Work Text:
“Home already?”
The door snaps shut behind him with an icy winter wind.
It is the mean kind of winter, late in the season, sneaking in between the dips of summer flashes, only to swallow them all in their sleep. Yesterday’s downpour had turned to ice on the cobblestone walk, and his windshield. Aerion had spent the last ten minutes chipping at it with a credit card, fingers turning pink, then pinker, then numb, as the snowy rain sunk into his peacoat and scarf and hat and he decided to give up.
But he could not come back into the house through the front door. No. The front entrance with its polished parquet floors and hand-woven rug were pristine, and Aerion’s sodden footsteps would be scrutinized. Instead, he had to use the side entrance. Like a servant. The mudroom, as they called it. Which requires circling the house through the six inches of snow that had already fallen, coat growing heavier and skin tender, and irritation growing as his clothes soaked.
He imagines his father would be sorry when his body is found in the thaw, hand frozen around the brass handle.
He had stepped into a wave of heat, trapped behind the door like a waiting fire, accosted by the thrum of pop music coming from the ancient speakers, and surprised, chiefly, to see the personal chef his father hired six months ago had made it in this morning.
Duncan is staring at him from behind the kitchen island. He is wearing his usual uniform of loose-fitting chef’s pants and thin tee shirt, logo faded; tight across the chest in a way that denotes well-worn, not stylized. Topped, of course, with his faded green apron.
And he has the gall to look at Aerion, half-frozen, and make a joke of all things.
Aerion can feel the snow build up slipping under his collar, pooling down his back. He tosses his messenger bag on the bench.
“It’s my home.” He snaps, because it is, and he is annoyed, and he needs to test his teeth on something.
Duncan massages his massive hands with a dishtowel, eyeing him in the way he does. Like he is not quite sure Aerion is real. Not in the sense of solid flesh and bone, but as an adult, a serious person. Someone to be heeded, though Aerion is not the one who signs his checks.
He looks uncomfortable with Aerion’s plight of snow-logged and frozen, and Aerion wonders if Duncan is going to remind him, again, that Aerion is not allowed to linger here while he’s working, even though Aerion has to use the door that led through the kitchen to get back inside.
It is all a terrible, stupid contradiction.
He lifts his chin, daring him anyway.
Snow slides off his shoulders. Plops on the rubber mat at his feet.
There is movement on Duncan’s face, just in his mouth, but in a twitch, its gone.
“Sit,” Duncan says, after a moment, tossing the towel over his shoulder. His hands flint to his waist, thinking, and then forward, at the ready. “I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
Aerion hangs on the mat for a moment, eyeing Duncan as he pulls a blackened kettle from the sink and puts it on the burner, listening to the chugh chugh chugh as the flame catches the gas and ignites. Duncan pops open a cabinet and takes down a jar of loose tea flowers and starts to brew.
He moves with an industrious grace for someone so large.
Aerion can feel the weight of his scarf, ill-advised and itchy, and begins to peel it off. The wet wool drags against his numb skin, but after the final loop, the dry air of the kitchen hits his neck.
He glances at the walls of the mudroom, coats hung double on the racks, bench shoved full of school bags and library books, the foot space beneath piled high with shoes of every season.
He eyes the wall for an available hook, drops Aegon’s coat and claims the spot next to Duncan. His thick coat dips almost to the ground, topped with a pom-pom hat. It is an obnoxious combination of purple, orange and green. Hand-knit. Probably a gift.
It is also, he notices, dry.
“How did you get in this morning?” He asks.
The groundskeeper hadn’t. He normally scraped and defrosted all their cars first thing. He had not seen Duncan’s beater in the employee lot either but had not thought much about it.
Duncan hums, busying himself with the kettle. “Oh, I walked.”
Aerion’s fingers pause on his buttons. “You what?”
“Up from the village, yes,” Duncan sways in front of the ancient stove to fiddle with something on the backburner, stirring something syrupy sweet. “This is almost done.” He mutters, more so to himself. He does that a lot.
It used to annoy him.
Aerion yanks down the buttons of his coat, annoyed, and ears stinging, scratches off his hat as well. White-blond hair stuck up in all directions. He hooks his coat back on the wall. The snow drips, beginning to puddle. The heat of the kitchen is immense. The radio cracking out songs that used to chart in other countries, now come to die here.
