Work Text:
There are a lot of things that Sylvain has come to be very familiar with since the war ended. Some of them are good—like off-days spent lounging around the Fhirdiad flat he shares with Ingrid—and some of them are less good—like coming home to an empty house in the evenings because Ingrid is a workaholic.
Ingrid has always been like that. As a child, she was always moving and doing something, if only to keep herself occupied. She wasn’t the youngest as Felix is a month her junior, but Ingrid is the only girl amongst himself, Felix, Dimitri, and her. So, for Ingrid, that meant that she had to constantly be working to be seen as an equal to the boys.
The times she is most peaceful are when she is curled on a chair with her nose stuck in a book. Though, Sylvain muses, one could argue that while reading doesn’t wear her body out, she reads to apply her mind. It was always more than he cared to apply himself when he was young at the very least.
Then, in school, she split her time between studying and training. Sylvain, who took pride in how little effort he could exert at times, found it quite difficult to ever convince Ingrid to lay down and just take a moment to relax.
That’s not to say that she doesn’t ever relax because some of the quiet days that Sylvain spends with Ingrid where they can do nothing are the best days that he can remember. There is something about the smell of Ingrid—faintly fresh and sweet—when he tucks his face into her hair at the end of long days that is particularly nice. He is almost certain too that the tingle he gets when Ingrid brushes a light touch against him—his cheeks, his shoulders, his wrists—is the best feeling he’s ever had.
Before Ingrid, Sylvain always thought physical contact was frivolous and unnecessary. He wooed with words and smiles, never thinking too hard about the way that he would carelessly brush back someone’s hair or hold their hand.
With Ingrid, Sylvain treasures the way that her hand feels in his. They have callouses in a lot of the same places thanks to years of training with lances. Her hands are smaller, of course, but they are still the safest hands he has ever held.
Even so, he knows that she is busy. She works from almost dawn to dusk either helping to manage her house’s affairs from afar or serving as a knight in Dimitri’s service. Sylvain has thought, several times, about asking Dimitri to reduce the number of responsibilities that she has but he also knows that she thrives under the pressure, even if it means that she is tired.
He would never dream of taking any part of her knighthood away from her when she worked so hard to earn it after the war ended. Besides, she’s good at it and if she did need help with anything—diplomatic or knight-related—Ingrid is smart enough to ask for help.
Sylvain still misses her when she’s out for long days. If she’s in the palace and he’s at their flat working on some treaty or another, he sometimes makes excuses to wander about the palace and the grounds just so that he can catch a glimpse of her. Felix thinks he is ridiculous but Dimitri just laughs and tells Sylvain what Ingrid is supposed to be up to so that he can “coincidentally” run into her.
Sometimes Sylvain wonders why Ingrid is still with him at all. He supposes that she must love him if she's putting up with him.
But, with how hard she works, it is a rare day that he is out later than her. Today, however, he was tied up in meetings all day. As one of the more diplomatic nobles in the capital, Sylvain is usually the one that Dimitri taps for assistance in particularly tricky matters. The negotiations between House Kleiman and the Crown are certainly what Sylvain would call “tricky”.
The sun is setting by the time he finally leaves the palace grounds. Ingrid will already be at home. She was meeting with one of her brothers today and had some other things to do for Galatea in her office. So, when he approaches the flat and sees that all of their windows are dark, he’s a little worried. The door is unlocked and he lets himself in, pausing in the entrance to remove his shoes.
“Ingrid?” he calls. The flat is quiet.
Sylvain wanders into the main room. There are a few things strewn across the counter like she was trying to prepare dinner but got distracted before she could finish the task. From the main room, however, he can see that there does appear to be a light on in Ingrid’s office so he makes his way over.
The door is ajar so he just nudges it open further, peeking into the room. He doesn’t want to disturb her if she’s busy but it is long past the comfortable work hours. Instead of seeing Ingrid hard at work, he sees her slumped over her desk, head cradled by her arms as she dozes.
Sylvain chuckles to himself. It’s not the first time that Ingrid has fallen asleep in places other than the bed when she’s tired, but he gathers that she must have had a long day today if she didn’t even make it away from her desk.
He walks across the room to her and lightly nudges her arm. She doesn’t stir, mumbling something incoherent as she continues to sleep. Sylvain looks down at her. There is no way that this is comfortable but he also feels bad disturbing her. After a moment, his pity for the uncomfortable position wins out and he carefully crouches next to her.
“Ing,” he says softly, “wake up.”
She grumbles, her brow knitting adorably. Sylvain tugs lightly on one of her arms and her head tips to the side as he untangles her crossed arms. With her arms being moved unwillingly, Ingrid finally seems to rouse, if only slightly.
She makes a low groaning noise under her breath and Sylvain takes the advantage he sees, pushing her chair back and leaning closer to her. He tugs her freed arm around his neck and sweeps her up and out of the chair. Ingrid’s eyes flutter as he lifts her and then her face turns into his shoulder as she mumbles something else.
Sylvain pauses, standing with her cradled in his arms in the middle of her office, but Ingrid seems to have settled right back to sleep nestled against his chest. He smiles fondly at her and starts out of the office. It’s a bit awkward to maneuver past the heavy wood door without bumping her but he manages it.
Sylvain carries her over to the couch and bends down to place her somewhere much more comfortable than her desk. Ingrid immediately sinks into the pillows but when he tries to pull away, her eyes flutter. One of her hands grips at his shirt tightly, refusing to let him move far.
