Ally's Corner @eveningmusings - Tumblr Blog

Baking at Dawn

Preview: Varka stumbles into your bakery one quiet morning, drunk and brazen enough to attempt to steal some of your bread for himself. That one day turns into a habit, and you find yourself with an extra kitchen hand who consumes too much of the baked goods.

Word Count: 5.2k

A/N: Had a ton of fun with this. It's a slow romance that develops entirely in the kitchen, because I wanted to write something where Varka never really has to be the Grand Master.

The cobblestone streets of Mondstadt were rarely quiet. But at two in the morning, even the most dedicated patrons of Angel’s Share had finally stumbled home.

Varka was walking off a heavy night of drinking. It had been a week since he and the expeditionary force returned from Nod Krai, and the city’s taverns were still insisting on keeping his cup full. The night air was crisp, biting at his exposed forearms, but it felt like a gentle spring breeze compared to the environment that he had been trying to survive for years.

He was halfway back to the Knights of Favonius headquarters, fully intending to sleep through his morning meetings, when he sensed heat radiating from one of the nearby buildings.

It was followed immediately by the intoxicating scent of melted butter and toasted oats.

Varka stopped in his tracks. He knew that smell. Before the expedition, he used to take a detour during his patrols at dawn to a tiny storefront just to buy a burnt scone from a stubborn and perpetually flour-covered novice baker. He had spent years up north remembering the way she used to glare at him when he asked for a free bread roll.

Following the scent down the street, Varka expected to find the same cramped little shop.

Instead, he found your sprawling, industrial fortress.

The entire lower block had been knocked through and combined. Massive, frosted glass windows glowed with the orange light of large hearths. The quiet hum of ovens made for high-volume production vibrated through the brick walls.

Curiosity completely overrode his exhaustion. Varka stepped into the alleyway and pushed open your heavy back door.

A wave of heat hit him as soon as the doors flung open, wrapping around him like a heavy wool blanket. A dusting of white flour drafted through the air. Four apprentices were moving in a flawles rhythm around you, sliding massive trays into the brick ovens and hauling out dozens of perfectly golden loaves.

And standing at the dead center of the chaos, directing the flow of the room with the precision of a battlefield commander, was you.

You weren't the stressed, overwhelmed baker he remembered. You stood tall, your hair tied back in a messy knot, and with a heavy canvas apron wrapped around your waist. You looked incredibly commanding, effortlessly orchestrating the production.

Varka was so completely captivated by the sight that he forgot he was blocking your doorway.

SLAM.

You slammed a large wooden spatula against a stainless-steel prep table. The crack echoed over the sound of the ovens burning.

"Read the sign on the door, mister," you snapped without even turning around, your eyes fixed on a batch of rising dough. "Health and safety regulations. No non-staff members in the kitchen during production time. If you want a loaf, the storefront opens at six."

Varka’s awe shifted very quickly to amusement.

"I don't think I can wait until six, sweetheart," his voice was loud and it rumbled through your production room. "And I seem to remember a time when you were practically begging me to buy your burnt scones just to keep the lights on."

You froze. The spatula slipped a fraction of an inch in your grip.

You turned around slowly, and your eyes widened as you took in the sight of him. Scarred, impossibly broad shoulders. The long teal coat. The wide grin that hasn’t changed the slightest.

"Archons," you breathed, your strict kitchen-commander persona slipping. "You're actually back."

"I am," Varka grinned as he stepped into your bakery, ignoring both your warning and the apprentices who were scrambling to get ouf the Grand Master’s.

He looked around and the genuine awe settled back into his face. "What in Barbatos' name did you do while I was fighting for my life in Nod Kra? You bought the entire block."

"I expanded," you replied with a smile, your shock quickly wearing away as you settled back into your signature stubbornness.

You crossed your arms and tapped the spatula against your bicep. "Someone had to secure the bread contract for the Knights of Favonius since their Grand Master decided to abandon his paperwork and go play in the north."

Varka let out a laugh that rattled the baking sheets on your cooling racks. "So you're officially on my payroll now. Excellent. That means I can grab myself a sweet roll."

He took another step toward the racks, but you instantly stepped into his path, pointing the end of the wooden spatula against the center of his chest.

