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He does not think about it when he meets her. It is, in his defense, a supremely surreal experience. The moment he had managed to break loose enough from the tevinter snakes leashing him and his new hanger-on, a rescue arrives. He is too confused to be resentful of it, does not think You couldn’t have done this months ago? , because the people standing in front of him - a tevinter mage, who doesn’t look at him like he is an exciting new specimen, and a dwarven Grey Warden, who looks so out of place in an ancient elven temple submerged under the ocean and occupied by mage supremacists, that her mere presence changes his tragedy into comedy - are at least willing to get him out and that idea dominates his mind as much as the demon’s. So no, he does not think of her like that, when he meets her. Does not notice a hundred things he will notice later, on quiet nights in the stillness of the prison cell he builds himself because nothing but seclusion brings him comfort for months. He does not see her at first and there is a part of him that, beyond all self-acceptance, beyond the eventual understanding that it simply does not work for him like that, will always feel a small sting of guilt. That it did not happen instantly, that he did not know the moment he laid eyes on her. Some day, perhaps, he will learn to give himself a little patience, but not that day. It is Neve who flirts with him immediately, or maybe she does not, maybe it is just something she sees in him the moment they meet. Because Neve is just like that, as he will come to learn, just knows people, and hands him the props for a familiar role, dreamed of in sappy romance novels he hid under the bed from Caterina’s watchful eyes as a young boy and honed later, when stolen glances and sweet smiles became a weapon he needed to sharpen the same as his daggers. So he writes himself into the role he knows is expected of him, even if Illario always does it better, and doesn’t think about it beyond that, doesn’t let it bother him and in fact, enjoys the small attentions and the friendly back and forth. He doesn’t see the small, disappointed glance from Rook, either, but if he did, he would understand that she too accepts her expected role the moment they meet and he does not see her.
Also in his defense, there is Spite. The demon’s whims are instantaneous and disorienting. They barely met and there is only one topic that Spite cares about - well, two, arguably, but Lucanis cannot face the second yet, not while the walls closing in around him remind him of home and the rickety bed under his back is a safety net he does not want to remove just yet - but the first topic is Rook and it becomes a chore to keep the demon’s gnawing thoughts separated from his own. He does not understand the fixation, won’t for a while yet, but it is another reason to stay away from her because Spite is not a part of him yet he can accept. Spite is a parasite crawling under his skin, a tumour forced to grow inside of him, feeding off of everything that once defined him and Lucanis cannot help but think of himself as infectious, a malignant disease that brings misfortune to those around him and he knows by now that, if nothing else, he likes Rook and he does not want to hurt her, the same way she refuses to consider hurting him, even if he thinks, rationally, that it is an option they should all keep in mind, just in case. The days where Spite fills his head with thoughts of Rook, of looking for her help, are not romantic - they are unsettling and he clams up. He is not in control and there is no enjoyment in it, if he does not get to choose.
It comes to him slowly but when it does, it is a steady trickle, gentle and warm, like the summer rains of his youth on his skin. The dagger, he tries not to think about too much. It is a kind gesture, but she could not have known the bullseye she shot with the exact make of it, the beautifully worked material that reminds him of a lifelong fascination he had all but forgotten. She could not have known what it would mean for him, sitting in a dark corner, letting the dagger travel across his knuckles and dance on his palm, as if he had not wanted one for the past twenty odd years. As if his fingers had not brushed hers when she handed it to him, his attentive mind - not Spite’s - noting that her hands were small, soft, cold, her skin a little darker than his own, but the shade a little cooler. So he pushes the thought from his mind, just like the first time they sit at Café Pietra and he teases her like he has known her all his life and she jokes back like she agrees and he doesn’t even know where that came from but does it really matter? Must he suspiciously examine every bit of joy in his life? Is it not enough that he has someone who doesn't mind showing a little vulnerability with him (“There’s just never been… well.”), letting him bare some of his own (“So much had been determined for me.”), letting him be just Lucanis , just for a little while? Looking gift wyverns in the mouth, or something to that effect. Rook becomes the one he asks to come with him when they plan to bury Caterina. Spite is a good pretext, lets him pretend he needs her to keep an eye on the demon, when all he wants is to not be alone with the ashes of his family.
