Work Text:
The rhythmic thud of the knife against the cutting board as he first sliced the aubergine into medallions, then into small bite-sized cubes, was—blissfully—the only sound in the kitchen. The softest of shicks of the blade through the vegetable's flesh, the whisper of them against the smoothed wooden board as he maneuvered them into neat piles, and his own metered breathing served as its accompaniment. Spite slumbered peacefully or, at least, left him to his thoughts without commentary. It would not stay this way for long he knew, and part of him mourned the loss of such quiet in advance, but another could not help anticipating the interruption that was certain to come with an earnest pleasure.
Evidenced by how much he had prepared in advance to be distracted. Small bowls and platters with ingredients, tools in the form of cookware and utensils well within reach of the stove and set in the order he was likeliest to need them, both an eye and an ear trained toward the door as he continued working undisturbed. There was no telling when or how said interruption would arrive—there never had been any predicting that part—but he knew that she would eventually.
That eventuality turned out to be just as he pulling the bread from the oven, its warm, herby scent infusing the air. If he hadn't already known she was there, the groan would have given her away.
There had been a prickle at the back of his neck when she'd entered the kitchen. Out of the corner of his eye, he'd seen her edge the door open and lean a shoulder against the jamb. He'd pretended not to notice her watching him, ignored the way his heart thudded as her eyes tracked him from stove top to counter and back again.
As the low keening seemed to slip out of her, he finally acknowledged her, suppressing amusement at the expression of want so blatant he was almost jealous of the object of her desire, her gaze fixed on the fresh bread he was carrying.
Releasing a sigh, he set the steaming loaf on a nearby counter, letting it sit for a moment as he stirred the concocting simmering on the stove. As if carried by her nose alone, when he next looked, she was leaning over the bread, inspecting the golden crust, her lips pinned together. Lucanis clicked his tongue, snapping the dishtowel he'd used to protect his hands harmlessly in her direction, before returning it over his shoulder.
Like a particularly audacious street cat, Rook only rocked back on her heels, her eyes narrowing before she made a point to step away. Not so far that the bread was out of danger, he noted, but he was willing to trust she'd taken his warning seriously.
As she leaned a hip against the counter, they settled into their usual routine—inasmuch as sporadic evenings in which neither of them were called away could be considered routine. He focused on cooking while she talked to him: about her day, the work she was doing, and something or other that had amused her, and he made the appropriate responses. Or some approximation, at any rate, as he seasoned and stirred and tried to ignore what was pressing at the back of his mind.
It didn't take long at all before the look in her eye turned serious as he chuckled, the sound petering off halfheartedly as the energy shifted. He could feel his shoulders tensing even before she asked, trying not to add weight to the calculating way she looked around the kitchen to the half-finished dishes covering most of the surface space.
"What happened?" she asked as he was turning over a fillet with more care than was necessary. He heard release a measured breath when he didn't answer. "Lucanis—"
"Nothing," he said, the word clipped.
"Lucanis…"
"Aliento del Hacedor," he muttered as he moved the pan of sizzling fish safely off the heat, nearly burning himself in the process. Pinching his nose for a second, he turned to face her with what he hoped was a neutral expression. "Nothing happened."
She leveled a look at him, her eyebrow arching slowly the longer he remained silent. Her tone was wry when she spoke next. "Try again. A third time might do the trick."
A muscle ticked in his cheek as he ground his teeth, mouth flattening. He held her stare a moment more before he turned abruptly back to the stove. Heat rose up his neck as she continued to watch him, holding her peace, and found himself at odds with himself. He wished she would go, that she would give up and turn from him. That she would stop looking at him so closely. His skin felt combed over with hot bristles, the urge to remove himself from the room a strong one—and contrary to relieving the knot lodged in his chest.
