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| Details |
| Author: | inkie |
| Summary: | Mr. Hazan and Miss Callis continue their Proper Courtship with the previously-promised picnic; courtship becomes considerably less Proper, and considerably more Educational. Discussion is had and Discoveries are made, some of them very nice and some of them not. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
Chain: Bizzy
This scene is romantic in nature and takes a decided turn into the Adult; it is present on the wiki only halfway, and then links out to a Google Doc. The more graphic sexual content and the more explicit references to childhood abuse are both contained in the latter half of the scene, so if the first half is uncomfortable, please do not feel obliged to pursue. Please note that none of the scene is either posted or linked whimsically; there is Character Content therein.
The actual date of the picnic was, for timeline purposes, Thursday, October 14th.
This far south in the Eastern Kingdoms, fall comes later. The days, though they have lost their summer heat, retain a delicious warmth that contrasts nicely with crisp nights. The sun touches the land as a benediction rather than a warning, and tips the just-changing yellow and green leaves with a honeyed glow. The cloying stenches of summer have been swept away by autumn breezes carrying with them the scents of harvest and the promise of the winter to come.
It is on just this sort of perfect afternoon that Miss Ismene Callis, Mizzy to her friends, waits at the gates of Stormwind. She has with her a soft bag, just the right size to contain a bottle of some kind. She sways as she waits, the bag swinging like a pendulum, brushing back and forth against the deep green of her skirt. Appropriate to the season, it has been embroidered (naturally) with a scattering of leaves in gold and yellow, various shades of each thread adding the illusion of depth. Some of the leaves have even been pointed in red. Her shirt is a matching green, but lacks the embroidery.
Ben Hazan approaches from the city, passing through the sentinel shadows of the statues in the Valley of Heroes and out into the mellow light. He’s dressed in a woolen vest of a tweedy charcoal grey, with black trousers and neatly-shined black workboots, and his hair has actually been disciplined by a comb recently; he is almost the picture of a young city gentleman.
(I say almost because his shirtsleeves are, per usual, rolled. If they were not, however, one might see that his cuffs have been delicately embroidered with golden wheat.)
He’s carrying a basket in one hand, swinging it a little as he walks and whistling tunelessly through his teeth (also unlike a city gentleman), his other hand in his pocket. When he sees Mizzy, his stride hitches briefly and his expression lights up. He picks up the pace of his approach. And stops whistling.
“Hey,” he says when he reaches her. “Hello.” He looks her up and down with undisguised appreciation. “You look so pretty.”
She smiles at him, bright and warm as the sunshine. “And you look very handsome.” One hand releases the drawstring of the bag so she can smooth down a non-existent wrinkle in his vest. She does not at all take note of the broad muscle underneath. Even though the book was right.
“Our orchard?” she asks.
They have an orchard now.
Ben arches a brow; his smile widens. “Yes’m,” he agrees. “Our orchard.”
He shifts the basket to his other hand and offers her his arm again. “A nice day for it. You remember the way?”
Nothing loath, Mizzy tucks her arm through his. “Umm, I remember there’s a little stream?” she says. Whether by accident or design, she walks off in the correct direction, presumably dragging Ben with her.
“However, you must promise to behave better than last time, for I have several subjects to discuss with you, and I shan’t be distracted by kissing. No matter how nice.” Her tone is as arch as her eyebrows, though her eyes sparkle with amusement as she looks over and up at him.
Ben allows himself to be dragged: it’s the chihuahua and Clydesdale show, round two. “Miss,” he says humbly, “I will be on my very best behavior.” (There is no guarantee, either express or implied, that his very best behavior does not include kissing.) “I am interested to hear what subjects you have got to discuss.”
He tucks his arm closer to his side, incidentally drawing her a little closer and capturing her arm against him. “If we keep along the hills, the stream’s just that way.” He nods ahead toward the stretch of open countryside growing visible through the trees.
She doesn’t pull away, being a sensible girl, but she does head in the indicated direction. “Some of these things are my own thoughts, some have been, well, brought to my attention. I’m afraid I shocked your aunt. Well, you were there. When you and Sir Elohad stayed downstairs?”