And then Weisshaupt happens and a few things slot into place and some still can’t. He feels for the first time the icy grip on his heart when they argue about the dragon trap and he thinks for the first time she is going to die , a sharp reminder that he cares now and has cared for a while. But she doesn’t and he is glad but then he misses , and the next few weeks, his anger overshadows everything. Spite is joined by another old, familiar demon haunting his mind, called Self-hatred, and he closes whatever doors he might have been tempted to open, until he earns the right to feel anything but Shame and Disappointment again. It comes naturally, lessons well taught by the cold metal cane and icy stare of the last parent he would ever have. The walls reach high, as they must, as they always have. He does not hear the cracks form, when they take their supper all together and he watches as her wild curls, most often coloured like the bark of a young pine tree, are crowned in gold by the fireplace, or when the soft glow of Treviso’s colourful lanterns turns her gaze from the sheen of warm roasted chestnuts to precious tiger’s eye. When she and Harding walk next to each other, he notes with something approaching pleasure that she has a few inches on the scout, a detail that does not matter and is of no consequence, but burns itself into his mind all the same. Spite doesn’t get it either. And maybe Zara is dead, just like she promised when he asked her not to, but that just opens up another hole in his heart where a brother in all but name once was. The demon is still here, the demon is never going to leave , he will never again be just Lucanis , the way he was, the assassin who had a cousin’s loyalty, a grandmother’s pride and a thousand fine scars etched into his skin, all pieces of a man who existed, and who died, cold and alone in the pit they call the Ossuary. That is why he does not leave. Because leaving will make it all real. Caterina will really be dead, Illario will really have betrayed him, the demon will really be a part of him and there will truly never again be any oh so tiny chance of going back . It’s all he wants to. He would have to take a step forward if he wanted to walk towards Rook and he is not sure he deserves the attempt. It is easier to just… not.
She finds him anyway. Because she is Rook, she opens doors, she does not close them. He’s not a damsel in distress, saved from the villain’s evil castle, he’s a pathetic shadow of his former self and he wants to cut off his own arm before he can bring himself to accept the hand stretched out towards him. And in that dark little corner he hides himself in, Rook shows him that she understands that and that she’s still here. She never poked or prodded him again, accepted that their easy friendship would be enough, would have to be enough and she is here again, expecting nothing in return when she pulls him out.
Which is somewhat inconvenient because he knows he loves her now . Maker save him does he know it now.
He realizes with a sudden shock of clarity that makes his eyes water, that he had not been building walls, he had been building a dam and the cracks are creaking ominously under the persistent onslaught of every bit of affection in his heart threatening to drown them both. But Rook famously cannot swim and Lucanis is at home in the waters but he doesn’t know what to do with the tidal wave, can only stand and watch and wait for it to crash into him. It does and Spite and Lucanis can agree on something once again.