"Absolutely not. I don't care if you can single-handedly wrestle a Ruin Guard, Varka. You are tracking alleyway dirt into a sanitized food prep zone, and you are entirely in the way. Out."

Varka looked down at the wooden spoon pressed against his chest, and then back up to you. He had spent the last several years commanding an army, dealing with diplomats, and fighting monsters. Nobody told him no.

He found your fierce defiance incredibly attractive.

"I'm not leaving this kitchen without tasting what's in those ovens," Varka purred, leaning down just a fraction so he was firmly in your space, his bright blue eyes entirely focused on yours. "So what is it going to cost me?"

You stared up at him, refusing to yield. You looked at his massive, heavily muscled arms, and then gestured over your shoulder with the spatula toward the dark cellar door.

You fought back a smirk as you replied, "The delivery cart from Springvale just dropped off twenty sacks of unprocessed wheat.”

Varka’s grin stretched from ear to ear, “And?”

"My apprentices usually need a pulley system to get them up the stairs. You want a sweet roll, Grand Master? Grab a sack of flour, or get out of my kitchen."

He didn't hesitate for a second. He discarded his coat, kicked off his boots, and rolled up his dark sleeves to reveal the full length of his forearms and part of his biceps.

"Give me some work boots and show me the cellar.”

— —

That one encounter with Varka led to a shift in your evenings that you couldn’t have expected.

It was 2:15 AM on a Tuesday. The heavy back door of your bakery didn’t just open – it groaned under the weight of a man who clearly didn’t know the meaning of a gentle entrance. The bell above the frame gave a frantic little jingle, and the smell of ale and the cool night air collided with the warm haze of your kitchen. You didn’t have to look up from the sourdough you were kneading to know who it was.

“You’re fifteen minutes late, Grand Master.”

The heels of your hands moved steadily through the dough, as you fought back a smile and the urge to look up at him fully.

“I was beginning to think that Jean finally figured out how to lock you in your office.”

“She tried,” Varka’s voice boomed for the doorway. He sounded extra cheery, a sure sign that he’d spent the last few hours at Angel’s Share. “But she forgot that I know all the secret passages. Besides, the paperwork was starting to look at me sideways. I had to defend my honor.”

You finally looked up, brushing away a of lock of hair that had found its way out of your ponytail. Varka was leaning against the doorframe, his coat thrown over one shoulder, and his blonde hair a wild mess. His eyes were bright with mischief and there was a tell-tale flush across his scarred cheekbones.

You sighed, but also could no longer stop a smile from tugging at the corner of your mouth. “You’re a drunk hazard, Varka. If you trip and fall into the industrial mixer, I’m not explaining to the Knights of Favonius why their legendary leader is shaped like a cinnamon twist.”

“I’m a master of balance,” Varka countered as he tossed his coat onto a hook mounted on the side wall. He rolled up his sleeve and stepped into your space, the heat from him rivaling that of the ovens. “And I’m the only man in Mondstadt who can haul those grain sacks around without needing a pulley system. You need me.”

“I need a sober assistant.”

Despite the teasing, you stepped aside to let him pass you towards the area where the heavy sacks of wheat were stacked.

“Do you even know what time your morning briefing is? Kaeya was lurking around my storefront at sunset, asking if I’d seen a ‘very large, very loud stray dog’ wandering around this area.”

Varka let out a laugh, the sound of which has become all too familiar over the course of a few weeks. He hoisted two sacks over his shoulders without so much as a grunt. “The briefing is at eight, sharp. Which means I have five hours to make sure that this bread is perfect, and another hour to find a very strong cup of coffee.”

You watched him move around your production area with ease – his physical power turning the most difficult tasks in your kitchen into child’s play.

“Besides, I can be late. Good for the rest of the Knights to be confused once in a while.”

You shook your head and allowed yourself to laugh at his absurdity. It had become a bizarre, whispered legend within the headquarters over the past month: the Grand Master was increasingly absent from his morning rounds, leaving Jean to run the drills with a deepening frown while the rest of the Knights traded confused theories about secret diplomatic missions or a new training regimen.

None of them suspected he was currently covered in flour, hauling sacks, and arguing with a baker about the proper way to knead dough.

