Work Text:
The Lighthouse kitchen was alive with chaos—or, more accurately, Neve Gallus was in it, and that was chaos enough. The narrow space was a battlefield of overturned spice jars, and smeared cutting boards. Pots clanged in rapid succession, oil hissed violently in a pan, and the acrid scent of something charred to oblivion assaulted the senses.
Neve, her hair pinned out of her face with what looked like a quill than her normal hair pins, stood at the stove wielding a wooden spoon with the grim focus of a warrior preparing for the final blow. Her brows were furrowed in concentration, and a streak of something green—herbs, or a sauce maybe?—decorated her cheek like war paint.
Rook watched her, a smirk tugging at her lips as she surveyed the scene. “Do I even want to know what you’re making?” she asked.
Neve shot a look over her shoulder. “It’s fried scorpion,” she said, as though that were the most ordinary meal in Thedas. “With pasta.”
Rook blinked. “Fried scorpion. With pasta,” she repeated slowly, her voice lilting with incredulity. “Why scorpion? Couldn't you get squid or baby octopus?”
“Got a better price on the scorpions,” Neve said, gesturing toward a plate on the counter. The scorpions, each fried to a blackened crisp, gleamed faintly in the dim light with too much residual oil. Though to be fair, Rook suspected their carapaces started that color to begin with.
“And where, exactly, does one bargain for scorpions?” Rook asked, stepping into the kitchen despite the spice-heavy air that already had her taking shallow breaths.
Neve didn’t look up from the sauce she was aggressively prodding. “The owner of the Cobbled Swan,” she replied.
Rook froze mid-step, her eyes widening. “Neve are you cooking… leftover scorpions?”
Neve huffed out a chuckle, spinning around to fix Rook with an indignant glare. “Give me some credit,” she said. “They were fresh this morning.”
“And the pasta?” Rook asked, tilting her head toward the pot on the counter. The noodles had boiled so long they’d fused into a single gelatinous mass that resembled a pale, quivering brick more than any proper meal.
Neve waved her hand dismissively. “It will taste fine.”
Rook raised an eyebrow, biting back a laugh. “Fine? That’s one word for it.”
“Look,” Neve said, planting a hand on her hip. “Cooking is like potion making—experimentation is part of the process.”
“Sure it is.” Rook agreed. “Except potions don't usually involve burning down kitchens.” She nodded to the scorpions again.
Neve rolled her eyes and turned back to the pan, muttering under her breath. “They are not burned. It’s caramelized.”
“Caramelized. Got it.” Rook stepped closer, peering over her shoulder. “And what’s that?” She pointed to a small dish of something vaguely brown and crunchy.
Neve hesitated, staring as if she didn't recall the bowl ever being there. “Breadcrumbs,” she said after a beat.
“Are they supposed to look like that?”
“Rook, are you here to assist or just to stand there and criticize?” Neve asked sharply, though her voice lacked any bite.
“I wouldn’t want to interrupt the creative process,” Rook said, grinning now. Then, quieter, as though speaking mostly to herself, she added, “Suddenly, the rule about everyone having to try a bite doesn’t feel like my brightest idea.”
Neve turned back to the stove and, with more force than necessary, threw the spoon into the sink, where it landed with a resounding clatter. “There’s nothing wrong with this dish,” she declared.
Rook laughed, stepping forward and grabbing Neve’s wrist before she could storm off. “I was just teasing. I’m sure it’ll taste fine.”
Neve’s lips twitched despite herself, and she shook her head. “You’re one to talk. You just made sandwiches last week. That's hardly cooking.” she said.
“But at least I didn’t buy bargain scorpions,” Rook said, her grin widening.
Neve didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, she turned back to the stove, her movements brisk and decisive, though the faintest exhalation through her nose betrayed her simmering amusement. She drained the overcooked pasta with a flourish, steam rising dramatically as she dumped the glutinous mass onto a platter.
With a ladle, Neve slathered the thick, suspiciously orange sauce over the pasta. It bubbled ominously, stubbornly defying any logical culinary origin. She added the scorched scorpions on top with precision. As a final touch, she produced a jar of dried red pepper and dusted the dish with a fiery sprinkle. A handful of breadcrumbs followed, scattered with an air of defiant artistry.
Satisfied, Neve picked up the platter, her expression a mix of determination and resignation. She turned back to Rook. “Let the others know dinner is ready,” she said, not waiting for a reply as she strode past her, the platter balanced in her hands like a prized artifact.
As Neve disappeared into the dining room, Rook lingered for a moment, staring at the messy kitchen left in her wake. She finally let out a low whistle. “Guess we’re about to see what everyone’s made of,” she muttered to herself before heading out to summon the rest of the group.
The group gathered around the dining table with varying degrees of enthusiasm—or trepidation, in some cases—as Neve began to serve dinner. The atmosphere might have been cozy if not for the dish at the center of it all.
Lucanis leaned forward, eyes narrowing at his plate. He tilted his head, his expression caught somewhere between amazement and horror. “Are these… deep-fried scorpions?”
Neve smirked as she spooned a generous portion onto her plate. “You don’t miss a thing, do you?” she replied, her tone dry.
Harding, perched on her chair, squinted at the dish. “In Ferelden, scorpions are just something you crush under your boots,” she said, her tone half-joking.
“Oh, yes!” Bellara chimed in, nodding enthusiastically as she leaned closer to inspect her plate. “I’ve read about some cultures using alternate protein sources. It's fascinating!” Without hesitation, she stabbed one of the scorpions with her fork.