The snowy rain batters outside.
“Why?”
“Couldn’t have you lot starving on my account.”
Aerion wants to argue that they are a house of mostly adults and are fully capable of feeding themselves, and remembers, belatedly, that Duncan had seen their stores when he arrived and knew better. Besides, Duncan says things like that all the time. Always doing more than required.
He stands one-legged to pull off a boot and immediately steps into the puddle beneath his shoe. His sock soaks.
He releases another irritated breath and Duncan, to his credit, ignores him as he yanks off the other and then tiptoes into the kitchen, peeling off his socks.
Duncan had lit a fire in the old hearth and put up the barrier that his mother had bought when he was a toddler, enticed by the light. He would sit for hours, watching the firelight catch on the scaley mosaics, making the dragons inside dance in flames.
The kitchen is relatively modern, built out of the medieval bones of his family’s estate. The cabinets are ancient wood with silver hardware; the walls the color of slate and stone; the floors, dusty amethyst tiles, his mother’s favorite color, cold as ice beneath his bare feet. It is a bit like a cave, muggy in the winter and cold in the summer, and Aerion’s favorite place in the house.
He hangs his sodden socks on the fire barrier and lingers a moment, soaking the warmth into his fingertips, his palms, and itching at his wrists. He peels off his sweater too, smoke gray and damp from the ice, and stands there in his thin undershirt. The heat hits him, not stuffy, but a comfort. Sliding into place.
He twists himself, letting the heat pour across his back and the damp spot the snow left, and lets his eyes drift to the old rocking chair. He considers curling up and scrolling his phone, fielding emails from his professors while Duncan makes breakfast, but then eyes the chairs set at the kitchen island in a neat row.
Duncan’s back still turned.
He claims a chair at the island. Unlocking his phone as his foot settles on the highest wrung.
He’s got some emails – group projects and term paper check ins – but his eyes skim over the top of his phone, taking in the spread on the kitchen island. Fresh fruit diced. Measuring cups arranged. A glass bowl covered by a damp cloth, dough rising beneath.
He snatches a strawberry and taps an email marked urgent.
Duncan turns to him, expression placid. “You want honey?”
Aerion makes a noise that Duncan translates as an affirmative. He keeps reading the email, finding it not urgent and deletes it to watch Duncan twist the lid off the honey jar. He had shown him a bee wing in there before, and said it meant the honey was actually organic. It made Aerion want to gag.
Aerion watches over his phone as Duncan stirs in a spoonful of honey for him, and wonders if he should say something.
He is not supposed to be here. Not while Duncan is working, according to his father. He is meant to let him work and not accost him with his “petty wants and desires.” It sets a certain thrill through him, all needles and heat, to be in the kitchen in the early morning, alone, sun not yet peaking over the hill.
He had prickled, initially, at the thought of there being even a piece of Summerhall he was not privy too. Bedrooms aside, Aerion and his siblings had had the run of the place all their lives, from the vast stables, the ballroom, and the libraries. Their home was historical, well-maintained, and theirs. But the kitchen had been their mother’s.
Their heights marked on the arched doorway. The stone detailing. The star-burst cabinet handles. The rocking chair in the corner by the fire.
It’s all her.
Not that they had gotten much use of it, after her death. In truth, Aerion’s own attempts at cooking had been abysmal, ruining several stainless-steel pans and several more utensils.
His mother had tried to teach them when they were young, gathering them in the early mornings, mountains of masa and cornhusks, and café cooling in clay pots till late afternoon, but her efforts had been wasted on her children. They had developed the palate, but none of the talent.
Not that Aerion had had much of an appetite either.
He became a two meals a day person, then one. Like a lizard. Sustaining himself on takeaway and protein bars.
First time Aerion had come down to the kitchen after Duncan was hired, he had been surprised to see him, first, and then doubly surprised to see he had dug up his mother’s comal and was using it to make pancakes of all things. “I couldn’t find the frying pans,” he explained, though he had no need. Maekar had dismissed all Duncan’s explanations through hasty introductions.
“This is my second-born, Aerion. Do not let him bully you.”
It had bruised his ego then, especially standing in the kitchen in his boxers and robe. His being cut down to two pieces of information, but curtailed his rising fury at his mother’s kitchen being used. He expected a hostile takeover. This giant of a man tearing through their house with the force of a wrecking ball. He expected blunted knives and chipped plates; grease built up on the stovetop and crumbs accumulating in the kitchen grout. More work for the maids.
