Work Text:
The paperwork is never-ending, no way to see the light at the end of the tunnel (no way for the light from the surface to reach the interior of the Fortress) and the ticking of the clocks and cogs on the wall drones on. Shuffling the papers, clicking their pen again and giving it a little shake in a vain effort to coax more dark ink to flow, they continue their work.
"Well, well, well; look who's still here."
They look up as the Duke strides in, tea in one hand and more paperwork held lazily in the other. Making his way toward them, heavy boots march against the flooring. They give him a brief withering look, only humming in response to his comment. The paperwork in front of them has their undivided attention (if they spent too long indulging in staring at the Duke, they would never get anything done; dreadful to think how little work either of them would get done if he felt the same, they think).
"Here, brought you something."
They reach out their hand without looking up, fully expecting the stack of papers he had been carrying to now be in their list of to-dos. When their hand simply knocks into his instead; however, they startle and turn. He only laughs, a deep chuckle, as he grasps their hand in his playfully.
"Well now, you could have just said you were feeling lonely down here. I know how it can get, especially if you're not used to it." He winks, damn him.
Whatever he had been attempting to hand them in the first place is put tucked carefully into one of his many pockets as he continues to hold their hand. He is still standing beside them where they sit in their desk chair, now turned slightly to face each other as the oddness of the evening continues to make their heart beat faster. Turning their hand this way and that, he makes a comparison that has them blushing a red shade to match his tie.
"How are your hands so delicate? The Fortress isn't the best place for-"
They really did not think. They really, really did not think before they swept their leg out to behind his, a knee-jerk defense; which, effectively, knocks him on his rather nice behind quite promptly. It does seem to shut him up though, at least, from whatever else he was about to say about their "delicate" hands (they are ashamed to admit how often they might have thought about how their hands would look against his, how much smaller they might be), and he sits on the floor, now crossing his legs in a criss-cross way as his eyes widen almost comically. The Duke is no stranger to a good brawl, or some underhanded brawling tactics, and the Fortress itself sees more than its fair share of fighting (playful or otherwise), but he can honestly say that he has never really considered his most distracting colleague to be much of a fighter. They can handle themself, he is sure (they are working in the Fortress of Meropide, after all), but he has never really seen it firsthand before and for some reason, maybe a deep-rooted desire for someone who can keep up with him (someone who understands), it delights him. He cackles.
They begin to apologize profusely but he is still laughing when they help pull him to stand, shaking his head as they move to pull their hands away from where they had grabbed his own to pull him up. He doesn't let them go (he looks to their eyes, briefly, and sees no fear in them; it pleases something deep inside him to know that they trust him enough to let him get close like this without concern). His grin is feral sharp, all wolf and bite and pure delight.
"I haven't seen you do that before."
They duck away, still blushing, perhaps even harder than before (no longer just the mortification of having a crush on a colleague, now an addendum of having swept said colleague literally off his feet).
"Let's see you do that again."
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They do end up sparring with him, a little private boxing area for practice off to the side, just enough to satisfy his curiosity; he wins the match with ease, and they are left utterly winded by the intensity with which he fights (he went easy on them; they both know this was never a real fight and they hope that they will never have to find out how a real one would go). He seems pleased with their performance, dishing out compliments and tips throughout their fun. It is not helping their increasingly obvious crush at all, and they wonder if he knows, if he really is just teasing them (he is pretty sure he knows, he is pretty sure they like it when he teases them).
They are getting themselves put back to some semblance of office-ready professionalism, trying not to look like they quite literally went a few rounds of boxing with a colleague on their impromptu break, and chatting all the while. Wriothesley stops himself mid-sentence as they stretch their arms.
"I'd like to host you for tea, sometime."
Their head snaps to him with such a velocity that for a moment he is concerned that the cracking sound from their stretching arms actually came from their neck instead, but they stay upright and otherwise unharmed so he figures that they must be alright.
