#petercatherine

She frowns, staring at the canopy of her bed. "Goodnight, Marial."

"Goodnight, Empress," Marial says, giving a sarcastic little curtsey that does manage to make Catherine's frown falter into a smile.

The next morning at breakfast, she voices her concerns to her husband. "I do not find you interesting," she says, rather bluntly. "Nor do we have anything in common. How is a marriage supposed to flourish if we have nothing to speak of?"

Peter stops stabbing at his food and looks up at her, confused. "What do you mean? I am a very interesting person.. I have many hobbies, some incredible stories to share.”

"And yet, I do not wish to hear about hunting or your sex with Georgina," she replies, tone laced with snark.

Peter chuckles. "Then what would you like to discuss? The importance of women's education? The work of some European philosopher I don't care to read?"

"And that's exactly it! You don't care to read, nor learn, nor get to know me and the things that I care about," she says. She stands, moving from her end of the table to sit directly beside him. "If I am to be your wife, to bear your children, do I not deserve the common decency of you giving a single shit about me?"

Peter seems surprised by her outburst. He clears his throat, then asks, "What's your favorite color?"

She blinks at him in surprise. "Blue. Any shade, really. My mother says it brings out my eyes when I wear it. Yours?"

"I've always been partial to green. Perhaps because it reminds me of the forest, hunting with my father in the early autumn, just before the leaves have started to change," he replies. "There. We've learned something about each other. Now, you ask me something."

"What is your favorite book?"

"I don't know that I have one," he says. "I have admittedly never read much for pleasure. I did my studies as instructed, but never went out of my way to read something I was not required to. Not the answer you were hoping for, but the truth. And yours?"

"Diderot's Philosophical Thoughts," Catherine responds without a second thought. "I've read it nearly fifteen times."

"I knew it would be something of the sort," he says, his smile almost fond.

They spend the next half hour going back and forth, asking one another questions: Their favorite foods, stories about their childhoods. Catherine tells him of her sisters, her love for strawberries, and her childhood fear of large dogs. He tells her of his friendship with Grigor, his first broken bone, and his love of truffles.

When it’s Peter’s turn to ask a question again, he ponders for a bit before saying, “Are you ticklish?”

Vodka almost comes out of Catherine’s nose, and she cringes at the sting, coughing. “What? That’s…A childish question,” she replies, feeling her cheeks go pink.

“And yet, you seem to think me childish anyway, so why not ask?” he challenges. There’s a mischievous glint in his eye that makes her heart skip a beat.

“Most people are,” Catherine says, choosing her words carefully. “At least, in my experience. There isn’t much science on the subject, but even Shakespeare speaks of it.”

“So, you are.”

“I didn’t say that, I just said…”

Peter’s hand reaches towards her, and she tries to bat it away with quite a bit of force, but he easily avoids her dainty hands and catches her side, squeezing it once before she jolts away with a muffled sound in her throat, something like a laugh.

“Now, that was interesting,” he says, grinning.

Catherine’s eyes narrow. “Don’t you have duties to attend to, dear husband?”

“Oh, but this matter seems much more pressing…”

Catherine is about to stand and run from the room when Elizabeth enters, saving her with her demand that Peter go attend to those aforementioned duties.

“This isn’t over,” he tells her, shooting her a wink before departing from the room.

Catherine sits at the table for another moment, stunned, cheeks flushed and something fluttering in her belly. Normally, being with Peter fills her with disdain, disgust. Now, she just feels…Flustered. And yet, somehow lighter than she had felt last night, wallowing in self-pity about her ass of a husband. Yes, he is still an ass, but…They’ve just genuinely bonded for what feels like the first time, and the realization that Peter is not all awful has struck her like a brick to the face.

Later, she tells Marial of their talk.

“Just because he can recall warm, fuzzy memories of his childhood doesn’t mean he isn’t awful,” Marial scoffs.