For the fun of looking at him again, she looks at him again.
Ben looks down at her gravely, though there is a suspicious quirk at one corner of his mouth. “I find it pretty hard to believe, Ismene, that you shocked my aunt. To be honest, I’d find it hard to believe most anything shocked my aunt. But okay. What happened?” He hesitates, and the mouth-quirk vanishes in favor of a furrowed brow. “Also — should I be worried about these subjects to discuss? I did not, personally, bring any subjects.”
Mizzy assures him, “Oh, she was shocked. Then I got a talking-to and then I yelled. Then I got another talking-to. But not in a mean way!” she hastens to assure him. “She’s just concerned about … Um. Things.”
It’s not an easy topic to discuss. How does one bring it up, after all? ‘Ha ha, I bet you know all about how women get pregnant because farm, right? Well guess what?’ She shakes her head silently at her thoughts. That won’t do at all.
Or will it? “You grew up on a farm? With farm animals, right? I ask because I suppose by some lights I grew up on one too, only we didn’t have animals. Well, there were birds and rabbits and things, but … I mean, pigs and perhaps cows and such?”
Ben raises his eyebrows. “I did in fact grow up on a farm, yeah. With hogs. Pigs, that is. And mules. Couple’ve cows when I was younger, till they gave up. We did not have the greatest pasturin’ land.”
His attention is momentarily diverted by their arrival at the stream. Reluctantly, he releases her arm to step across, and then turns back to hold a hand out to her. “Is it a test about farmin’? Did my aunt ask you … somethin’ about farmin’?” Some of his verbal polish is fading under bemusement.
Balancing herself with hands on his arm, Mizzy hops across without getting her skirts wet. On the other side, she tucks herself against him once again, as close as before without needing to be tugged. “Nnnno,” she says. “It’s … I was telling her about a book I read. She sent me another book that I r-read.” At night. With the lights out. Under the covers.
“Have you read many of the Elanor Steelbloom books?” she asks, all innocence.
Ben’s expression does An Thing. His aunt sent her an … oh. He clears his throat and furrows his brow in deep thought. “I think — I do recall, I believe, that I have read one or two of those, yeah.” He pauses. “One was about pirates, and one had an SI:7 fellow, I recall.” That is why Ben read them, naturally.
He checks her expression cautiously. “It wasn’t … it wasn’t a new one, was it?”
Innocent as all get-out, Mizzy shakes her head. Her toes nudge at an early fallen leaf. “The publication date was old,” (sorry Niris) she says, “but it was … It was very … It had some things in it that …” She keeps trailing off, then finishes in a rush, “That might perhaps pertain to what I said that shocked her.”
“Okay,” says Ben, still cautious, still watching her. “And it was for sure … that you shocked her? She did not shock you?”
She has to giggle at that. “Perhaps it went both ways,” she admits. “Her at my lack of knowledge, me at her frankness.”
Mizzy gestures ahead to the orchard and the crumbling wall around it. “Most of the apples are gone,” she says. Is she changing the subject? She could not say.
“Aw,” says Ben, taking in the newly-bare branches. The smell of fermenting windfall, strong and cidery, hangs in the air. The weeds and wildflowers that crowd the ranked trees have mostly gone to seed and brittle stems, though a few stalks of goldenrod still show gallant yellow plumes. “Still a pretty picture, though.”
When they reach the wall, he sets the basket down atop it, and then turns to put his hands on Mizzy’s waist as he’d done last time to swing her up. He doesn’t swing her up immediately, though, but just holds her by the waist and looks down at her. “Aunt Nir is pretty frank,” he admits. “It runs in the Hazans a little bit, maybe.” His warm, brown gaze is sympathetic, and a little amused. “I hope she wasn’t really shocked at you about lackin’ some knowledge. I mean, I kind of figured it, on account of how you was brought up. Were brought up. Proper courtin’, to be honest, does not seem to be about lettin’ you in on a whole lot of any of it.”
He has put some things together, it seems.