Lucanis fought the loosen the words caught somewhere between his throat and his teeth, stirring the stewing vegetables to keep his hands occupied as he did. Still, Rook remained—as steady a presence as she was silent. He studied the floating bits of aubergine and tomato and mussel shell as if he could divine her reaction from the configuration. The steam, at least, was soothing. He swiped the back of his wrist across his dewy forehead, his shoulders falling as he let out a sigh.
"Illario is moving back into the villa," he informed her at last, careful not to look at her. He didn't want to see her reaction.
"I see," was all she said at first. Then, "Viago will be relieved to be free of him."
He paused in his stirring, letting the spoon rest against the side of the heavy cast iron pot. "It's time," he nodded to himself, still not looking at her, "Past time. For him to return."
Rook made a noncommittal sound, but when no further comment came, he risked a glance at her to find her still watching him. Her head was tilted to the side, and her arms loosely crossed, as if she were prepared to stand right where she was. Would put down roots if she needed to. It was a stance he'd become well-acquainted with over the last year.
He felt the knot loosen a little as he left the stew to simmer further, taking up a knife as he moved toward her. Her eyes flicked toward it, but her expression remain unchanged, only shifting a little as he stepped up to the counter beside her. He glanced at her from beneath his lashes, before he dug the knife's serrated edge into the crust, the bread warm beneath his hand as he held it steady,
"Is that what you want?" her words were spoken carefully.
"Yes," he answered, too quickly, scowling a little as he glanced at her. "And no," he sighed. "I don't know."
"Lucanis, if you aren't ready—"
The knife dropped to the counter with a thud as he stopped abruptly, holding out a piece of the bread to her. As a distraction, maybe. A bribe felt more accurate. Change the subject, leave this one to lie, let him off the hook this once. Only he wasn't sure he truly wanted that, either—easier as it would be to avoid attempting to put to words the tumult the decision had wrought within him.
Almost reflexively, she took it, watching him as she took a bite off the crust. Her eyes were too knowing, chewing deliberately slowly, waiting for him to speak. He was struck by a memory. Of another time, another place, another offering exchanged amidst conversation, and a silent request for trust he hadn't known then would become so significant. Those cat-like green eyes—always seeing too much, always trying to read him like cards in a game they were always changing the rules to—rounded in surprise, sugary crumbs of cookie clinging to her lips not unlike the baked herbs dusting them now.
"That isn't what I mean," he said quietly, before sighing a little. "I don't know how to feel about it." He watched her swallow and take a breath. Reaching out, he brushed the crumbs from where they'd gathered in the corner of her mouth, and spoke before she could, "It needed to happen. So… it's going to happen. Just in time for Satinalia."
The last was said with not a little ruefulness and Rook's eyes rolled toward the ceiling.
"Let me guess. There's going to be a party and we're all going to put on some big show of—"
"Solidarity, sí," he finished, tearing off a piece of the bread she was still holding and popping it into his mouth. It needed a pinch more salt, he thought absently as her eyes narrowed at his thievery.
"Closing ranks publicly around someone everyone knows to be a traitor isn't going to go over well," she warned, though it wasn't something he hadn't already thought about.
"When has anything we've done?" He shrugged. "It can't make having an abomination as First Talon any worse." The demon stirred at the acknowledgment, slithering around the inside of his skull, but only to eavesdrop, ignoring the irritation that rippled through him in response.
Rook's lips parted as if to respond, but she pressed them together again a beat later, sighing through her nose. She searched his face for a moment. "Are you sure about this?"
"Not even a little," he chuckled dryly, regretting it only a little when she grasped his wrist, her eyes full of concern. He covered her hand with his free one. "The villa is big enough for the both of us. We have bigger problems than what is between my cousin and I to settle." He hadn't meant for it to sound so targeted, but he could tell it had hit its mark all the same by the way she tensed. When she tried to pull her hand away, he grasped it, instead, turning it over to lace their fingers together. Relieved when she didn't resist, he squeezed gently in apology. "We'll work it out or bring the house down around our ears, likely."