The next thing he does is make churros . Because he doesn’t know how this works, but knows they go well with Rook’s favourite beverage and the days he spent learning in the kitchens are some of the few bright spots in his dark and dreary memories and maybe, just maybe, he can be a part of Rook’s happier memories some day, too. She stands next to him in the kitchen while they both do the dishes (he tried to convince her to let him do it, but she is just as stubborn as himself) and her presence does not irritate him, so he knows he must love her more than he has ever loved anyone before. She tries to put a cup away on one of the higher shelves but doesn’t quite manage, so Lucanis teases her and takes the cup from her small. SOFT cool hand and tries not to think too long about how he could probably rest his chin on the top of her head quite comfortably, wrapping his arms around her waist and linger there, for no reason in the world other than that he very much wants to. Spite agrees. Lucanis tells him to shut up. He stares too long at her and she jokes about how they better be playing nice or she’s coming in there again and he laughs with her. Sleep deprivation is an easy excuse for the moments he spaces out because he can’t stop thinking about how much he wants to sit closer to her, how much he wants their legs to touch, how much he wants her hand to rest on his thigh and his arm to drape around her shoulder so he can idly tug at her curls and watch them bounce. He could sleep now, knowing Spite would respect his need for rest, but he lies awake for an hour or two every night, imagining them close enough for their noses to touch, for her scent to envelop him, for him to bite at her neck just enough to watch the bruise form. He slaps himself. BUT when I do it. It’s WRONG. Alright, so perhaps it’s still difficult. Perhaps it’s still a bad idea, because she’s a Warden, through and through and he knows what that means, regrets a dozen things he’s said in her presence, two dozen thoughts he’s had since the first time he heard of their contracts of mercy. Perhaps it’s still a bad idea, because he’s a Crow, through and through and he will return to Treviso and take up the mantle of First Talon, as is asked of him, because he always does. Perhaps it’s a bad idea because he’s waited so long, too long and their moments have passed and he didn’t kiss her in the pantry when he kind of sort of really wanted to and perhaps he can’t expect her to understand. Perhaps he still spends too much time in his own head. Because suddenly Rook is gone and Lucanis knows there is no such thing as third chances.
He would have liked to say that he was out there, from the moment it happened, looking for Rook. He would have liked to say that once the dust had settled, realization dawned, he had proven himself worthy of the Spirit of Determination who had been drawn into him. In reality, he does not remember the details of that day, because when he does realize, that Ghilan'nain is dead, that he has killed a god and done what has been asked of him and still they lost Rook , his vision blanks as does his mind. Later, Emmrich tells him in the laboratory, where he treats his wounds, that Spite took over and Taash had to… intervene (they knocked him out with a hit to the head) and Lucanis wants to believe that, so he plays along. In his heart, he knows that he cannot blame the demon for everything. He does not remember but he knows, deep down, that his own anguish played a part in what happened. He cannot blame Spite either for how useless he is after that, because the longer he has time to think over what happened, the further he sinks into Despair (Maker, he does not have room in his head for so many demons). They still meet at the table in the Lighthouse, they still talk, they still strategize, but it doesn’t mean anything without Rook, without such a crucial piece on their board. The mages make plans and the warriors push forward and he just sits there and cannot bring himself to entertain the thought that he might see her again. Hope may just kill him, if he lets it win. It is Spite, the demon, yes, but also the sentiment, that finally drags him out from under his clouds of doom. He doesn’t let Hope win, doesn’t let himself feel it, truly feel it, but he owes it to Rook to at the very least fake it until they make it. He does what Neve and Emmrich tell him needs doing, he slices his way through as many of their enemies as it takes until they hold in their hands a perfect replica of the knife that might end the world. Their plan fails, twice, before they find another use for the counterfeit fang, before they find the weakened veil and it is agony, shouting for Rook, pushing his arms through the magic, trying not to believe but wanting to believe but not wanting to believe in anything ever again - and then she slumps into his arms, real, whole, covered in blight and blood but breathing . He wraps arms and wings around her and makes a sound he does not recognize the first time he hears her say his name again, only faintly aware of the others as more arms encircle them both and no one cares about decorum anymore, not even Emmrich, all of them too tired and too sad and too happy to pretend to be anything less than family anymore.
