a moment more, then select some bottles from a cabinet. You drop in a spoonful of lemon juice, to revitalize. A few drops of lavender oil, to soothe. A sprinkle of tea leaves, to sharpen the mind. Last of all is a cupful of rosewater, for sentiment. Satisfied, you give the fragrant water a final swirl. Before you leave, you set out a bathrobe and two hard candies, Barok's favorite kind that he won't admit to liking.
Across the hall, the bedroom door is open, light spilling from a hairline crack between the door and frame.
Once, you would have knocked. Now, you know what it means.
You enter to find Barok seated by his desk, waiting. He stands when he sees you and holds out his arms.
You've done this routine hundreds of times before, and it's so seamless it feels almost dancelike. You slide the heavy cloak down his arms and hang it by the door. He inclines his head, and you lift his sash, the ends of it barely brushing his hair as it passes. Next is the buttons of his vest. They are warm and familiar under your fingers, and each one opens smoothly. You run your hands over the raised embroidery as you set the vest aside.
As the clothes peel away, layer by layer, the man beneath them seems to relax. Barok sighs, and his shoulders slump, and the clenched knots along the sides of his jaw dissolve away. When he looks up again, his face is softer, more open, as if the weight of his public presence has fallen away.
The jabot is always a moment of exquisite intimacy: your hands at Barok's neck, your knuckles grazing his soft, vulnerable skin. His throat bobs against your hand as he swallows. Gently, you unwind the jabot and pull it away. You cross the room to smooth it out on the desk. After the warmth of Barok's skin, the air is cold on your hands.
"______, come here," Barok says, and there's a catch in his voice. When you meet his eyes, they are bright, and his cheeks are flushed.
Wordlessly, you return to his side. He sits on the bed and pulls you with him, and you feel your control stretched to the breaking point. Your heart pounds furiously, restless and rabbit-fast. When he reaches for your chin, his eyes hold an unspoken question.
After so many years at his side, his meaning is perfectly clear. You give the tiniest nod.
When he kisses you, you forget to be proper; you forget to be professional as you seize his face in both hands and ardently respond. He huffs in surprise, and his breath is hot against your lips. His mouth opens under yours. Eagerly, your tongue traces each of his lips in turn and memorizes every crease. When you fumble open his undershirt, the hard planes of his chest are firm under your hand, and the fabric crumples between your skin and his.
"Wait," he gasps, breaking out of the kiss. "It's not safe."
"What do you mean?"
He's watching you intently, something hard and heartbreaking in his expression. "Those in the Reaper's employ are not safe from retaliation, especially not my head butler," he says. He looks away. "I will set you up with an estate. You will have everything you could ever want or need. You can lead a quiet life, far from would-be vigilantes or interrogators. . . with someone you love."
And there it is, another opening to finish what you started many months ago. What you truly meant to say.
Still, you can't find words grand enough, momentous enough for the man before you. "My Lord, Barok van Zieks, please don't send me from your side," you say simply.
For a long moment, he stares at you, and you stare back, challengingly. In all things, he is Lord of the Manor, but in this you won't back down.
Miraculously, he understands, and he smiles. He holds out a hand, and without his glove, the skin is soft and creased. Standing before you, with his shirt half-undone and his hair mussed, and the Reaper's costume folded away, he's so tantalizingly human that your heart aches.
"Come join me, then, ______," he says, and you jump up so quickly you almost trip. His lips quirk into a barely-suppressed chuckle, and his eyes twinkle at you fondly. "I don't know what I'd do without you," he says.
Gently, he takes your hand and leads you across the hall.