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"Don't."
Phoebe doesn't follow it up with anything, she doesn't say what exactly she's forbidding her from doing. The don't is left hanging in the air—no connectors, no verbs, no adjectives, no nothing.
Nothing in verbality, but everything in the way her normally gentle stare turns everything but gentle—abnormally pointed at the cigarette pinched between the middle-pointer gap of Zani's fingers.
Zani raises an eyebrow, amused.
"Don't what, angel?" She feigns innocence first, tilting her head just to add an effect.
But it's obvious that she knows. Knows so well what she means with the twirling of her cigarette that makes Phoebe pout.
"You know what."
"As a matter of fact, angel, I don't." Lie, lie, lie—a white lie that makes the glare grow even brighter. Phoebe's glare might as well do the lighter's job of striking up the cigarette for her if she was capable of it. "Don't break up with you, you mean? Wasn't planning to anytime soon."
Phoebe stays silent for a moment, still covering herself with the comforter they'd bought together at the creative bazaar they went to a week ago.
She watches her, watches and just watches her like a guard dog—sometimes Zani feels like she's learnt a trick or two from her. Something about keeping an eye on your target no matter what because even a split second of wavering focus could lead to the tiniest scratch on her cheek or even a fatal injury that would render her pension fund useless with no one to take advantage of—and both scenarios were disgracefully looked down upon in the Montelli's codebooks, no doubt.
But this time, the target isn't anything remotely dangerous—well, she guesses an argument could be made that a cigarette is dangerous for her health in the long-term, but she uses it so few and far in between her days that she feels like the effects, if any, would be barely negligible.
Phoebe keeps on watching even as her tail tries to sneakily open the drawer of their nightstand, watches even as she grabs a lighter out of said drawer. Watches as her tail closes the drawer, as she fixes the position of her cigar, as she lifts the lighter up to the cigar, and keeps on watching even as her finger toys around with the copper switch of the lighter and—
Phoebe watches her, still, even when she pulls herself off their awfully good bargain of a fluffy comforter to swiftly take the lighter off her fingers and throwing it Imperator knows where.
"Don't use that." She admits, finally—the answer that's always been known from the start.
Her girlfriend is always full of surprises, both good and bad but mostly good—ninety-nine point nine-nine percent good; zero point zero-one percent bad kind of mostly good and that bad is really just because she refuses to have crownapple on her pizzas—and it's the next thing that comes out of her mouth, Zani thinks, that's just another surprise waiting to happen.
Phoebe leans in, eyes closed and their lips meet just as they have a hundred times over. Perfectly connected, perfectly slotted, perfectly perfect as if they were made for each other—and Zani can't even utter a complaint over the fact that in the midst of all that Phoebe had flicked the cigarette off her fingers flawlessly with her focus long gone when she's so distracted over, well, that.
When Phoebe pulls back, all Zani can do is just blink.
Blink, blink, blink—completely not unfazed as Phoebe watches.
Of course she's still watching.
"Not that I'm really counting," Zani mumbles finally, letting her mouth run because Phoebe's still waiting, waiting like she wants a reaction—and there's a punchline somewhere here, isn't there? "But I did just have my mouth between your legs just a few minutes ago."
Phoebe gapes at her, redness infinitely filling up her cheeks as she hits her chest from her morbidly shameless response.
"Y—you—!"
But then she stops, and it's almost comical how the redness drains from her face as it's her turn to lift an eyebrow, looking at her as if Zani had just offended her mother.
(Which she wouldn't do, thank you very much—if anything, she would fall down to her knees and thank the lady for going through nine months of pregnancy and her wonderful, beautiful blonde hair that she'd so graciously passed down to her daughter because seriously—as much as she loves the silver color of her hair, nothing could ever beat the sunshine that makes up the crown of Phoebe's head.
Though she could make a case that she would definitely rock the color when she's old, much older than she is now, when they're off spending their retirement in a cozy seaside cottage by the soothing waves of Riccioli with that fund she's been building up, anticipating the visits from their children and their children's children and maybe even their friends' children because who knows what the future entails, really—all Zani cares about is that Phoebe is there with her, that she'll grow her first grey hairs with her, that—)
"Y—you're aware what you're insinuating with lighting the cigarette because you just had your mouth between my legs a few minutes ago?"
Huh?
What does that even mean—
Zani freezes.
Wait, what the hell was she saying? Oh Imperator above, oh Sentinel almighty—doesn't she know how that can be misinterpreted? Oh she might as well join the Troupe of Fools so she can walk off the plank and let Cetus consume her infinitely. Not the time, Zani. Not the time, damnit, where's the Montelli handbook to respond affirmatively in dire situations when you need one—
"N—not that I'm saying I was lighting the cigarette because of that," she stutters, flailing her hands around, using some half-assed excuse that really wouldn't work considering that excuse is long past expired with the tight-knit intimacy that comes with their relationship but it's worth a try, she guesses; "I—I mean—y—you know, I like everything about you, that included, really—I’d do it everyday if I could!” A little too open, goodness, but it’s not like she’s lying. She really would if Phoebe allowed her to do that everyday. She’s basically addicted to her, honestly, anyone who knew about them knows that she’d even—focus, Zani, damnit.
