Chapter Text
Ajay pauses, the pan in hand stilling over the stove. There’s an herb in the garden that’ll go perfectly in this dish, he thinks, so he lowers the temperature and steps outside the homestead.
He freezes. So does the figure in front of the garden. There’s no mistaking the set of the shoulders, the color of the suit; Pagan Min is outside his house.
“Never thought I’d actually see you out here,” Ajay finally speaks.
There’s a helicopter on standby over where Yogi and Reggie had set their tent what seems like a lifetime ago, but Pagan doesn’t even glance its way. “I thought you were out for the day, dear boy.”
“Decided to play hooky.” Ajay crosses his arms and leans on the threshold. “Does that mean I don’t get my next gift?”
Pagan sighs, and finally turns to face him. “No, darling boy, I’m pretty sure I have nothing left to give.”
The sentence hangs heavily in the silence, but Ajay knows that’s not true. It’s never been true, even before all the exuberant gifts began arriving.
It’s just that neither of them had known it at the time.
Ajay opens the door and pauses on his way in. “Pick some of the green plant in the front on your way in. Not the white, not the red.”
There’s enough of a pause behind him that Ajay wonders if the King left, but footsteps soon follow the sound of the door closing.
And just like that, Pagan’s in his house.
He accepts the greens from Pagan and adds them wordlessly to the dish. It’s nothing fancy, not like the elaborate dinners he imagines Pagan eating every night in the palace, but he points to the dishes in the cabinet above the spices and to his surprise, Pagan takes them into the living room, to the low table Ajay had acquired. Ajay brings the food and Pagan smiles as he settles down onto one of the feather-soft pillows.
“I wasn’t sure you wouldn’t have followed your heathen friends’ ways and gotten rid of these in favor of the floor,” Pagan laughs. “After seeing your first dinner guest’s manners, what was his name, Doornail–?”
Ajay slaps his hand with the serving spoon. “Must’ve picked up the manners from the DePleur’s.”
Pagan practically beams at him. “Too right, where on earth are mine? Two scoops, please, dear boy. Speaking of manners, you’ll have to stop being so rude and tell me the story of how in the hell you decided that painting was a proper dinner conversation starter.”
It’s surreal, Ajay thinks, to eat with the man that drove his actions, good and bad, for the past few weeks with little thought to anything but the story the man’s currently chuckling through. It’s about torture and blood and something to do with a goat, and Ajay finds himself laughing so hard he almost loses a mouthful of food. The King chastises him, asking whether he was raised by a woman or by wolves, and Ajay dissolves into more snickers.
He opens one of the gifted bottles of wine, then another, as he suffers through Pagan’s pride about his selection in wine. Ajay almost considers shoving the wine down his throat if it’ll shut him up and instead waxes poetic about his plans to blow up the man’s golden statue when they storm the palace. The thought sobers Pagan up immediately, and Ajay laughs loudly at the poor man’s expression.
Another bottle later, and Pagan suddenly sits up on his pillow. He looks ridiculous in the scene, suit jacket abandoned on the floor behind them, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and yet somehow more in place than anything else in the room. “Lakshmana.”
The word hangs heavy in the air. It’s enough to sober Ajay up, too. He’d almost forgotten all about the reason he came to Kyrat; his hands instinctively reach for Ishwari’s ashes, but she’s safely tucked away up by his bed.
He’d even stopped carrying her around.
The thought hits him like an elephant. He’d been so consumed with the war, with everybody’s wishes but his own, that he’d forgotten the entire reason he was here. Shame burns through him, rivaling the warmth of the wine.
Pagan’s eyes are kind when Ajay finally meets them. “Would you like me to tell you about Lakshmana?”
It’s no surprise anymore, Ajay realizes, that Pagan’s the most honest with him. He glances briefly at the wine in front of them, at the herb garnishing their meal, at the candles gently throwing Pagan’s strong features into focus, at the painting Pagan so cheekily brought up as an icebreaker, and he shifts forward from his pillow.
The gentle press of his lips to the other mans’ confirms what he was thinking.
This was the final gift he needed in his home.