She turns only enough to let her set her bag on the wall, then turns back to him, content to have his hands on her waist. “There are some things that mothers may impart to daughters when the announcement has been made that an offer of marriage has been accepted,” she says. Her fingers trace over his arms, feather light, where they’re exposed by his rolled up sleeves. “Are you asking what it was I said that shocked her?” she asks, somewhat dubious but still smiling up at him.
Ben considers his answer. “I am guessing I have a general idea,” he says carefully, and drops his gaze briefly to her fingers on his arms. He smiles and looks up at her again. “Do you want to tell it to me specifically, though?” The question is as gentle as her touch was, and before she answers, he does now lift her off her feet to set her on the wall. And then he stands there before her, hands still resting on her waist. “And was it a good book she sent you?”
Mizzy laughs as she’s lifted and set on the wall. She looks up at the blue sky and turns pink. “Umm … yes,” she says carefully. “It was … very interesting. And I think I do want to tell you? Niris sort of hinted that she would if I didn’t, because she thinks we ought to have these kinds of discussions. But that does bring up something else I want to discuss, so you pick. Would you like to discuss the first thing or the second thing?”
Ben arches one eyebrow at her comically, exaggeratedly. “Well, now,” he says. “It is hard to know which I would like to discuss when I don’t know what they are. I guess we should begin at the beginning, so why don’t you tell me the first one?” He hesitates, and adds, “You can discuss any kind of thing with me, you know. Okay?”
She stares at him, stares up even though she’s sitting on the wall. “I know,” she says, very very softly. Then she laughs, turning pink yet again. “All right, the first thing.” She studies him, then laughs more. “I can’t! Not while you’re looking at me.”
Mizzy puts her hands on his waist and encourages him to turn around. “Look that way,” she commands.
“Yes, miss,” Ben says meekly — mock-meekly — and turns as directed. He folds his arms across his chest and gazes blandly into the distance, Mizzy at his back. “Gonna be honest, I like the view better with you in it. But go on, then. I’m listenin’.”
“No sass from you,” she chides, then straightens herself, folds her hands in her lap, crosses her ankles (all of this is very important when delivering shocking news). Her brown eyes lock between his shoulder blades. “Niris wanted me to tell you that I don’t know how babies are made. I read a book!” she hastens to add. “Mostly I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t from kissing. And you can turn around now.”
Ben does not turn immediately; his shoulders do something, briefly. When he does turn, though, he is composed and bland and as puppy-eyed as ever. “I will hate to break the news to Aunt Niris, on account of I know she knows everything about everyone, but I was already pretty sure that was the case. I ain’t — I did not say anythin’ because I didn’t want to make you feel embarrass if I ain’t supposed to talk about it.”
He un-folds his arms to put his hands on her waist again. “To be clear, I do know how babies are made. And I expect your book told you this, but it is not from kissin’.” His expression is admirably grave.
Mizzy tries not to sigh in relief, but it comes out sort of sigh-like. Her color starts to return to normal and she has definite heart-eyes up at him. “It did,” she says. Then she kind of looks off to the side. “It explained how but it … But then the book Niris gave me sounded …”
She wrinkles her nose at him. “We should probably talk about the second thing.”
Ben nods solemnly. He is still not smiling, but it’s getting more difficult; that twitch at the corner of his mouth is back, and there’s a certain gleam in his eyes. But he regards Mizzy with steady patience. “Okay.”
Tentatively, Mizzy hooks her index fingers through the belt loops on his pants. “I was thinking that we’ve been talking about doing everything the way I was taught. And that’s been nice! Don’t think it hasn’t been. I just think that maybe that’s not fair to you. So maybe we should — you and I — should … You know. Talk. About things.”
Ben looks down at her fingers and shifts a little closer to her on the wall. “I appreciate that, Miss Kitten-Cat. We can talk about … things. Any kind of things you like. Did you have especial questions, or am I just s’posed to … I don’t even know what.”
She nods soberly. This is a Very Serious Adult Conversation. “Well, I mean things like … Like kissing isn’t something that’s done. Sometimes after the families have agreed to the marriage, but only a little. And we’re always supposed to be chaperoned, or at least it’s preferred. But I think we’re doing things your way since we’re out without a chaperone.”
