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The December wind rattled the windows of Mark Beaks's penthouse, but inside, the tech mogul was focused on something decidedly low-tech. He struck a match, the small flame dancing in the dimming light of evening, and carefully lit the first candle on the coffee table.
"What are you doing?" Falcon Graves stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and suspicion.
"Setting the mood," Mark said with a grin, moving to light another candle. "It's December. It's cold. Candles are, like, totally hygge or whatever."
"Hygge."
"Yeah, you know. That Danish thing. Cozy vibes." Mark lit a third candle, the warm glow beginning to fill the modern, minimalist space. "Plus, the sunset's really doing something aesthetic right now, and I thought—"
"That you were going to burn your building down."
Mark rolled his eyes. "They're candles, Gravesy. We’ve have been using them for literally thousands of years without burning down civilization. Well, mostly." He set the matches down and flopped onto the couch, patting the cushion beside him. "Come on. Just try it."
Falcon hesitated, his sharp eyes scanning the room as if checking for threats. It was a habit Mark had grown accustomed to; the constant vigilance, the way Graves never fully relaxed. But eventually, the assassin moved forward, settling onto the couch with characteristic stiffness.
They sat in silence for a moment, the only sounds the distant hum of the city below and the occasional crackle from one of the candles. The flickering light painted soft shadows across Falcon's scarred features, and Mark found himself watching the way the tension in the other bird's shoulders gradually, almost imperceptibly, began to ease.
"It's ridiculous," Falcon said finally.
"What is?"
"This. Candles. Sitting in the dark when you have perfectly functional lighting."
"It's not about the lighting, dude." Mark leaned back, tucking one foot under himself. "It's about the vibe. The warmth. The—"
"I like the warmth."
The admission was quiet, almost grudging, and it made Mark pause mid-gesture. He looked over at Falcon, whose gaze was fixed on the nearest candle flame with an intensity that seemed excessive for such a simple thing.
"Yeah?" Mark's voice was softer than usual, lacking its typical performative energy.
Falcon was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was low. "Growing up, we didn't have much. Heating was... inconsistent. Fire meant warmth. Meant surviving another night." He paused, jaw tight. "Then it meant something else. Burning evidence. Covering tracks." His eyes flickered to Mark, something vulnerable and uncertain in them. "But this... this is different."
Mark felt something twist in his chest; an unfamiliar sensation that his usual deflection tactics couldn't quite dispel. "Different how?"
"Safe," Falcon said simply. "The warmth is... safe."
For once, Mark Beaks didn't have a quippy response ready. Instead, he shifted closer on the couch, closing the distance between them until their shoulders touched. Falcon didn't move away.
"Then we'll do this more often," Mark said quietly. "Like, way more often. I'll get those fancy expensive candles from that boutique downtown. The ones that cost, like, eighty dollars each because they're made from beeswax blessed by Tibetan monks or whatever."
The corner of Falcon's mouth twitched; not quite a smile, but close. "That's not a real thing."
"You don't know that. They could be out there right now, blessing beeswax. Very spiritual. Very exclusive."
"You're an idiot."
"Yeah, but I'm an idiot with great ambiance." Mark gestured at the candles, their golden light now the primary illumination in the room as darkness settled fully outside. "Admit it. This is nice."
Falcon didn't answer immediately. Instead, he did something unexpected; he leaned into Mark's shoulder, just slightly, the weight of him a steady, grounding presence.
"It's tolerable," he said.
Mark grinned, resting his head against Falcon's. Outside, December's chill pressed against the windows, but inside, surrounded by candlelight and an assassin who was slowly learning what warmth could mean, everything felt exactly right.
"Tolerable," Mark repeated, still smiling. "I'll take it."
They sat like that as the evening deepened, the candles burning steady and warm, and for once, neither of them felt the need to fill the silence with anything more.