Aerion’s shoulder only comes up to Duncan’s elbow, and he memorably, knocked his head on the low arched doorway of the mudroom several times while coming and going with groceries.
Aerion expected him to always be bumbling about after that, like a puppy that did not know their own weight, but Duncan was surprisingly delicate. Almost in spite of his strength.
And he takes great care with his mother’s kitchen.
Several times, between meals and passing hours, Aerion peaked in to find the giant fiddling away with something or other – baking the cast irons, or oiling the cutting boards, or taking apart the vents. Tidying up before leaving in the evening. Dishes away and ready for tomorrow. Maintaining, not just using.
A mug is placed in front of him, ceramic white, tea coffee-colored. An additional plate is set beside it, empty. Aerion glances up, questioning, and Duncan shares with him a pleased smile. “Fresh scones in a bit.”
“French?”
“Nah, Irish.”
Aerion pouts, though he knows it will be good. Everything Duncan makes is good, but that doesn’t mean he has to lay it on thick. Duncan gets enough praise from his siblings, all of which, have broken the “no fraternizing with the help” rule.
The girls often snuck down for extra treats or tea for their parties when their friends came round. Daeron could be found stumbling in at all hours, stooped at the kitchen island, eating a hangover breakfast with some hair of the dog. Aemon, though seen the least, often wrestled a pot of coffee from Duncan’s hands before promptly passing out in the library. Aegon is the greatest offender, wanting to help, and the giant would give him a bowl of something to shell or stir under his careful eye. Their chef treating him like his sous.
His father, too, is on occasion seen sipping tea in the evenings as Duncan cleaned up, chatting about the day and whatever Duncan made for his children and if they were behaving. Duncan always smiling and offering the affirmative.
Aerion is not a frequenter of the kitchen these days, but enough so that Duncan knows his preferences. He takes a sip of tea and feels the warmth pouring into him.
“Classes cancelled, yeah?”
“No, I just felt like defrosting my car this morning.”
“Terrible weather, too.” He makes the comment as if he had not heard him. Aerion bites his lips together.
“I didn’t even hear you come in this morning.”
It is such a banal comment. No need to remind Duncan that his bedroom was right above the kitchen. He could feel that heat rising as well as anybody.
His hands curl around the mug.
Duncan shrugs. “I didn’t want to disturb. I figured there would be a snow day, and you all would need something. Besides, I had some scones prepped and some breakfast as well.”
Aerion had seen it when he came down last night. It had become his ritual between sleep-drunk three a.m. or bleary-eyed insomnia, coming down and nosing through the fridge and cabinets, pretending to be looking for a snack. Just to poke through Duncan’s prep.
Egg yolks floating in albumen and whole milk, separate containers of chopped cilantro and onions. Homemade hot sauce. Turkey bacon for his father. Pork for the rest of them. An assort of fresh vegetables, chopped, awaiting picking fingers.
He suspects that Duncan knows, but never says anything. So, Aerion never says anything either.
The egg alarm goes off, a cranky whirling, that Duncan silences with a pat before grabbing the dishtowel hanging from his shoulder. He has to bend quite a bit to pull the sheet tray from the oven. The helm of his tee shirt riding up his back.
Aerion takes another drink of tea as Duncan turns and displays a tray of pale scones. “Do you want another lesson today?”
Aerion cuddles his cup closer. “I’m fine here.” He bites off the thanks. Not sure Duncan will read deeper than that.
“As you say,” he murmurs, setting the scones to rest on a wire rack on the island. He keeps the momentum, a steady dance, returning the dishtowel on his shoulder again, and takes up a scone from the tray. It flakes at the top, crumbling as he pries it apart, and takes a bite.
The steam curls from his lips as he chews.
“No jam?” Aerion asks behind his cup.
He can taste the heat from here.
“Got to make sure they don’t need a few more minutes.” Duncan says around a mouthful, chews a bit more, then swallows. He sets the rest of his scone aside on a castaway plate where he leaves all his little pinches of his shift. Aerion can already see a tidy pile up of tasting spoons.
“Does that even work?”
“If you know what you’re looking for,” Duncan says conversationally, “They need a few moments rest before they’re ready for you to eat, but I know from that bite that they’ll settle proper and go well with the jam I made.”