"Tea?"
"Yes, tea. I have the kind you like."
"You have lots of kinds of tea."
"Well, then- I 'ought to have several kinds that you like."
They blink at him. He waits, increasingly uncharacteristically nervous, and adjusts his tie. Clearing his throat,
"You are certainly under no obligation to acce-"
"I accept."
They blink at each other this time. He grins, they blush.
"Good, if you'll indulge me, it's time for our evening tea."
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"I won't have the means to treat you as you deserve, you know."
They do know; his job does not allow for much time off or much in the way of romance, but they are still very much so interested in trying. They tell him as much in between sips of a tea he had described as tasting like an evening's first kiss (he had huffed a bit when he said it, claimed he was not sure what that was trying to convey, they hope to help him find out later). They have been sitting together for long enough that they've begun to worry about what yet needs to be accomplished in the work day, the Duke does not seem bothered by any of it at all. He soothes them each time they bring it up, claiming that everyone knows that he's a bit of a slacker and promising that no one will think less of them for handing in a report or two a couple hours late (they are glad that they work ahead, always preparing to turn things in early; they should be able to get everything done on time, if they wanted to, if they could make themselves leave his company for but a moment but that gets more difficult to fathom with every passing minute they spent admiring him, admiring each other).
Wriothesley insists, in a way that they almost did not expect, that they discuss the details of everything before coming to anything decisive. He lays out what he can offer them, what he would quite like to offer them, as a partner; and hopes in a way he has not since he was very young, that it will be enough. He prepares himself for how to behave if it is not, knows nothing in life is perfect, but he hopes anyway. They lay out what they can offer, not trading pieces of themselves with him for every piece he has offered but rather, sharing the pieces together. Finding ways in which they are compatible, finding what each other needs and wants and the realities of what could be. It is, and they pat themselves on the back a bit for this, a rather mature conversation, something sensible people do before leaping in; but when it becomes more and more apparent that they truly are quite compatible, that they truly do both want this most ardently, the decision makes itself. They are both grinning, feral sharp with delight.
"You know, there is no one who enters or leaves the Fortress without my knowing. I fully intend to come find you each time you are here, and maybe we'll do tea."
"Tea every time? You'll run out."
"Impossible, I'll stock up more if I have to. And if it's not tea that'll satisfy you, I'll bring something else."
They laugh, a bit too bright, giddy with the wonder that what they have wanted is within their grasp; his hand holds theirs across the tea table.
"What else could a person possibly want? Other than you and tea, evidently."
Wriothesley leans back in his chair, rolling his neck a bit and stretching his broad shoulders in show. He stands, making his way over to their side of the table.
"Do you know that a good portion of this tea comes in sachets wrapped in ribbons? The maker personalizes the collections by choosing a color for each customer; they match my tie."
Leaning over them, pulling a deep colored silk ribbon from his pocket, he waits for them to offer him their hand.
"I should think, maybe, that you might want a day-to-day reminder that I am yours? For when our jobs keep us apart, as they do."
They lean into him as he wraps the silk gently around their one wrist, a neat little bow (he has learned from the melusines, they realize with adoration) later and he brings it to his lips for a kiss. They make eye contact, and crack a laugh at the look in his eye.
"Well I think maybe you want a day-to-day reminder that I belong to you, and it doesn't hurt that the rest of the Fortress will recognize the color either, I suppose, my good Duke?"
He only grins in response, still all teeth and bite and delight, and pulls them closer for a real kiss.
The ribbon that he had intended to give them earlier in the day, when their hands had brushed together for the first time, seems to glisten in the low evening light.
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They walk unafraid through the Fortress each time their job brings them back; the ribbon wrapped around their wrist is light as a feather, and carries the weight of the Duke's wrath for any that try their luck taking it from them. He finds them each time, a constant that they can count on (despite the time-sensitive nature of his vocation), and, true to his word, there is always more tea (and a kiss) to be shared.