That’s one of the two for-instances she gave. Eyebrows up, big innocent doe eyes rounded, she declines to mention the other.
Ben nods thoughtfully. “Well,” he says, “yeah. So that is — where I’m from, there is not much botherin’ about chaperones, and people basically assume that when a fellow and a girl is goin’ together, there is goin’ to be some … kissin’, and what not.” He hesitates.
“However. There is a certain amount of assumin’ going on, I will grant. Where I am from, it is also expected that, you know, girls also know how babies is — are made. So they can keep it from happenin’. I can understand how, if you are from a place where no one tells girls about that kind of thing, and no one wants ‘em findin’ out until married, you might want ‘em havin’ a chaperone just in case.” A longer hesitation, this time. “Also, even sometimes our way, when girls do know about it, you might run across a fellow who … is careless about that kind of thing, so.” He holds her gaze somberly. Sincerely somberly, this time. “So, like you said how your parents got together your traditional way? With the … chaperones, and the not-really-knowin’-each-other and all? My parents got together … our way, but the wrong version. My Dad was … not a fellow to be trusted, and he got my Ma in trouble. With a baby, I mean. So they had to get married, even if they didn’t want to.”
He lifts a hand and smooths some of Mizzy’s hair back behind her ear. “Now, I will spend most of my life tryin’ not to be my Dad, and I am never gonna get a girl — you, I mean, for instance — in trouble like that. So you ain’t got to worry about babies outside of marrying, chaperones or no. I promise you. Also I think it’d be pretty sensible if your people did tell their girls about all of that before they started courtin’, just for — you know. Their own sakes, so they ain’t got to fret and wonder about it. But that is just my opinion, and clearly a lot more of your kind of people been thinkin’ differently for a long time, so it ain’t like it amount to much.” He gives her a small, wry twist of a smile. “I do like to kiss you, and all. Because I know it ain’t going — it is not going to put you in trouble, in a baby way, and because I do think people should get to know each other that kind of way, if they are goin’ together and hopin’ to get married.”
Mizzy listens to all that, angling her head toward his hand as he touches her hair. “I’m still trying to understand it all,” she admits. “What I’ve read. Some of it sounds, well, just horrible.” Her brow furrows. “And then in the other book, it all seemed quite nice. But that’s just fiction, isn’t it? And I’m still not sure what kissing has to do with any of it, though it’s also very nice. So … I suppose for me, kissing is all right. Though I do worry about the ‘and all’ part of it.”
“Well,” says Ben. “Those books are fiction. They keep it all a little … blurry. Also everyone is always the most beautiful as possible and everything turns out as perfect as possible, which is a nice reason to read those books because it ain’t happen much in life. On the other hand, I dunno what you read that sounds horrible. I am a hundred percent definite that if I do anythin’ to you, kissin’ included, that is horrible, and you tell me, ‘Ben Hazan, that is horrible,’ I will stop that instant, if not an instant before. Ain’t s'posed to be horrible. Supposed to be pretty nice.” He smiles at her and traces the curve of her cheek with his thumb. “That goes for the ‘and all,’ to be clear, too. ‘And all’ is never gonna get you in trouble in a baby way, and it is also never gonna be horrible, because I ain’t gonna let anything horrible happen to you, let alone do a horrible thing. But I do also promise to be on my best behavior. I ain’t goin’ to take advantage of what you don’t know, because I know you don’t know it and that ain’t fair.”
He stoops a little and lightly, teasingly, kisses the end of her nose. “Now. Are we gonna have a picnic, or more discussion, or some of both, or what? I am in favor of all of the above. Plus also you should tell me about that book. And if there was any of it you particularly liked.” He tips her a slightly wicked smile.
Mizzy laughs and pushes at him. “Ben! I’m not at all telling you anything about that book. Ask Niris; she loaned it to me.” Leaning back, Mizzy picks up her bag and opens it. Inside is a decent-sized bottle of Autumnal Acorn Ale. She displays it. “I wanted to try something other than cider,” she explains.
