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It was (probably?) afternoon at the Lighthouse and Lucanis was reading. Bellara had kindly passed her romance serials onto him after she'd finished reading them four or five times. He'd claimed he didn't have a preference for genre, but so far he'd only read the romances. No one else needed to know that, though. Other than the demon in his head currently complaining vividly and at length.
"Read something else. More fights. These people. Are. Just talking!" Spite hissed directly into his ear.
There was a hesitant knock on the door.
"Come in," Lucanis said, more than a little relieved. Rook poked their head through the door, glasses as askew as always, frizzy hair mostly pulled back. Spite perked up.
"Are you busy?" Rook asked.
"Not especially," Lucanis said, eyeing Spite.
"There's something I'd like to make, but I could really use your help," they said. And then, "Please? Pretty please? You're the best cook here."
Well, how could he say no? Lucanis followed Rook out into the kitchen, Spite only a half-step behind. The counter was barely visible under all the food and spices. It seemed Rook had been very busy indeed grocery shopping.
"What are you making?" he asked curiously.
"It's a Nevarran dish I used to have as a treat when I was a student in the Necropolis. Flat bread, dipping sauces, and stuffed veggies. But I can never make it quite right." They were already at the counter, carefully measuring spices into smaller bowls and setting them aside like components of a ritual.
Along the continuum of culinary skill within the team, Rook sat squarely in the middle. They certainly weren't going to be winning any cooking competitions, but they also hadn't inadvertently poisoned anyone (Lucanis still shuddered at the thought of Lace's attempts at dinner). The issue was that they were too precise. They struggled with things like 'heaping teaspoon' and 'dash of salt.' So their cooking was often under or over seasoned. Edible, but not inspiring.
"The flat bread and vegetables I can manage, but the dips especially are really hard for me." Here their voice took on an edge of exasperation he rarely heard. "Lucanis, who in their right mind adds 'to taste' to a recipe? Whose taste? Should everyone eating it come give it a try?"
"I believe they're leaving it to your professional judgement," he said. Rook grumbled something unintelligible and scrunched up their nose in a way Lucanis found dangerously endearing. He chuckled quietly and moved to stand next to them. He rifled through the recipes, each meticulously printed and annotated in Rook's spiky hand.
"I can't quite make out this part," he murmured. Rook glanced over his shoulder at where he was pointing, then blushed red to the tips of their ears.
"Ah. That's where I've called the original creator of the recipe…some impolite Nevarran terms," they said, voice laced with embarrassment. Next to them, Spite nodded his approval.
"I was growing quite frustrated by that point, 'one clove of garlic' got to me. Why say a clove when you know everyone is going to use five or six? Why not just say the right amount?" Rook continued, looking more forlorn than he'd ever seen them. Not the right time to tease them, then. Lucanis schooled his expression to one of grave sincerity.
"Understood. Very well, Rook, this I can handle for you," he said. Their smile, rare these days, was reward enough.
They worked in companionable silence. Occasionally Lucanis would ask Rook to try something, to confirm if it was close to the way they remembered it. Each time, he was treated to another warm smile. This was, he thought, definitely something he could grow accustomed to. Even Spite was blessedly quiet for once. The demon was reading through the recipes, occasionally asking Lucanis to turn the page. He seemed delighted by the increasingly rude asides.
"Where did you learn to cook so well? I can't imagine Caterina would allow her dear grandson to spend time in the kitchen," Rook said eventually. It took Lucanis a moment to reply, to process what they'd asked.
"It's true she did not approve of my spending, shall we say, extracurricular time in the kitchen. But cooking is a standard part of Crow training. Poisoning is much easier when you are familiar with how different meals are made. Mix the poison in too early, it may become less effective. Too late, the taste and texture may be noticeable. It's a fine balance," Lucanis said. He realized suddenly that Rook had stopped kneading the dough for the flat bread and was looking at him, almost through him.
"I'm not going to poison you, if that's what you are worried about," he said wryly. Rook shook their head.
"Oh! I'm not really. Watchers are tough to kill. One of the side effects of living among the dead and dying is exposure to every disease you can name. The Templars say we're like roaches," they said matter-of-factly.