Still not quite awake, she mumbles something that Sylvain can’t understand. He reaches out and detangles her fingers from his shirt, dropping her hand to her lap. He leans in and brushes some of her hair off her forehead before he presses a light kiss there. The corner of her mouth pulls up when he does and that tells him that she’s waking up a bit more, even if her eyes are still closed.
As he steps away, she finally seems to come around.
“Where are you going?”
Even her voice, soft and sweet—one of Sylvain’s favourite sounds—manages to sound tired and overworked. Maybe he’s just used to picking through her moods.
“We need to eat tonight, don’t we?” he replies warmly.
Ingrid groans, burrowing down into the pillows of the couch. “Do we have to?”
Sylvain laughs. “Never thought I’d hear you turn down food, dear.”
“Ugh,” Ingrid complains. “Only because you’re going over there.”
Sylvain looks between the kitchen and the couch. They’re practically in the same room. It’s not like they won’t be able to carry on a conversation if he starts preparing the food while she’s on the couch.
“I’m not going far,” he says.
He rounds the edge of the sofa, losing sight of her as he enters the kitchen. He hears her sigh deeply. “I was supposed to start making the food,” she points out. “You don’t have to.” The pillows rustle on the couch as she goes to get up.
“Stay there, Ing,” Sylvain says firmly. “I really don’t mind. You’ve had a long day and I had a late start this morning. I can handle dinner.”
The rustling stops for a moment before it resumes. She doesn’t get up from the couch but she does pull herself up so that she can look over the back at him. Her hair is adorably ruffled from her unintentional nap and she stifles a yawn that betrays exactly how tired she is.
“If you were tired you could have stopped for the day,” Sylvain comments as he approaches the stove, searching for the match to light it.
“I wanted to get these plans done,” Ingrid says, rubbing her face. “I didn’t think I’d actually fall asleep while working on them.”
He hums. “I’m sure. You should take tomorrow off to rest if you were that tired today.”
She shakes her head. “No. With my impromptu nap today, I’ll need to work tomorrow more than ever.”
Sylvain raises an eyebrow at her. “Aren’t you at the palace tomorrow?”
Her mouth opens to correct him but then she must realize that he knows her schedule just as well as she does. She is supposed to be at the palace tomorrow and is supposed to be leading the training of a group of young squires. If she’s this tired today, she’ll be much too tired to teach tomorrow.
“Take the day off,” Sylvain urges. “You deserve a break, Ingrid.”
She sighs. “I just hate having nothing to do,” she complains.
Sylvain smiles to himself. “How about I take the day too and we can spend it here together?”
She drapes an arm along the back of the sofa and rests her chin against it. “Aren’t you writing the treatise for the Kleiman affairs?”
“Sure, but unlike you, I know that Dimitri is our friend who won’t think twice about giving us the day off if we’re tired because he knows how much work we do otherwise.”
Ingrid narrows her eyes. “Are you calling me a workaholic, Sylvain?”
“Are you going to argue that you’re not?” he counters.
Ingrid’s lips press together but she doesn’t argue with him. They both know that he’s right. Sylvain takes advantage of the lull in conversation to add the meal that Ingrid started preparing to the pan. He puts the pan on the stove and then turns back to face her.
“So,” he continues, “shall we take the day off tomorrow?”
The corner of her mouth pulls up. “Fine. But you’re the one who’s sending the message to the palace about it.”
“Of course,” he agrees.
“And,” she says, her voice softer, “you have to promise me that you’ll rest too. You can’t just spend the whole day doting on me.”
He laughs. “But what if I like doting on you?”
She smiles fondly. “Then I’d call you ridiculous.”
“But?”
“But I suppose that tonight doesn’t technically count as tomorrow. So, if you want to make a fuss you can do it tonight.”
Sylvain steals a glance at the now-heating pan to make sure that it’s okay if he walks away for a moment, and then he strides back over to Ingrid. He bends down and presses another kiss to her forehead. She grabs his sleeve before he can retreat and cranes her neck up to steal a real kiss before letting him move away.
“It would be my absolute honour to look after you tonight, love.”
Something in the pan pops loudly. Ingrid releases his sleeve and pushes him away. “Okay, okay. Be sappy later. Don’t burn our food.”
“Now you’re interested in the food?” he questions.
Ingrid sticks her tongue out. “You’re the one who started cooking.”
Sylvain’s chest warms. This is what he loves. All the quiet moments between them—the jokes, the soft touches, the shared meals. He loves this life that he’s building with Ingrid and he loves her so much more than he ever thought he would be capable of loving another person.
Shooed away from the couch, he returns to the stove and stirs a wooden spoon through their dinner.
“Is it burnt?” Ingrid calls out. She almost cuts herself off at the end of the question as he hears her fight off another yawn.
“Nope,” Sylvain assures. “You can nap until it’s ready if you want. It might be a bit.”
Ingrid hums behind him and he hears the pillows rustle. “I doubt I’ll sleep,” she says.
He knows that as soon as she’s horizontal she’ll pass out immediately but he doesn’t mind. This kind of quiet is nice too because he knows that she’s resting.
“I’ll wake you,” he replies.
There’s a moment where she doesn’t reply and the only sound is the faint sizzle of the frying pan.
“I love you, Sylvain,” she says softly.
He doesn’t even need to turn to reply. “Love you too, Ingrid.”