“Try somethin’? D’you not drink beer in general?” Ben surveys the label approvingly, and then steps away from Mizzy to go over to the basket. He opens it and draws out a folded woolen blanket, which he shakes out with a snap and lays on the grass outside the orchard wall. He “And no, Mizmainy, I do not think I shall ask my aunt what part of that book she particularly liked.” He casts a faux-scandalized wide-eyed look at her.
He goes back to the basket. “You want to sit up there, or on the blanket, or where? Also, I hope I got somethin’ in here you like.” He peers critically at the basket’s contents.
Mizzy hops down. “Blanket, please,” she says. “And no, I don’t generally drink beer. It wasn’t considered appropriate either. Watered wine, sometimes.”
Look out, Mizzy’s crazy alcoholic lifestyle is coming out of the shadows of her past.
“Damn,” says Ben, and lifts the basket from the wall to settle with it on the blanket himself. “Out with a fellow and drinking beer. You are all kind of wild today, Miss Callis.” His gently teasing tone is offset by the warmth in his smile.
He sheds his vest comfortably, then sits forward and begins lifting things out of the basket. There are a lot of things. It is a Ben-sized picnic. He produces and unwraps a sliced loaf of bread, and arranges around it a bunch of grapes, some sliced cheeses, and a pot of honey. There is sliced ham and cold roasted chicken. There is also — “This is Miss Barlowe’s egg pie,” he explains, setting out a pie plate, its contents already cut into neat wedges. “It’s real good cold. She puts ham in it but I put bacon in this one because I brung — brought ham also.” He sets the egg pie down and peers into the basket. “Also,” he says, and glances up at Mizzy. “There is apple cake. With walnuts.”
He rummages once more in the basket, and produces plates and napkins and silverware. “You cook?” he asks her as he lays these out. “Someone asked me the other day an’ I realized I don’t know it. I remember you said once about openin’ the old tavern in Moonbrook back up and what you’d make for it, but we were all jokin’ around so I dunno.”
Mizzy carefully arranges her skirt around her. “Cooking is not something a lady does, Mr. Hazan,” she informs him in her best Society Lady accent. “One has The Help for such things.” With a sigh and a smile, she returns to her normal accent, which is still pretty fancy. “I think a tavern would be fun, though. Not a rowdy one with fights and drunken people. A little friendly tavern where people would pop in for a drink and a bit of supper, listen to music. But then I suppose my ideas about everything are simple and nice, since I’ve realized I haven’t a clue how the world really works.
“Not that there aren’t some benefits to being sheltered, I suppose, but on the whole I think the negatives outweigh them. Well, just look at you!” She gestures toward Ben with an open hand, palm up. “You were the exact opposite of sheltered. I wish fully half of what you went through had never happened, of course! But you’re strong, confident, you know real things about the real world. I daresay nice handwriting never helped anyone survive a worgen pack or helped save people from bandits.”
She divides up the plates and silverware. After a moment, she begins folding the napkins, little tucks and twists.
Ben watches her. At length he says, quietly and with no trace of teasing humor, “I like the world how you see it, Ismene. Better than one full of worgens and bandits. I don’t think it’s simple of you, I think it’s because you’re a healer an’ that’s what a world should look like. It’s pretty, how you see it. It gives an idea of what we should be workin’ at. It is a thing to fight for, instead of just fightin’ the world because you’re angry.” He hesitates, drops his gaze to watch her hands as she folds napkins. “Being angry is not the same as being confident,” he tells her hands.
He looks up at her face again. “You have got the nicest handwriting I ever saw. But you have also helped people survive worgen attacks and bandits. I mean, I was there, I seen it. I was one of the people, at least a couple of those worgen attacks.” He crooks half a smile at her and then sobers again.
“You come up sheltered but I don’t think it made you simple or soft. I thought you was at first, you know. Soft. Till I worked with you some. You got a sweet heart but a steel spine, and being brung up how you was didn’t change either of those things because they are you. And I admire the hell out of you, kitten-cat.” His brown-eyed gaze is earnest. “I’m glad as hell you wasn’t brought up like me. But you wasn’t brought up easy either. Sometimes people come up so different or from such different places that there’s just no meeting between ‘em. But I think who you are and who I am makes us fit together pretty nice. Like … complementary. I do not wish you was any different than how you are.”