She groaned. "I hope you only mean that figuratively."
"Perhaps. Es así," he dropped a kiss on her cheek, "It's for me to worry about, either way." She glared at him as he pulled away, looking as if she might protest when he released her hand to continue slicing the bread. Quickly, he changed the subject. "Have you spoken to Viago yet?"
The way she wrinkled her nose, guiltly picking at the remaining crust she still held, told him she hadn't. He hadn't expected she had. Though the decision had been made, he'd spoken truthfully about the size of their problems—navigating her departure from House de Riva was the least of them. There was always something else more pressing, timing the conversation impossible, the potential for disaster high. Lucanis knew all of this, already, but, like Illario was his to worry about, the Fifth Talon was hers.
So, when the question went unanswered, he only nodded silently, swallowing his disappointment. He didn't need to cut the bread into so many slices, but he did, concentrating on making clean, even cuts that stacked neatly together. He heard her sigh, felt her shift before she pushed away from the counter.
Crossing behind him, she paused to place a hand lightly at the small of his back, pressing her lips to the inch of skin exposed above his collar just at the edge of his hairline. Something in him shook loose at the touch, that feeling in his chest not as tight as it had been before.
Her breath breezed against the shell of his ear as she whispered, "Your soup is burning."
He swore, sliding across the tile to the stove where the stew is still bubbling contentedly. Muttering under his breath about the differences between soup and stew, he removed it from the heat, giving it one last stir as he did. Vaguely, he heard Spite chortle, an echo of Rook's, and he wasn't entirely certain which of the two the sound truly belongs to. It successfully broke the moment of tension, Rook turning the conversation back to neutral territory.
Only later, as they sat together at the table, remnants of the meal he'd made scattered around them, did she finally answer his question.
"I'll tell him tomorrow," she said. She wasn't quite looking at him as she picked a mussel shell from the dregs in her bowl and placed it atop the small pile she'd made between them. He smothered his reaction, sitting up straighter as she spoke. "Soften the blow with the news about Illario."
He didn't think said news would make that much of a difference. "'Tell' him?" he asked, instead, sipping his coffee.
"Yes, tell him. It's not a discussion, Lucanis." Her words were sharp, like she was trying to convince herself most of all. She jabbed her spoon into the bowl without any clear goal as she frowned. "He'll either make it difficult or he won't and there's no knowing which until I do."
He studied the dark liquid in his cup. "I should be there."
"No," she said, setting the bowl down abruptly and pushing it away from her. When he looked up, she shook her head. "This one is between me and Viago."
He didn't like it, but didn't press further, reaching out a hand to cup the back of her neck. Massaging the tension he found there, he held his peace until at last her shoulders relaxed. "Perhaps its for the best my cousin won't be around, in that case."
Her eyebrows rose. "He's moving in that soon?"
"It's Illario," he raised a shoulder and dropped it in a shrug as if that explained everything. In a way, it did. It wasn't exactly a secret Illario and Viago cared little for each other, his cousin being under the Talon's supervision while they all figured out how to move forward couldn't have been comfortable for either of them, even with so much else going on. Lucanis wouldn't say Illario had been eager to place himself back under their grandmother's eye—not any more eager than he had been to agree to it—but he supposed the alternative was worse.
On whom, he was uncertain.
Rook released a tired breath, the corner of her mouth ticking up as she joked, "Y'know, the offer to run away is still on the table."
He wanted to laugh. He knew she wasn't serious. The offer she mentioned had only ever been delivered teasingly, in jokes that always held an edge to them for how tempting the idea was. Nothing would be solved by doing so, they both knew it, but he couldn't help wondering if she would be happier free of all of this. Not just House de Riva, but the Crows, too. All the politics and the scheming. His family. Him. The weeks spent apart while she'd remained in Minrathous had been some of the longest in his life, rivaled only by the time he'd believed her lost in the Fade, and just behind the year spent imprisoned in Zara's underwater laboratory.