"Charming," Lucanis murmured. Rook stared down at their hands, picking at the skin around their nails. A bad habit. Lucanis stopped himself from laying a hand over theirs.
"It just seems a little sad, you know?" Rook said at last.
"That you are called roaches?"
"That you were only allowed to cook for killing. You just seem to love it so much, and you weren't allowed to."
He found that didn't have anything to say to that. He was, well, unused to anyone showing him concern. Rook looked over at him, head tilting down to see his face.
"Sorry if I overstepped," they said softly.
"It is…alright. Rook, most things I enjoy come from my training. Except perhaps coffee," he said thoughtfully. He looked up at Rook, who raised an eyebrow at him.
"Crows aren't required to appreciate coffee? You could've fooled me," they said.
"Of course, all Antivans must appreciate coffee. By law. It would be redundant to make it a part of Crow training," he said. Their laughter was bright and sudden and loud, ringing through the kitchen like the bells of the Necropolis.
"Now, I believe I have finished all the sauces. Try this for me, please? I think it is missing something." Lucanis handed Rook a spoon, fingers lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. They tried a little of the pepper and eggplant spread they'd called ajvar. They tapped the spoon against their lips, thinking.
"More spice," they said eventually. "Nevarran food should always be spicier than you think it's going to be. It's much better than I've ever made it though."
"How much more spice? A dash, perhaps?" Lucanis deftly ducked to avoid the spoon thrown at him.
When they had finished cooking, Lucanis felt a pang of disappointment that this quiet moment together was over. The other members of the team, lured by the smells of dinner, filed in one by one.
…
After dinner was done and the dishes were long since tidied away, Lucanis and Rook were left alone again. Well, as alone as one can be when possessed. Spite paced back and forth while Lucanis and Rook sat by the fire.
For once, Lucanis wasn't worrying about Spite. He just couldn't help looking at Rook. The light of the fire flickered, dancing across their pitch black hair. Their normally razor sharp features were softer. The circles under their eyes that grew deeper by the day seemed fainter.
Perhaps he felt comfortable looking at them because Rook was so focused. They were knitting a scarf for Manfred, they'd said. Why a skeleton needed a scarf was beyond him, but they'd seemed quite resolute that it was necessary. It was hypnotic, watching their hands, so seamless he couldn't help wondering if magic was involved.
"Where did you learn to knit?" he asked eventually.
"From an old mentor of mine. The Necropolis isn't exactly known for its beautiful weather, so making warm clothes is a valuable skill," they replied, not looking up from their work. "And it helps with dexterity. It takes a lot of hand strength to saw through bone, you know?"
Now they did look up, smiling wryly. Firelight suited them, Lucanis thought but didn't say.
"What a pair we are," Rook murmured. "You learned to cook for murder, I learned to knit for necromancy."
"There are worse ways to pick up skills. I admit I cannot think of them right now, but I'm sure there are," Lucanis replied. Rook laughed again, quieter this time.
"Did I remember to thank you for your help?" they asked.
"Perhaps. You could say it again," he said lightly. Rook leaned forward, and Lucanis's heart jumped into his throat.
"Thank you for your help," they said sincerely. "You made cooking enjoyable. Normally it's a fight for me."
Lucanis looked away. It was suddenly too warm in the room, too comfortable. Cloying. He stood, too abruptly, and because he wasn't looking he didn't see the flash of hurt in Rook's eyes.
"You are most welcome," he said. "If you will excuse me, I have some work left to finish."
"Of course, right. Sorry to keep you. Um, have a good night," they said quickly. He didn't miss the strain in their voice, but he was already halfway to the pantry by then. He shut the door swiftly behind him and leaned heavily against it. Next to him, Spite seemed to be having something of an identity crisis.
"Very spiteful, good." the demon hissed. "But. Why to Rook? We like. Rook."
"You wouldn't understand," Lucanis muttered.
"You won't. Explain!"
Lucanis pinched the bridge of his nose. He replayed it again in his mind, Rook's bright laughter under the firelight, and his heart leaped into his throat again. He couldn't breathe. When you have been burned on a hot stove, anything warm feels like flame.
"I can't explain," he said thickly. "I don't know. I haven't, I haven't felt this before."
Lucanis sank to the ground. And listened to the clicking of knitting needles, and the crackle of the fire.