Work Text:
It was a Monday afternoon like any other, and Luke was trying to cheer up Maia after a particularly bad shift. They had just finished eating some butter dumplings, an old recipe Luke loved to make and that he had perfected through the years.
The girl was now at the door, her teary eyes now shining because of a laugh he had finally managed to get from her. She looked way more relaxed than just a few hours earlier, her dark curls all messy as ever and her smile bright now that she felt lighter.
“Thank you. Really, I… just thank you.”
“Oh, forget it,” he said, smiling at that young woman with his heart full of pride.
The future of the clan , he thought. Yes, she is good. She will do good. She is the right one, I know this.
“And you have to text me the recipe of those butter dumplings, hell, I didn't know you could cook like that! Where did you learn how to make them?”
He frowned for a moment, trying to remember. “I don't really know,” he said. “It was a long time ago. I've been making them since forever.”
“Anyway, don't forget to send it to me. Bat's abuela will adore them, and I am still trying to make a good impression.”
“I'm sure you've already won her over. No doubts.”
“I wish I could be as sure as you are. Well, gotta go now. Say hi to Jocelyn for me and… thanks again, I guess.”
“Don't. It's nothing, really. Text me when you get home.”
Her smile grew wider. “Thanks, dad,” she said, then winked.
He closed the door shaking his head in disbelief and sighed. It was a happy sigh, a sigh that lifted him up and made him feel light as a feather. The clan was in good hands now, much better than his anyway.
He walked to the bathroom, he wanted to take a shower before Jocelyn came back so they could chill a bit on the couch before dozing off in front of the TV as always, but the ghost of what Maia said about the dumplings was still haunting him in the back of his mind.
It was a discrete thought, faint and distant, but it was there. It was waiting for him to remember, like a slightly disturbing background noise, barely audible.
He opened the bathroom door when it hit him.
“Luke, my friend, shadowhunters must be self sufficient,” he said, the smile on his lips made him look even more beautiful.
“But I… I've never cooked before.”
“Don't worry, I'll teach you. Mundanes cook all the time, you know. You are not less than a mundane now, are you?”
The boy shook his head with as much emphasis as he could. “Of course not! I'm… I'm…”
“Of course you are not. I know, otherwise I wouldn't bother teaching you. You are more than capable of learning how to cook. Come here, I’ll show you.”
Luke crossed the room and approached the boy that was now turned to face the stove. He took a stick of butter from the cupboard, took a tablespoon of it and immediately cleaned the knife he did it with.
“Remember, cooking is order, just like fighting. You use something, you clean it. You take something out of the fridge, you put it back. Order, cleanliness, accuracy and skill. Shadowhunters are naturally good at it.”
“Valentine,” Luke said, “is there anything in the world you can't do?”
That was just the kind of thing the boy loved to hear, and Luke knew it.
Valentine adjusted a strand of his fair hair unselfconsciously and shrugged, his everlasting charming smile still on his lips.
He was handsome, clever, talented and he knew the answer to every question Luke was ever dreaming to ask. He didn't know why that golden boy even bothered to be in his company.
Luke was nothing like that, he was an outcast, he was weak, his own family didn't suffer him sometimes, so why should anyone else?
Maybe Valentine Morgensten was just a good person, maybe he just genuinely liked to make people like him feel important.
Yes. I had to be. It was the only explanation.
“There are a few things I can't do,” he said. “But there is nothing I won't be able to do. Nothing in the world, Luke.”
And in that moment, Luke believed him.
“Now now, my friend. Those are called butter dumplings, it's a German recipe. It's a very balanced meal, because shadowhunters need to stay healthy to fight. See, I took this tablespoon of butter and now…”
He stood there, his hand still on the door’s handle, completely frozen in shock. His hand brushed his left hip, where his parabatai rune once used to be.
A friend taught me how to make it.
That was the correct answer, the answer that had been lurking at him from the back of his mind.
A friend taught me how to make it a long time ago.
Then everything else fell on him at once.
The white wine he had in the fridge. He used to loath wine once, but Micheal Wayland hated beer, so it could never be found when they used to hang out all together. He got accustomed to it at first, and eventually came to like it. Now he drank wine daily and he couldn't stand beer anymore.
A House of Pomegranates was one of his favourite books. He borrowed it from Celine's house years earlier and fell in love with it at first glance. He had three copies of that book in his apartment now.
That song he hummed every once in a while? He first heard it at Maryse’s and Robert’s wedding. They danced to it, he remembered it clear as day now. He had hummed it in the shower just the day before and wondered when and where the hell he heard it.
He always closed the door behind him when he entered a room because Hodge used to freak out every time one of them didn't, and now he never missed to do it.
Dozens, hundreds of habits, habits that his friends passed down to him.
Habits that he kept on preserving without even realising; cooking, drinking, reading, acting to follow a heritage he didn't even know he possessed until now.
And every time he cooked one of Valentine's dishes, every time he sang Robert’s and Maryse’s songs, every time he read Celine’s books without thinking about it, every single time he did any of those things was a painful evidence, a bright evidence on the fact that they were part of him.
They lived through him.
They were celebrated, prayed to, grieved by him.
Every part of him was a small piece of what people of another life taught him.
And it hurted.
He never got to make that shower.
When Jocelyn came back home she found him sitting on the floor, his arms hugging his legs, his face hidden on his knees.
“Luke? Luke! What… how are you? What happened? Can you hear me? Luke, please, what-”
He raised his head and looked at her.
She was kneeling beside him now, her clear green eyes, the eyes he loved so deeply, looked at him full of worry and love.
“Luke, please, love, tell me. What is it?”
He smiled a teary smile, shrugged his shoulders and told her “Cooking is order, cleanliness, accuracy and skill. Just like fighting. Shadowhunters are naturally good at it.”
A flash of remembrance passed through her eyes.
She knew. Of course she knew. Valentine used to say it every time.
It wasn't fair. He shouldn't have said it. She didn't deserve to remember as well, he shouldn't have ruined her day.
“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry,” he whispered, then his voice broke into a sob. “I'm sorry…”
He hid his face on his knees again and felt her arms hugging him tight.
“Shh. It's okay. It's okay.”
“I'm sorry.”
She squeezed him tighter.
“I'm sorry too. I love you.”