"Plus, a little birdy once told me that for bodily reasons, I shouldn't kiss her right after I—"
But that slight panicky tangent doesn't really matter at the end because Phoebe drops the act and giggles, giggles at her attempt of coaxing her that Zani now knows she didn't actually need to do, cutting her off right before she can frantically end her sentence.
"I know." She cuts and isn't she just so amused at her panicking, "I'm just kidding with you. So much for being able to, and I quote 'capable of keeping calm under intense high pressure situations', Miss Best Employee for Multiple Consecutive Years."
Huh, she's even taking a line out of her resumé and using her prestigious title that so many of her colleagues might even kill to get their hands on to rub salt on her pathetically open wound.
Funnily enough, Zani can only laugh at the irony that comes with it after a situation where she acted otherwise.
"You know how corporate language is like." She goes, pulling Phoebe onto her lap, "Don't rat me out to my employers, will you?"
"Course not," Phoebe answers gleefully, letting her do as she pleases, tracing circles at the spot she'd just hit.
She huffs, then, before saying her next words a little more seriously, "Your eating habits are already unhealthy enough, cigarettes surely won't help that."
Zani winces at that.
(Well, it's not like she smokes all the time—maybe two a week, five times if things are really that stressful. Okay, well, maybe that's more than she should, but she can live without them, honestly, it just helps with the stress sometimes, and the amount she uses is also less than the average smoker so still.
She knows that having an excess of anything is bound to come with problems—even too much water in too little time could lead to death, death for crying out loud—and something so destructive like cigarettes would be bad for her, too, even with her resonator capabilities and whatnot.
But it's not that big of a deal, really—she doesn't feel lacking in any way as a result of it.
Seeing Phoebe so worried like this, though—it did make her a bit more terrified of the damage it could potentially have on herself if the damage were to come.)
Her tail starts to circle around her own torso as she looks away, tilts her head down until her nose brushes against Phoebe’s chin, unable to face the worry in her eyes and that's her equivalent of a puppy's ears immediately drooping down whenever it wants to placate its owner, she guesses.
"I'm sorry."
She mumbles, nosing at her neck.
It doesn't take long before Phoebe tilts her head up, placing a short kiss on her lips once again before she speaks.
"Don't be." She placates her, their foreheads close together, "I know I'm not your wife yet—but I'm still your girlfriend, and to say that I'm not worried about your health would not be the truth."
Well, she might as well be. After all, despite the fact that they've only been together for less than a year—her pension fund already has Phoebe's name included in it, and it's not like they don't basically live together under one roof even if Phoebe's never officially moved in with her.
Zani's throat goes dry.
Her wife, huh.
It's one step closer to that slight fantasy tangent she had just now, and it's the thought of it that makes Zani blurt: "We could change that."
Phoebe scrunches her face, puzzled. Clearly not really getting what she's referring to by that.
Cute.
"Change what?"
But a marriage proposal now of all times isn't exactly how Zani envisions it happening, so.
”Mmh?” She blinks at her innocently. "Nothing."
Instead, she pulls her into a hug and it makes Phoebe squeak from the suddenness of it all which, again—cute.
Extremely cute, even.
"I'll try not to anymore." Zani assures her because she doesn't want to see her so worried over her all the time. "I want to live a long life with you, so I'll try my best to keep myself healthy so we can do just that."
She never thought she’d find herself wanting a life like this, back then, when they'd first met and all she knew was that she did not want to trouble herself with the threat of excommunication when it's always been clear that her kind persecuted her so much—but now isn't then, and how will her life ever be truly complete, without Phoebe by her side?
There's a hum of agreement, and a hand threads through her silvercrested hair as Phoebe hugs her in return.
"I know, me too." She says, gently carressing her as another form of placation, that their plans for the future intersected just as much, "I'm just saying: you have me—don't use that when you could have me to occupy your mouth instead."
It's funny how Zani can almost feel it; all that somberness in the air evaporating the instance those words leave Phoebe's mouth—and she thinks that Phoebe knows that too, seeing how she breaks the hug initiatively and mirrors her action just a few moments before as her eyelashes flutter at her with intent.
"Unless, of course—you still want that…"
"No."
She's toying with the string of her nightgown even though Phoebe had just worn it back on, had just fastened the straps and pulled it up taut some minutes prior.
Oh, it would be quite a shame if she pulled it right back off, but it's not like she's going to refuse her when she'd forwardly gave her the choice.
"How inexplicably bold and utterly kind of you to offer this heretic such a wonderful deal, Little Miss Acolyte." Zani muses, pulling her ever closer. "No turning back, now. Though I have to ask: shall I go on a deep cleanse first or will the fair lady let me kiss her immediately again?”
Phoebe giggles once more, all sweet and lovely as always as she leans into her again for the second time.
Cigarettes never really retain a position in her monthly expenses after that night.
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