And he knows that he should let her rest that night, that he should let her sleep, but this time, finally, he does not let himself take the easy excuse to run away again. He forces his feet to the door of her room and through it and in the end, he is glad that he did, because she didn’t need to be alone, she needed him and he doesn’t remember ever having felt so needed, so wanted, anywhere, by anyone. He’s asked her time and time again not to make promises she cannot keep but tonight he is on his knees swearing something close to fealty before he has to kiss her. And make no mistake, it is a need, no longer an option. He thought he would be awkward and nervous and ruin it all but he is shocked how much of it comes natural, how much their bodies just know what they want. Of course it’s not perfect. There’s some clacking teeth and noses bumping together and quiet, stifled laughter but it doesn’t in the least subtract from the experience, takes nothing away, just adds - comfort, warmth, understanding, seeing and everything else he believed was not made for people like him. She has so many scars and he is grateful for every one of them (“Grateful?” “Yes.” “Why?” “Because only the living get to have scars. Because every one of them is a battle you walked away from. Because every one of them is a reason I got to meet you.” She has no answer for that), so he kisses every one of them without reservation or a moment's hesitation. And she doesn't tell him that night, but she will, some day, how much that means to her, because Darkspawn claws don't conveniently leave out faces, or breasts, or hips or any of the places we tell women hold their beauty. He will kiss them all again, then, to make sure she never doubts him. He has so many scars and she traces every one of them without pity or disappointment in her eyes, loves things about his body he had never thought of as desirable, like the hair on his belly or the crook of his nose. And he doesn’t tell her that night, but he will, some day, how much he’s never wanted to be looked at and how much he wants to be seen now by her and her alone. The battle is an old tale and one he doesn’t dwell on much, all things considered. He fulfils his contract, like he said he would. He goes back to Treviso, like he said he would. He brings Rook, before Duty has a chance to take her away from him again. They sleep their little hearts out.
He wakes up not in the arms of Rook, but the next best thing, home , in his bed to the smell of coffee. The smell of his coffee, which is an experience nearly as disorienting as waking up in an ancient elven ruin beneath the sea with a demon stuck to his soul. Said demon is as quiet and content as a cat snoozing in a ray of sunshine and Lucanis wonders how much that is him and how much of it is Spite's own sense of happiness, if he can have such a thing. Lucanis hopes he can, because this is something everyone should get to feel, at least once, before they return to the Maker's side, or wherever they like to go in the end. He slides out of the bed and returns to the only side that matters to him, or more the back of her, as he wraps his arms around her waist from behind and rests his chin atop her head, where it fits, perfectly, just as he always knew. Well, maybe not always, but near enough. Rook startles and drops her cup but he catches it just in time. He can hear her smile in her “Good morning” and he hopes she can hear his own in his “Slept well?”
“Not as good as you,” she counters and he laughs. She points the coffee out to him and he leaves her only reluctantly to grab himself a cup. It tastes like he's made it himself, in his sleep, somehow. She never asked him how he made it. She just paid attention. He feels like he's going to faint, one of these days, just from being in love. They’ll find a real breakfast, some time later. For now, he is content to lean against the counter top she sits on so they can be closer and roughly of a height. Lucanis wants to tell her a few hundred different things, but settles instead on a question, the last one that burns a hole in his gut, the last one that stirs that strange, unnameable fear in him. So he blurts it out: “When did you… know?” and he isn’t sure what answer he is hoping for. She blinks at him but takes her time with an answer, considering it in earnest and that in and of itself is a relief. She tells him that she found him beautiful the first time she saw his face, but that she did not feel the tug in her chest until she watched him buy a plant for Harding to sooth bad dreams. That it was his kindness, not his profile, that ‘did her in’, as she puts it. He isn’t sure how he feels about that answer, if it makes it better, or worse, just wonders, slowly, with his stomach tying itself in knots, just how much faster she was. He doesn’t realize he’s said the words out loud before it’s too late. If he was a little wiser after everything, he might have realized that he was talking to Rook, his Rook, and that everything would be alright. But he isn’t and she has to remind him but it’s not so bad, because the words coming out of her mouth are carved into the darkest corner of his heart.
“The lives we've lived… I think we’ve earned ourselves a little patience. Don't you?”
He thinks he's going to marry her. He thinks Caterina will hate him for it. He thinks she cannot stop him. He thinks he will ask her to stay here, some day, when she truly feels like the Wardens do not need her, when she can hang up her sword. He thinks he will give her his mother's ring and keep her. He thinks he'll tell her, some day, a little later, because she's right. They have earned themselves a little patience.