If he could survive that—if he could survive that…
He couldn't finish the thought. Because he nearly hadn't survived that experience. When he hadn't thought to see her again, how pointless it had all seemed to him, then. Even after she'd returned, he could barely think beyond what they'd still needed to do, the seemingly impossible task of surviving the Evanuris. The thought of the rest of his life being like the weeks after, knowing she wouldn't return this time—each year stretching from the last with that knowledge—soured his stomach. He was too selfish to suggest it, to call her bluff, to find there was a kernel of real desire there, and reckon with what it would mean for her to follow it.
Even so, he felt uncertain as he looked at her, seated at his side, and leaning into his touch. The hard-won trust in that small gesture. It didn't escape him that this, what was between them, wasn't what they had been made for. In the Lighthouse, the Crows an obligation that existed at a distance, it had been easy to forget that once he'd allowed himself to love her. He did love her, but that love existed somewhere outside the bounds of their respective roles here. He thought of Sable, of Pearl, of what they had been driven to do, and wondered if it had not been foolish to think he and Rook different.
Lucanis tried to smile, knowing it was a tired, half-hearted thing as he massaged the spot beneath her ear with his thumb. Unaware of his thoughts, she smiled back, and it. He pulled his hand away with no little reluctance, pinching the bridge of his nose where a headache was beginning. "Perhaps Viago will take it better than you think."
"And maybe nugs will develop the ability to fly," she remarked drily.
"Bah. Nugs will never fly," Spite interjected. "Stupid creatures. No wings."
Warmed by Rook's answering laughter, Lucanis grumbled into his mug, amused despite himself. A shadow crossed over her expression as leaned her elbows on the table, propping her chin her palm. He studied her for moment, the question slipping out before he could think better of it, "Where would we go? If we ran away?"
Rook hummed thoughtfully, squinting into the middle distance. "Orlais? Heard there are wyverns there," her eyes flicked towards him, then, mischief sparking in them, "You could complain about the coffee."
"Orlais has terrible coffee," he said as he swallowed a sip of his own, savoring the spicy boldness of a roast he could only get here in Treviso, and smirked. "But the wine is worse."
"Or we could go to Rivain," she suggested, "Buy some land. Change our names and become farmers."
Lucanis' brows rose in surprise. "Farmers?"
"Why not?"
"Have you even seen a farm?"
"Of course, I've seen one," she scoffed, obviously offended by his doubtful tone. "When I was travelling with Varric and Harding, we passed through so many farms. Fields, as far as the eye could see, and…so much mud." To her credit, her voice didn't hitch over their names. He held his breath as he watched her blink rapidly, chasing away the emotion recalling lost friends brought. She cleared her throat and sat back, lips quirking. "Anyway, ours would be different. We could have orange trees… grow our own coffee…"
We. Ours. He liked the sound of it—for all it was a fantasy. There was a wistfulness in her expression that made him ache, and he reached for her hand, pressing her knuckles to his lips. Spite purred contentedly when she pulled her fingers free to brush the backs of them against his cheek.
Loosing a heavy breath, Rook stood from the table.
"Where are you going?"
"If you're going to be here frying things all night," she replied, beginning to gather their empty bowls and plates, "Might as well make myself useful,"
She left him there, watching in bemusement, as she set about the work in earnest. It wasn't necessary, the villa's staff was well accustomed to his habits—and he compensated them well for it—but something in how she'd said it made him stay silent. Since they'd met, she'd put up with his messes, though part of him was loathe to admit it, but it wasn't that compelling him to watch her as closely as he was. It was the implication she intended to stay, delivered simply, as if it were the only option.
Perhaps, it was.
For him, it was, at any rate, but deep in his gut he knew she deserved better. More. A whole grove of orange trees, if she wanted them, as far removed from this life as she could get. One day, he would give that to her.