“I know that, but…It was different. We were almost getting along. Until he tried to tickle me, which I found rather unpleasant,” Catherine says, face scrunched in thought.

Marial snorts. “Is that the method I’ll have to use when you won’t listen to my incredibly intelligent advice?”

Catherine gives her arm a playful swat. “Not if you want to stay on my good side.”

After Marial leaves, again, she finds herself staring at the ceiling, hands crossed over her belly as she ponders her future. Could she love Peter? It could be possible, she supposes that many things are possible.

The next morning, she sits at his breakfast table alone. She assumes he is hungover, or still drunk, or busy sleeping with someone else when he is not punctual, as food is the only thing he’s ever on time for. She huffs, choosing to thumb through a book while she waits for him.

She isn’t waiting long though, because after a moment, she feels a presence behind her, and before she can turn to see who it is, two hands have grabbed her sides and danced their fingers upward, making a quite undignified squeak burst from her lips.

Her book flops shut on the table as she whips around to see her husband, chuckling at his own jape.

“What was that for?” she asks, feeling the strong desire to hit him. Or kiss him. She isn’t quite sure which, but she hopes it's the former.

“To prove the answer to the question you were so determined to avoid yesterday,” he replies, waltzing over to his seat.

Catherine feels her cheeks redden again and rolls her eyes. “You are insufferable. And what about you, hm?”

Peter smirks. “Most people are,” he echoes her words from yesterday.

He’s about to call for food to be brought in when Catherine jumps from her chair and moves towards him, hands flying as she pokes and prods at every bit of him.

“What are you doing?” he asks, and he’s sort of laughing, but she suspects it’s more at her than anything else.

“Trying to tickle you,” she replies.

“Oh, come on, you can do better than that,” he says. “You’re just jabbing me in the chest, that’s not exactly effective—ah!”

Catherine grins triumphantly as she finds a spot on his ribs that makes him react. He had sort of scribbled his fingers on her, so she mimics the same thing on his ribs, and suddenly, her husband, the Emperor, is giggling like a child and nearly sliding out of his chair to avoid her.

She hasn’t tickled anyone since she was young, probably rough-housing with her sisters, only to be quickly reprimanded. She forgot how powerful it feels, how ridiculously silly and yet oddly invigorating.

Peter’s laugh is softer, higher in pitch that she’d imagined it could be. She’s heard him laugh many times before, but never quite so…freely. She’s so lost in the sound that she’s startled when he grabs ahold of her wrists and shoves them away.

At first, she thinks he’s angry, but he’s all red-faced and smiling and he looks…sort of adorable?

“You are a cruel woman, tormenting a man before he’s had his breakfast,” he says, breathless.

“As I recall, it’s your fault we haven’t eaten yet,” she replies, taking a seat beside him.

And so, the food comes, and they eat, mostly in silence, until Catherine speaks up again.

“You could have pushed me away much sooner. Why didn’t you?” she asks.

Peter doesn’t look up from his plate. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he says, but it’s not very convincing.

“Oh, because you’ve been so gentle with me in the past,” she says. It’s a low blow, and she knows it, because it makes him look up. Instead of looking pissed, he looks almost sad, embarrassed even.

“Well, when we spoke of our childhoods the other day, yours didn’t seem…very fun,” he replies. “I never realized how differently women are raised. Even with all those sisters, you didn’t speak of any wrestling or playfulness. I thought I’d give you a bit more experience.”

Catherine is torn between offense at his implication that her childhood wasn’t fun, and touched at the sentiment. “I suppose that’s sweet.”

“And, I mean, I don’t exactly mind having your hands on me, in any capacity,” he adds. “Even if it’s in a non-sexual, sort of torturous way.”

"That's just a roundabout way of saying 'I like it'," Catherine replies, smirking.

Peter doesn’t argue, he just smiles and shoves an entire sausage into his mouth, which makes her avert her eyes in disgust, but she’s smiling, too.

When she returns to her apartments with a spring in her step, Marial is already concerned.