“You’re going to get caught,” you teased, reaching out to swat his hand away as he tried to sneak a pinch of raw, unsweetened dough.

That didn’t stop him, and he continued to reach for lumps at different stages of the baking process just to sneak a taste. You left your station completely to basically play whack-a-mole with the Grand Master’s hand.

Varka caught your wrist in mid-air, his large, calloused thumb stroking the pulse point of your hand. The playful glint in his blue eyes softened into something much heavier, much warmer.

“Let them wonder,” his voice dropped to a low and intimate register that made the heat of the kitchen feel like a secondary concern. “I’d much rather be the drunk hazard in your kitchen the the legend behind a desk. Now, give me the scraper. The dough isn’t going to shape itself. And I believe I’m owed a very large sweet roll for my services.”

— —

On one Friday, the back door rattled violently on its hinges before swinging wide open to reveal a soaking wet Grand Master.

The rain was lashing on the cobblestones outside, but Varka looked entirely unbothered. He shook the water off himself, sending a spray of rainwater across the threshold before stepping inside. This time, he radiated the sweet aroma of Dandelion Wine.

You’ve made the habit of greeting him without looking up. You tell yourself it’s to keep your focus on the dozen baguettes on the tray that you were currently scoring. But part of you knew it was to hide the ever growing smile that would appear on your face the moment he walked in.

“You smell like a tavern floor, Varka. And you’re tracking mud onto my clean tiles.”

“Diluc kicked me out,” he announced proudly while grabbing a towel from a nearby rack to wipe himself down. “Something about being a disruptive influence on the younger knights. Just because I challenged them to an arm-wrestling tournament.”

“A tournament that you undoubtedly won,” you replied, shaking your head in fond exasperation. “Do you at least remember why you came here? Or are you just looking for a dry place to sleep off the alcohol?”

“I came for the ovens, sweetheart.”

Varka didn’t even wait for your instructions. He squeezed past you, his chest brushing your shoulder, and headed for the ovens. He grabbed the heavy crank that rotated the internal shelves, a mechanism that usually required two of your apprentices to turn, and pulled smoothly. Weeks on and you still marvel at how he makes the tasks look so simple.

Varka’s voice rumbled through the room as always, as he squinted into the ovens to watch the bread rolls baking. “Jean sent a search party to the Whispering Woods yesterday morning. Apparently, I missed a very important meeting and they wondered about my safety.”

“Because you were here until six in the morning eating almond pastries,” you pointed out.

You followed him to the ovens and inspected the crusts. You reached for the crank to give it one more turn, and Varka wrapped one hand around yours to help you push.

“They’re going to realize that you’re hiding here eventually. I beg you to please not bring the knights to my prep tables.”

“Watch me keep them guessing,” Varka challenged softly, looking down at you through the haze in the air. His bright blue eyes were entirely focused, the wine doing nothing to dull his attention. “If they can’t figure out those meetings on their own, they deserve to panic. The bread, however, requires my utmost dedication.”

— —

At some point, Varka’s presence was no longer a surprise. It was an expectation.

It was 3:00AM on a Wednesday. You were wiping down the stainless steel counters, exhausted and running on a few hours of sleep from the day before, when you realized that Varka had gone suspiciously quiet.

You turned back to find him sitting on a small stool that looked entirely incapable of supporting his weight. He had his elbows resting on his knees, and he was demolishing a slightly burnt cheese danish that you had intentionally left out for him. He looked drained, and for the first time, his aura was truly that of a man who worked two full-time jobs.

“Tired, Grand Master?” You asked him softly, leaning back against the counter and crossing your arms over your chest.

Varka swallowed the last bite of the danish and let out a heavy sigh. “There are visiting diplomats from Fontaine arriving tomorrow. Or… today, I suppose. They want to discuss trade and border security. It’s going to be four hours of people talking without actually saying anything.”

“And what time is the meeting?”

“Nine, sharp. In the main hall. Gotta look respectable.” Unlike most other days, he genuinely sounded distraught. You chucked as you watched him rub his crumb-dusted hand over his face.

“It’s three in the morning, Varka,” you reminded, “You reek of alcohol, you have flour in your hair, and you insisted on helping me load the delivery carts. Go get some rest today, or you’re going to be a disaster.”