Her hands still as he sings her praises, because that’s how it sounds to her. When he falls quiet, she leans forward, hands on the blanket, knees holding her up. Her lips seek his in a small, soft kiss.
Ben smiles against her lips, and slides a hand into her hair to make the kiss a little less small and a little less soft.
When the kiss ends, he draws back but doesn’t let go of her, his fingers still in her hair, his thumb stroking the skin behind her ear. “That’s nice,” he tells her. “You are gettin’ to be real good at that.”
Mizzy smiles at him and settles back. “I had a good teacher,” she says. The napkin she then sets in front of him isn’t folded into an animal or anything odd, just a neatly tucked napkin that silverware could be slid into. She thinks about it, picks it up again to demonstrate, then sets the napkin on his plate, also in front of him. “There!” she says. “Just like home.”
Ben eyes this arrangement dubiously. “There is a napkin on my plate,” he observes, and glances at Mizzy to check whether this is, in fact, a valid interpretation of the facts. “It is folded.”
He checks on the napkin again: still on his plate, still folded. “This is how you do at home?” He looks back at Ismene, his brows knit. “And then you … unfold it?” His tone says this is the only solution he can think of but he’s pretty sure it can’t be right, because why would anyone fold a napkin up and put it on a plate in order to take it off and unfold it?
It isn’t, mind you, a judgmental tone, but a genuinely — if politely — bewildered one.
She has to laugh at his tone and his expression. “Well, it’s done before we come into dinner, of course,” she explains. “So it all looks nice. I mostly just watched until I figured out how it was done.” A sigh. “Another thing that proper young ladies didn’t do was pester the housekeeper to find out how the napkins were folded. Still, I think it looks pretty.”
To demonstrate what happens next, she slides the silverware right back out of her napkin, unfolds it, and lays it over her lap.
Then she reaches for the ale. “You said this was Miss Barlowe’s egg pie? How are you two getting along? I’ve heard rumbles.”
Ben is intent on mimicking Mizzy’s actions with the silverware and napkin, only half-attentive to her question. “Miss Barlowe’s recipe, yeah. She give it — she gave it to me after I helped her with the weddin’ food. What kind of … rumbles?” He glances up and knits his brows again, cautiously this time.
Mizzy shrugs and hands him the bottle of ale to open. “Just rumbles. That things might not be well between you two. Well, more honestly that she’s been having all sorts of trouble with all sorts of people. She’s not a danger to anyone in the company, you don’t think?”
Ben accepts the bottle. He produces a pocketknife and opens it in a practiced motion, then passes it back to Mizzy: ladies first. “Miss Barlowe? No, ‘course she ain’t. She’s a good girl. A little —” He tips his head, trying to think of a diplomatic way to say what Miss Barlowe is a little of. “She’s kind of a spitfire. A little spoiled, a little know-all. But I think she means pretty well, and I ain’t doubt her as far as the Company goes. She’s been around from the start, she is loyal to Mr Ference and the Alliance, and she does good work.” He hesitates. “She was a little pissed I got promoted. Is still, maybe. I went and talked to her about it, but.” He shrugs.
Mizzy looks around for any sign of cups or mugs or chalices or whatever. “But?”
Ben failed to bring his engraved silver chalices today, alas. He reaches back into the basket and produces a bundled kitchen tea-towel which, when un-bundled, proves to contain two earthenware cups. He sets these on the blanket, and tucks the towel back into the basket. “But, I dunno. If she’s over it or not. She said she’ll quit actin’ a way about it, which is pretty much all you can ask a person for. Can’t really tell ‘em not to feel a way or think a thing. I mean, you can tell ‘em, but it don’t mean it’ll do anything actually about how they think or feel. Anyhow, it ain’t like I didn’t expect it. Kind of nice, if I’m honest, that she was the first person to get out of joint about it, because at least I could go and have it out with her properly.”