“Of course,” he scoffs.
Of course, he made his own jam.
Aerion is not sure if it should be a point of pride, or annoyance, in how efficient Duncan is in the kitchen. He used everything. Potato peels became crisps, chicken bones and veggie scraps became stock, berries from the garden became jam. He had pickled, crushed, and sealed half a dozen jars before winter set and only then seemed annoyed by them hanging out as he stepped around the kitchen with tongs and piping glass jars.
Maekar is just happy to find someone efficient with less rubbish in the bins. Uncle Baelor hails it as talent.
He wonders sometimes, when his uncle lingers in the kitchen, if he is trying to sway Duncan over to his house. Valarr wouldn’t bother coming down to the kitchen like they did. The little prince took all his meals in the formal dining room at Dragonstone, reading over his civil procedures, separating his peas.
Duncan, however, seems unlikely to switch up on them. Says he likes it here.
Whatever that means.
Duncan turns back to the stove again, grabbing up another spoon. A joyful clink and motion and breath, and then there is a spoon coming towards him. Red, red jam on the end.
“Try it.”
It is a request.
A demand.
It brings his racing mind to heel. The terrible humdrum and irritation of the morning into a kick up of snow, and ice, and fire, and emails, and ginger hair, and here. He is so startled to be here in the moment that he doesn’t know what to do.
He thinks, obviously that Duncan is handing him the spoon to try, but his hand encompasses the entire handle. His eyes skirt down the folded forearm, propped up on the sharp elbow; Duncan’s body bent over the kitchen island towards him. Bridging the gap.
His throat goes dry.
It feels like a dare. A joke like before. At his expense.
His body is tense, and tenser. He sets his tea down. Swallows hot assam and bergamot.
The honey slides slow down his throat.
It feels like that time before.
When Duncan gave him a lesson.
When Aerion had been feeling less mean and irritated in the morning, Duncan’s offer of rolling dough had enticed him. A gamey challenge. How hard can it be? The two of them on the same side of the island. Barriers down. He had rolled up his sleeves and gotten flour all over his pants and they had worked, shoulder to elbow, in silence. Duncan’s little comments here and there, high points as Aerion thought on those moments with his mother, making bolillos for sandwiches.
“Not too hard now.”
He does not feed him praises like he does with Aegon.
This is more direct.
Correcting, pausing.
Gentle suggestions in that measured voice. Knowing more than him.
Duncan’s flour-dusted hands pointing at something, the dough under Aerion’s hands, and his body shifts on its axis, pressing in and Aerion’s brain had gone fuzzy.
This close, Aerion can feel the full breadth of him – his height, his shoulders, his being – not looming but bending like a branch in the shade. One of those branch-like arms behind his back, skin of his inner arm pressing against his ridged back. His cold hand touched his elbows, leaving the tacky stick of wet dough. Aerion’s arms bend, pressure easing with the roll of his wrists. “Yes, like that.”
And now, this spoon.
He can feel the phantom press of Duncan now, against his back, his arm. His breath.
He always smelled like fresh bread.
He can hear the dull croon of the radio, some old pop song, played to death. Take a bite of my heart tonight.
Not a dare. A test.
The red jam cooled from Duncan’s lips from when he had blown on it. Making it ready for him.
Duncan who likes to care and take care of them.
And Aerion is not a coward.
He leans forward on his elbows, shoulders hiked, the careful bend and eye contact of motion. His tender skin is prickling with gooseflesh. The ginger bristle peppering Duncan’s jaw and quirked lips. Jesus, his eyes are so blue.
Lips parted; he takes the spoon in his mouth.
Between his teeth, onto his tongue.
The spark is instant. Tart cherry. Chunky, with zest of lemon and sugar. That zing of tartcherrylemon sending sparks across his tongue.
Delicious. His favorite.
He remembers telling him that.
He can feel the give of the spoon under his lip. Can feel the strength of Duncan’s grip in his mouth.
Duncan’s eyes never leave his as he pulls off. Licks his lips.
It’s overkill.
He sinks back in his chair, hand settling his mug.
“More lemon,” he says, and takes up his tea again, needing to do something with his hands and finds them shaking. Hopes Duncan doesn’t notice.
Blue eyes blink at him. Then, crinkle at the corners.