The others paused, collectively holding their breath as Bellara took a hearty bite. Her grin faltered almost immediately, her eyes widening in alarm. She reached for her tea with a choked cough, managing only a faint squeak as she gulped it down.
Neve, already busy twirling pasta around her fork, looked up with mild interest. “What do you think, Bel?”
Bellara swallowed hard, forcing a smile that was perilously close to a grimace. “I have never tasted anything like it,” she said diplomatically, her voice tight.
Rook bit back a laugh, her dark curls falling into her face as she leaned forward, whispering to Harding, “If she survives this, I think we owe her a drink.”
Lucanis had adopted an expression of scholarly detachment, reclining slightly as he examined his plate with the same intensity he might reserve for unraveling his target’s weakness. He studied the sauce and the accouterments nestled atop the pasta. Finally, he spoke again, his voice measured. “I’ve had crustacean pasta before,” he began, enunciating each word carefully, “but it didn’t look—or smell—like this.”
Neve leaned back in her chair, the corner of her mouth twitching upward in a smirk. “It’s an acquired taste,” she said, her tone light but carrying an undercurrent of challenge. Her dark brown eyes glinted mischievously as she added, “Some Dock Town cuisine isn’t for the faint of heart.”
Harding, seated to her right, snorted softly and held her fork like it might double as a weapon. She prodded at the dish cautiously, her usual cheerful demeanor replaced with wary skepticism. “Acquired taste or a survival challenge?” she asked, arching a brow. “Because this feels more like the latter.”
Rook grinned as she picked up a fork. She speared one of the scorpions. “Well, if I’m going out, I’m going out brave,” she declared, her voice laced with humor. With a dramatic flourish, she popped the scorpion into her mouth.
The group watched as Rook chewed thoughtfully. Her expression shifted rapidly—curiosity morphing into surprise, then settling into something resembling grudging approval. She swallowed and leaned back, nodding. “Huh. Not bad. Kinda nutty.”
Bellara, still recovering from her earlier bite, shot Rook a dubious look. “You must have a tongue of steel,” she said with awe.
Rook’s grin widened, her voice dropping into something unmistakably suggestive. “I’ve been told that before.”
Neve groaned, shaking her head. “That was almost as bad as the hand puns in Arlathan,” she said, though her tone carried a playful edge.
Bellara leaned forward, curiosity getting the better of her. “Is there some kind of immunity you can only get from drinking Minrathous water?” she asked, gesturing at the dish with her fork.
Neve shook her head as she addressed the table. “You all just need to expand your horizons,” she said, her tone carrying an air of superiority that made Rook snicker.
Harding, still poking at the dish like it might come to life, finally spoke up. “Neve, what kind of sauce is this?” she asked, lifting a scorpion leg gingerly. “It’s glowing.”
“It’s not glowing,” Neve snapped, her tone defensive. “It’s just… vibrant.”
Lucanis twirled some pasta onto his fork, his expression resigned. “If nothing else, this will be a story to tell,” he muttered before taking a bite. His face flushed almost immediately. He coughed, reaching for his ever-present mug of coffee. “Mierda,” he choked out, his voice strained. “Neve, did you dip this in dragon fire?”
“It’s not that spicy,” Neve countered.
“I cannot imagine anything hotter, and I’ve been prodded by hot pokers,” Lucanis retorted hoarsely, downing his coffee in one go.
Harding shook her head, clearly unimpressed. “That’s not going to help,” she said. “My ma always said goat milk’s the best for neutralizing spicy foods.”
“I thought it was ale,” Rook chimed in, reaching for her drink but still grinning through the chaos.
Lucanis groaned, his hand on his chest as if trying to quell the heat spreading through him. “Next time, Neve, I would be happy to assist with dinner.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Neve asked.
The laughter and teasing began to fade as the group dispersed, their voices carrying into the adjoining rooms. Harding and Lucanis disappeared into the pantry, muttering about “real food,” while Bellara busied herself rummaging through the cupboards for peppermint tea to soothe her still-burning throat.
Rook, however, lingered. She stood moving closer to Neve. Her fingers deftly plucking another scorched scorpion from the plate. She popped it into her mouth with a loud crunch and chewed thoughtfully, her gaze fixed on Neve.
“It really wasn’t that bad,” she said finally.
Neve, who had begun stacking plates with deliberate slowness, paused just long enough to arch a single brow. Her eyes gleamed with playful skepticism. “You’re just saying that because you’re trying to charm me.”
Rook grinned, a spark of mischief lighting up her features. “Is it working?” she asked, her tone teasing but with a hint of something deeper. She added a wink for good measure, leaning a little closer, her voice dropping slightly.
Neve snorted, shaking her head as she piled the last plate onto a precarious stack on the table. “Maybe,” she said coyly, her lips curving into that maddeningly sly grin Rook was quickly learning to both love and dread. “Maybe not.”
With that, she turned and walked toward the doorway, her hips swaying with a confidence that was impossible to ignore. Rook’s grin faltered as her gaze followed Neve, her sharp tongue momentarily silenced by the realization that she was entirely, hopelessly captivated.
Her reverie was interrupted by the sudden, wet smack of a rag hitting her square in the face. She yelped, startled, and peeled it off to reveal Lucanis standing just inside the pantry, his expression smug. “Your turn to clean the kitchen,” he said before retreating.
Rook groaned, tossing the rag onto the counter with exaggerated drama. “I’m starting to think I’m too charming for my own good.”
From the doorway, Neve’s voice carried back, light and teasing. “Or maybe you’re just terrible at dodging.”
Rook shook her head as she grabbed the rag and began cleaning up. She didn’t mind, not really. Not when her thoughts were still full of Neve’s sly smile and low chuckle in her head.