He grumbled in protest, “I am going to be spectacularly late.”

You kept your eyes pinned on him as he stood up and closed the distance between you. Varka stopped right in front of you, effectively caging you against the counter.

He reached out, his fingers catching a stray lock of hair, and tucked it behind your ear. He left his hand hovering by your cheek, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheekbone and sending an immediate flush of heat up your face.

“The Knights are baffled,” he murmured as he pressed his hand firmly against your cheek. “They think I’ve taken up a secret, high-altitude training plan to prepare for another Abyssal threat. Jean is practically tearing her hair out trying to cover for my morning absences.”

You leaned into his touch, the warmth of his hand melting away your exhaustion. Simultaneously, you fought off the urge to think of this as anything more.

“You’re a terrible commander.”

“Terrible, indeed,” Varka agreed with a smile. He held his hand there for a few more seconds before dropping it back down, and placing both hands on his hips. “However, I make an exceptional kitchen hand. Put me to work, [Y/N].”

— —

It was 5:00AM on a Sunday. Once upon a time, you had kept strictly to your schedule of closing up shop on Sundays to allow yourself a break – but sometime in the last few years, one week of allowing “just a little bit of baking” to happen on a Sunday morning quickly became habit. And because you didn’t want to force any of the apprentices to come in on what should be a day of rest, you usually ran the bakery on your own at a much lower production level.

In the last few months, you found yourself an extra hand on Sundays in the form of Varka.

The work was mostly done for the day, with the last batch of bread baking in the ovens. You let out a long exhale as you untied the canvas apron from your waist. Varka sat beside you, sitting on a wooden stool that he had practically claimed as his.

He reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a small, heavy, and tightly-bound pouch and set it on the table with a thud.

You raised an eyebrow in question.

“Just something I picked up in Nod Krai,” he said with a grin, though his eyes were scanning your face thoroughly for your reaction. “Didn’t know what to do with it until now and kept it buried in my quarters. Honey, but tastes different. And a piece of unrefined Snezhnayan spice bark.”

You looked at the impossibly rare ingredients then at the man who had carried them across continents. Your instincts took over and completely overrode your exhaustion – you stood up, grabbed a mixing bowl, and got to work.

The dough took shape. The honey mixed in. The bark used to spice. You kneaded and folded the dough with care, and the kitchen filled with an aroma so incredibly warm that it made your head spin.

Once the dough was shaped, you set it on a basket and sat down beside Varka. It needed an hour to rise.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the distant howl of the wind outside. Your mind started to wander and you let yourself fully absorb the absurdity of what your life had become. Your were sitting in a dark kitchen at five in the morning, keeping watch over a rising loaf of bread with the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius. You didn’t know what to call this. It wasn't a casual fling, and it certainly wasn't a formal courtship. You didn't go on dates in the city plaza with your arm laced through his.

Instead, you were quietly carving out permanent space for a man who didn't fit anywhere else.

It dawned on you that you now actively anticipated the rattle of your back door in the wee hours of the morning. You had started ordering his favorite teas. You were anchoring him, and he was doing the same for you. It was a sanctuary built in the quiet hours before dawn.

When the hour finally passed, you baked the small loaf until the crust was a perfect, golden brown. As you pulled it from the oven, the intoxicating scent of caramelized frost-honey and smoke filled the air.

You sliced the warm pastry down the middle and handed the larger half to Varka.

The size of his hand made the pastry look small. He took a bite, closed his eyes, and let out a heavy sigh. When he looked at you, his blue eyes held a reverence that made your heart race.

— —

That single pastry set a dangerous and highly illegal precedent. Varka had always treated the rules of Mondstadt as mere suggestions, and over the next few weeks, he effectively turned himself into a smuggler of culinary oddities just to see what you could do with them.

He would show up at 2:00AM, haul the sacks of flour from your cellar, then dramatically present his newly acquired prize on your prep table.

Once, it was a heavy crate from Dragonspine filled with berries that refused to freeze, no matter how cold. You spent the rest of the morning turning them into a berry-filled galette that cleared the chill from his bones.

Another time, he walked into looking extremely smug while carrying a small box full of jueyun chillies and assorted flowers from other nations. On the bottom corner, you noticed several Liyue merchant stamps.