Mizzy pours the ale neatly, just enough of a foamy head on it to be fun but not enough to spill over the top. She even gives the bottle an expert twist with one hand, to catch any lingering drops. “Well, I’m glad. I think it’s the sort of thing I ought to be alert to, so I can let Captain Sparkwire know before anything gets out of hand. Not with you, of course!”
She smiles at him, certain that everyone adores him as she does. “You cook, don’t you?”
“Miss Kitten,” says Ben very politely, but there’s laughter in his voice. “Where you think I got all of this from?” His gesture encompasses the egg pie, the chicken, the basket which still contains the alleged apple cake. “I do cook, yeah. Not as good as Miss Barlowe, but I did lend a hand with the weddin’ food to get that recipe. Been cookin’ for my aunt and Mr. Ference some. Tryin’ to teach Mr. Ference, too.”
Brightening (as if she ever isn’t bright), Mizzy says, “Oh! Maybe you could teach me. I mean, maybe not when you’re teaching Sir Elohad, but something … Well, something nice we could do. When the weather turns bad.” She takes a slice of ham and nibbles on it. “You and me in a tiny kitchen …”
“Ohhh,” says Ben. “I will admit that does sound like a pretty nice way to spend some bad weather. Would you wear an apron?” He arches an eyebrow at her, as innocent as Innocence the Mule, and reaches for a slice of bread.
She stops nibbling. There’s a trap here, she senses it. “Probably,” she says, eyes narrowing though they dance with happiness. “Why wouldn’t I?”
If Ben looked any more innocent he would probably sprain his actual conscience. “I don’t know why you wouldn’t. I am just askin’. I bet you will be cute as hell in an apron, is all.” He layers ham on top of bread, innocently.
Mizzy aims a fork at him. “You think I don’t know what that guileless look means, Mr. Hazan, but I am on to your country boy ways.” Do not worry, Ben, she only uses it to help herself to a wedge of egg pie, placing it on her plate. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at most household tasks, really. You should’ve seen the mess I made the first time I tried to mop HQ. Water everywhere! I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to pour soapy water on the floor and then scrub it up. It took forever.”
Ben gives her the sort of melting heart-eyed look people reserve for adorable floofy kittens who fall flat on their faces trying to clamber out of baskets. He does not say 'Awwww,' but his entire manner is a silent Awwww.
What he does say, diplomatically, is, "Well, you're real good at all kind of other stuff. Like, for example, manners. And kissing." He has a bite of his sandwich and says around the mouthful — not being particularly good at manners himself — "What of my country boy ways is you on to, miss?"
“Those big brown eyes and that too-sweet face that says butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth,” she replies, popping a bite of egg pie into her mouth. She chews, dabs at her lips with her napkin, puts the fork down, and says further, “And that ‘aw shucks’ demeanor. That’s the part that really means one must be on one’s alert around you.”
Just for an instant, Ben’s expression does something that is neither sweet nor aw-shucks, a glimpse of something harder and hollow, like someone else's ghost looking out of his face. But it drops away almost at once, the puppy eyes back, and he says with wounded masculine dignity, "My face ain't sweet."
An instant, maybe, but Mizzy pays a lot of attention to Ben’s face. To his expressions. To his nuances. She may not know what they mean, but she pays attention to them. Her teasing light-heartedness vanishes, and that part of her that just wants to make everything better twinges in discomfort. She reaches for him, bare hand stroking his jaw.
“No,” she says softly, “it’s dear to me and perfect.”
The puppy fades again under her touch, and he stares at her, bewildered but also wary. After a moment, quietly, stiffly, as if testing something new and uncomfortable — a different kind of diction, for instance — he says, "I got it from my Dad. That face. Not — I mean, my face, too, but the sweet one. S' why people liked him, in spite of. It's hard for folks to see behind. He was just charmin' as hell."
He studies Mizzy, still stiff and uncertain. "To be clear, I ain't like him. But I do — got that knack. I ain't mean to pull it so much as I do, probably, but it does make it easier to get on with folks, an' it's kind of a habit. I dunno if I should tell you this even, in case that's most of what you like, but. I figure we got to know each other." He waits almost grimly for her verdict. For once he is not looking at his knee or his own hands or hers or anything else; his gaze meets hers directly and steadily.