Fuck.
“Really?” He asks, with a grin that puts his canines on display. Aerion presses his lips to the mug, burning the heat there. Duncan lowers the spoon from where it hovered between them, taps it against the kitchen island. He is still leaning over it, elbows and belly. His hand cradles his forearm. “I thought it was perfect that time.”
Aerion feels terribly like he won the game but settles ill in the spoils. Duncan’s full attention is a rarity, and he feels the slow warmth of it pushing up his back from phantom brushes, on the edge of his tongue. Burning his ears.
Aerion clears his throat. “Don’t worry, Duncan, you’ll get there eventually.”
There is a beat.
The radio changes songs, the oven hums, the fire crackles.
They should look away from each other.
The moment is tense, a taut bowstring pulling back tighter and then snapping with the sound – somewhere above, of footsteps on the stairs. Kids up early, or his brothers about to attempt school, or his father—
Aerion stands abruptly, nearly knocks his mug over, and Duncan dives, snatches it, saving it from its demise on the floor. His eyes are steady on him. “Aerion—”
He has such a lovely way of saying his name. Rounding onto the r and pulling the i like a thread through the needle. He wants to hear it again.
Even softer.
“Dunk!” Aegon comes barreling into the kitchen, all smiles. “It’s a snow day! It’s, oh—”
His youngest brother stops short at the sight of him. Barefoot and rumpled pajamas. White-blond hair flopping over his forehead. Looking for all the world like a deflated balloon.
“You’re here.”
Aerion hangs on his disappointment; feels it double in his own chest.
“Don’t worry, rat, I’m just leaving.”
Aegon stares at him, cautious, shifting from one foot to another, before his doleful eyes find Duncan. Duncan who is easing back over the kitchen island, Aerion’s mug in hand.
“Wash your hands before you touch anything.” Duncan says, stern again, and Aegon’s face breaks into a grin.
Aerion’s feet are cold.
He doubles back to the mudroom and grabs his messenger bag and puts it over his shoulder, attention back on his phone as Aegon blathers on about nothing. It takes him a moment, racing heart and bitten lip, to realize he is reading the same line, over and over.
It is embarrassing to leave like this.
But he is not leaving anything.
Just—
Nothing. It was nothing.
He looks up to find Duncan has given him his back again, chatting with Aegon as he pulls his breakfast prep from the fridge, promising yes and yes and of course. Ousted, Aerion inches out, humiliated and too tired to think—
“Aerion.”
He turns, finding a plate extended to him, a scone, flaky and steaming. A slather of cherry jam on the inside. In the other hand, a fresh mug of tea.
Both are dwarfed in Duncan’s hands. The mug is held at the bottom, so the handle is free for him.
He accepts, careful not to let their fingers brush, and watches Aegon take up his spot at the kitchen island, grubby hands on the smooth marble. Duncan sidesteps, or shifts his weight, and Aerion’s gaze snaps to him, caught up once again in those blue-blue eyes. “You should come back later. I’m working on the recipe.”
His brow crunches, pondering over the words, their meaning, and the offer stretching between them with flour-dusted fingers.
He leaves quickly.
Turning out of the kitchen and down the hall, past the informal dining room, then formal dining room and takes to the stairs. Careful, all the while, not to spill his spoils. His father has feelings about food upstairs, but Aerion has seen him have dinner in his office half a dozen times. He slows once he reaches the hall of bedrooms, muffled by the thick carpet and Daeron’s white noise machine, cranked, as always.
The sounds of his siblings waking an indication to hide, so he ducks into his room. He stands against his closed door, awkward, as he takes in his unmade bed and full desk; mind turning slow.
He has an impromptu day off. He’ll reread his essays, send emails, and maybe take a nap midday.
He looks down, staring at the scone. Sets the tea aside on his nightstand and lowers himself into the mattress.
He will have to return the plate later.
He knows that.
But the invitation of you should sinks under his skin. Tiny hooks. Sharper points.
It turns his stomach.
Later.
After the food and thrill of the snow day have worked their magic, and his family turns back to rabbits snug in their warren, bellies full and taking great pains to ignore each other, Aerion can steal down to the kitchen.
Mind made up, he takes a bite of the scone, flaky and buttery, tart cherry jam rolling out the corner of his mouth. Breath steaming like a dragon.