“Varka,” you sighed, “did you steal this from the Knights’ impounded goods?”

Varka, as usual, was entirely unapologetic. “I liberated them from administrative purgatory.” He spoke with a grin while he rolled up his sleeves. “Make me something spicy, sweetheart.”

You extracted what you needed and baked them into soft buns that Varka devoured by the half-dozen.

The most ridiculous offering came on a rainy Thursday. Varka ducked into the kitchen, soaking wet, and proudly placed a handful of glowing mushrooms on your cutting board.

You stared. The mushrooms pulsed with a faint, eerie light. You couldn’t even tell if they were edible. “What in Barbatos’ name are these?!”

“I have absolutely no idea.” Varka replied happily as he grabbed a towel to dry his hair. “I found them in a cave near Wolvendom. They just looked interesting.”

You wanted to scold him for bringing potentially toxic flora into a sanitized kitchen, but you couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled up in your chest. After a careful inspection to ensure they were just harmless fluorescent fungus, you baked them into a focaccia.

That same day, you sent the apprentices out of the kitchen so they could begin preparing the storefont and sat with Varka, a sizeable portion of focaccia still left on the table next to a pot of tea. The kitchen was quiet and so was Varka. His broad shoulders were relaxed and he stared into the glowing embers of the ovens. You wondered if the exhaustion of working two jobs was catching up to him.

You watched him for a moment, the nameless feeling in your chest swelling until it was impossible to ignore.

"Varka.”

He turned his head, his blue eyes focusing on you with that heavy, undivided attention.

"Yeah?"

You hesitated for a split second.

"Why do you spend your time with me?"

The words hung in the warm air, vulnerable and quiet. He kept his gaze on you.

"I mean it. You have an entire city that worships the ground you walk on. You have an army at your command. You could be anywhere, with anyone."

You looked down at your hands. Not knowing what to do with them, you started tracing a track on the wooden table from where your teacup sat to the edge of the table.

“I'm not complaining. I like having you here. I look forward to you barging in my kitchen every night, more than I probably should. But you're the Grand Master. And… I just bake bread.”

Varka didn't answer immediately. The air in the kitchen felt suddenly thick.

Slowly, he reached out, his large hands gentle as they caught you by the waist. With one smooth pull, he slid you off your stool and guided you to stand right between his knees.

“Because out there, I'm a monument,” Varka answered. HIs voice was quiet. Vulnerable.

“Out there, I have to be the shield, the sword, and the infallible leader of the Knights. I can't be exhausted. I can't be unsure. I belong to Mondstadt."

Varka shifted his hold to wrap his arms completely around your waist. He pulled you flush against his chest, him still seated, and leaned his weight forward so he could rest his forehead gently against your shoulder.

His words were whispered now. His breath warm against your collarbone. And his voice stripped of all its usual jest and bravado. “In here, I’m just a kitchen hand. You don’t ask me for strategies or for salvation. You just ask me to carry the flour, you order me around, and you make sure I’m fed. You are the only person in this entire nation who looks at me and sees me.”

You could feel your heartbeat, and with how close you were, you were sure he could feel it too. You swallowed hard and instinctively let your hands come up to rest lightly in the think hair at the nape of his neck. As your fingers laced through his hair, Varka let out a long exhale. And with it, it felt as though the tension of years of leadership simply bled out of his shoulders.

For a while, he simply held you, with his face buried in the curve of your neck and your arms wrapped around his shoulders. You didn’t need to name the feeling. As you stood in the quiet of your kitchen, holding the physical embodiment of strength while he finally rested, you knew that you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

Time passed in a blur. You weren’t sure if five minutes had passed or thirty, but the next thing you noticed was the first light of dawn trickling through the windows of your kitchen. Out front, your apprentices were unlocking the main doors of the storefront, preparing to greet the early morning rush of Mondstadt’s citizens.

You and Varka moved in sync. He stood up and helped you tidy up the kitchen, while finishing up the last of the focaccia and going through a few pieces of sweet rolls that he had stolen earlier without you or the apprentices noticing. When he was down to the last piece, he broke off a portion and popped it into his mouth before offering the rest to you. You took it, your fingers brushing his, and the quiet domesticity of the moment settled deep in your bones.