Her thumb traces the line of his cheekbone. “For me, this face is only Ben’s. These eyes are only Ben’s. Your smile, your laugh, when you’re charming or furious. Everything you have and are is only you.”
After a moment of meeting his eyes, his grim and direct steadiness to her warmth and assurance and affection, she picks up her fork again. “And don’t be too impressed. I got that last part from the book.”
Smiling a little, she offers him a bite of egg pie.
His expression thaws to bafflement: not the brittle confusion of a minute ago but something soft and wondering. He leans slightly forward to take the bite of egg pie — carefully and self-consciously, his gaze still on hers — and settles back again to chew and swallow. When he has, he says hoarsely, “Mizzy Callis, I am pretty sure I love you.”
Ears abruptly scarlet, he clears his throat; the earnest puppy face drops back into place and he adds lightly, trying to shift the moment, “Sounds like it was a pretty good book, huh? You think I should read it?”
“No!” Her protest is immediate and full of laughter. “If you read it, you’ll know where I find all my prettiest words. Otherwise, I’m sure I wouldn’t know how to tell you all the things I want to tell you.”
And there are so many things, all wordless for now and in her eyes and her smile, in the way she’s still leaning toward him just a little.
He leans a little toward her in turn, and puts gentle fingertips beneath her chin. “If I kiss you,” he suggests thoughtfully, “maybe you will tell me some of the things?”
“If you don’t kiss me, I certainly won’t,” she promises.
"Damn," he says. "It sounds like you have pretty much got me hostage on this one, miss." Tipping her face up with his fingertips, he kisses her.
Then he kisses her again. He releases her chin, and his fingers skim the line of her jaw and slide back into her hair; he pulls her a little closer with his grip on her nape. The kiss deepens, and Mizzy graduates from Kissing 101 to Kissing 102: Introduction to Tongues. He is gentle and, in fact, introductory, ready to draw back at the slightest sign of dismay.
There’s no dismay. If anything, there’s a bit of an epiphany. A small one, a bittypiphany. Besides, it’s all terribly interesting, finding out just what that book meant. Shyly, greatly daring, Mizzy kisses him back using exactly as much tongue as he does, lest she accidentally fall into some taboo area.
Her knee knocks aside the plate of egg pie as she crawls just a bit closer to Ben.
Ben, without looking — he is quite occupied, now, by kissing Mizzy — reaches out his other hand to sort of paw the egg pie plate even further out of the way, tipping it near-calamitously in the process, and then grips Mizzy’s arm to tug her closer still. He does not pull her into his lap, but he strongly encourages her to consider the offer. His other hand squeezes the nape of her neck in a wordless gesture of approval. He does not stop kissing her to approve verbally, because his mouth is busy approving nonverbally.
The ale is the next innocent bystander to fall. Mizzy does not actually take a great deal of encouragement. She’s not exactly sure how to arrange herself in his lap, but biology is what biology is and there are only so many ways a woman can sit in a man’s lap. Mizzy knows one: sideways. Her arms loop easily around Ben’s neck. Her forehead against his, she breaks the kiss to try and breathe. “My,” she whispers. “This is turning out to be a much different picnic.”
Ben exhales and takes a moment to compose himself. His hands drop to rove the curves of her waist and hips restlessly. “Different than what?” he asks, a smile in his voice. “For my own part, I got to say I think it’s a pretty nice picnic so far.”
He lifts a hand to brush aside one wing of her hair and the collar of her shirt below it, and bends his head to kiss her exposed collarbone. His tongue traces a soft line, and then he draws back and touches the base of her throat with light fingertips. “You still got that necklace I gave you? The apple one?”
Mizzy’s head tips back and she stares at the rust-tinged leaves over her head. She’d sway, if she weren’t holding on to his neck, if his hands weren’t on her hips, her waist, at the line of her neck. Lips and hands and fingers and …
“Yes,” she whispers. This really seems like the sort of thing one should get pregnant from.