With everything clean and set, and with the last of the focaccia and stolen sweet rolls gone, Varka let out a satisfied rumble. He turned towards the massive sink in the corner of the kitchen, looking more relaxed than a man who was supposed to be leading a cavalry inspection in two hours had any right to be.

He turned the tap and let the water rush over his hands. As he scrubbed all evidence of your bakery off his arms, you grabbed a clean and slightly damp towel from the rack and walked over to him.

“You can wash your hands all you want, but if you walk into the Knights’ headquarters looking like that, Jean is going to know exactly where you’ve been.”

You stepped beside him as he turned off the tap, and he shifted to face you. He looked like a disaster. His clothes were dusted with flour and there was a smudge of soot on his collarbone.

“I consider it the uniform of a highly successful secondary career,” Varka grinned, completely unrepentant as he shook the excess water from his hands.

“I consider it a health code violation,” you countered, though your voice lacked any real bite.

You began to brush the flour from his chest with the damp towel. As you wiped the soot from his collarbone, letting your knuckles brush against his bare skin. Just like he did earlier, Varka lifted his hands and placed them gently on either side of your waist.

For the second time that morning, you froze. The warmth of his palms caught you completely off guard. The towel stalled against his chest as you looked up at him.

Varka, too, was completely still. He didn’t tighten his grip or pull you closer. He just looked down at you, his eyes searching your face, checking if he had overstepped. It was a question, conveyed entirely in the way he kept his touch feather light, ready to drop his hands the second you asked him to.

As the initial surprise melted away, your shoulders relaxed and you offered him a smile. Your hands settled more firmly against his chest.

“You need to shake out your coat before you put it on, too,” you continued, your voice suddenly a lot softer than you intended in the quiet kitchen. “Otherwise, Kaeya is going to start asking why the Grand Master smells like roasted oats and—”

“You know,” Varka interrupted gently, a smile breaking on his face and his eyes full of fondness, "Kaeya actually cornered me yesterday. Asked if I was secretly building a retirement cabin out in Wolvendom, given how often I've been disappearing.

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him I hate carpentry.”

You laughed. And with a gentle tug, he pulled you forward until you were flush against his frame. He paused one more time, giving you every opportunity to step back.

“Alright?” He asked.

You looked up into his impossibly earnest eyes and nodded, completely enveloped by the heat radiating off him.

"Good," Varka murmured, his joking tone fading. “I spent my whole life dragging expeditions out into the freezing snow because I thought being inside the city walls was suffocating. Turns out, I was just hanging out in the wrong alleyways. Or maybe I just hadn't met a baker stubborn enough to put me to work.”

His smile was intoxicating.

“I'm not looking for another frontier to conquer. I’m actually perfectly happy right here, hauling your wheat. If you'll keep me around.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs. The fierce independence you had worn like armor for years completely dissolved under the warmth of his presence.

A matching smile breaking across your face. “The front door opens at six. But the back door... the back door is always unlocked for you.”

Varka lowered his head, closing the distance between you, but he didn't kiss you right away. He stopped just a fraction of an inch from your mouth, hovering there. His breath was warm against your lips as his eyes dropped to yours one final time in a silent request.

You answered by dropping the damp towel, sliding your arms up to drape around his broad shoulders, and closing the gap.

On occasion, you had let yourself wonder what Varka’s kiss might taste like. Sweet like the sugar that dusted your pastries, or warm and spiced. It was all of that all at once. You let out a soft sigh against his lips, letting your eyes shut close as you anchored yourself to him. Varka’s arms wrapped securely around your waist, lifting you just slightly onto your toes. He kissed you with the devotion of a man who had stopped running and realized exactly how lucky he was to have been caught.

When you finally broke apart, the morning sun was streaming fully through the frosted glass, bathing the flour-dusted kitchen in a brilliant, golden light.

Varka kept you wrapped securely in his arms, resting his forehead against yours as that familiar, wolfish grin returned in full force.

"Well, since we’ve established my permanent residency... does this mean I get free sweet rolls for life?"

Varka never failed to make you laugh. You reached up and brushed a final streak of flour from his cheek, before rising to your toes to press one more kiss to his lips.

“Absolutely not. You’re still on flour duty.”

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

Ally's Corner