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Lucanis is just adding the fish stock to the pan when Rook enters the dining hall. Silhouetted in front of the Fade’s perpetual sunlight, there’s a brief moment before the door closes where her honey-blonde hair catches the light, glowing with a halo of gold.
There’s a beat as she surveys the room, paying particular attention to the cluster of lounge-chairs in the corner where people like to gather, but the moment she spots him, a broad smile spreads across her face. It’s one of his favourites – the one where it’s curled a little higher on the left, where it shows just a glimpse of teeth. It only ever comes out when she’s completely at ease. He has noticed, with no small amount of satisfaction, that she wears it a lot when around him.
There’s a loose-ness to her gait as she walks across the hall, even the tension she usually holds in her shoulders is gone; her visit to the Memorial Gardens with Emmrich must have been a pleasant one. He loves seeing her like this – relaxed, comfortable. There’s a softness to her, an affable openness just so different from anything he’d ever known before meeting her.
She breathes in deeply once she’s reached the kitchen, humming in appreciation. “Oh, I’d hoped it was your evening to cook.” She moves behind him to get a better look at the pans on the stove-top, her hand touching his shoulder blade ever so lightly as she does. “What’s all this going to be?”
“Paella. Two of them. One with prawns, monkfish and muscles.” He points to one, then the other. “And one without for Emmrich.”
“They smell amazing, Lucanis,” she says, taking another indulgent sniff, then adds “what’s that?” once she spots the cake sitting slightly to the side.
A little heat comes to his cheeks, though he hopes not enough for it to show. He hadn’t expected her to spot the torte immediately, thought he had a little more time to think about what he should say in this moment. He wants his language to be precise, wants to find the exact words to let Rook understand how he’s feeling. But in the end, all he can muster is a simple, “a Hazelnut torte… for dessert.”
Her eyes light up with interest, head craning to get a better look; Rook has always had a weak spot for desserts. “Oooh, with chocolate?”
He nods, reaching over to pull the cake-stand closer. “The torte is just hazelnut but there’s chocolate ganache between each layer – and to decorate, of course. Then the original recipe called for an apricot preserve but I substituted raspberry because I thought it would pair better with the Junius Estate blend.” He turns to grab the recently-acquired tin from the shelves behind them, Rook’s favourite coffee blend. Her eyes go wide.
“It has notes of red berries,” he explains, head inclining towards the tin, “so I also brushed each layer with a cherry liqueur – and added some to the ganache as well. The sweetness of the cherry should complement the bitterness of the chocolate.”
Lucanis isn’t sure what reaction he’d expected but Rook’s stunned expression certainly wasn’t it – eyes round, mouth slightly agape. His stomach lurches at the unsettling thought that he’s maybe done something wrong.
“Did you—did you make dessert just for me?” she asks, tone frustratingly indecipherable.
He shrugs with a nonchalance he doesn’t feel, suddenly self-conscious that his gesture is inappropriate. “There’s enough for everyone.”
“You paired it with my favourite coffee blend,” she points out, “how did you—how did you even get ahold of Junius Estate? It’s been impossible since the dragon attack on Minrathous.”
The explanation is long and he’s a little embarrassed to admit just how many resources he’d expended in the process. He settles on, “it was a challenge, yes, but—” A pause. “—it was worth it, for you.”
She looks away a moment, a flush of pink spreading across her cheeks. When she looks back at him, there’s a glassy sheen over her eyes. “This is… shit… this is the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me. Lucanis, you—you didn’t have to do anything special for me.”
His anxiety starts ebbing away, replaced with a bloom of warmth in his chest as he realises it’s happiness in her eyes. “Yes, I did,” he says, holding her gaze steady, not wanting her to look away again. “I still don’t know how to apologise for… everything. And you…” He trails off with a frustrated sigh, the right words eluding him once more.
She steps forward. “You made dessert! Just for me!”
“It’s nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “Or not enough.”
A hand raises, hesitating only briefly before cupping his face, thumb stroking gently along his jaw. “It is. And you are.”
Her touch is like lightning, a prickling heat that tingles along his skin before setting alight every nerve in his body. He wants to remember this moment exactly as it is, the spark of her touch, the softness of her skin. The sheer relief he feels that his gesture has been accepted, has been understood in place of a declaration he would love to make but just can’t find the right words for.
It is the urgent hiss of the paella that interrupts his revelry; he needs to add more stock, cover the pan, quickly or else dinner will be ruined. “Mierda,” he mutters, reluctantly pulling away from Rook’s touch, “I’m sorry—sorry. It’s just… the paella.”
She giggles, reaching herself for the ready-waiting jug of stock, handing it to Lucanis alongside the lid for the pan. “Not the paella.”
He stirs the pan furiously, dislodging the grains of rice that have become stuck to the bottom. A frown pulls at his features. “I’m sorry, I’ve—I’ve ruined the moment.”
A hand on his forearm, squeezing gently. “You haven’t ruined anything.” She looks up at him with a fond smile. “Now would you like some help?”
There’s that warmth again in his chest, a swell of joy that she wants to help, wants to stay. He returns her smile, nods, inclines his head towards the second pan. “Do you think you can finish off the vegetarian paella?”
“Of couse!” she answers brightly, “but I hope Emmrich doesn’t begrudge my inferior culinary ability.”
He laughs, his shoulder bumping hers as they settle side-by-side at the stove-top. Rook’s right, he realises, the moment hasn’t been ruined. Because standing here, cooking for the people he cares for, with Rook by his side, Lucanis is the most content he has ever felt in his entire life.
It is Rook’s turn to clean-up after dinner. Lucanis, naturally, offers to help. He’s glad when everyone simply leaves the dining hall without commenting on his generosity, though Neve had been smirking as she did. She’d smirked when he brought out the torte too.
Something has shifted in their dynamic since their earlier conversation, he notes, as they move around each other in the cramped kitchen space. Just little things. The way her fingers trail over his knuckles when he hands her something, the way her smile is a little wider when their eyes meet. It is nice, he thinks, like an old house settling into its foundations. Even Spite seems more steady, the usual throb behind the bridge of his nose easing to just a gentle hum, thrilling a little when Rook touches him, but blissfully silent.
Once they’ve finished in the kitchen, she transfers the last slice of the hazelnut torte onto a small plate, plucks two dessert forks from the cutlery tray, gives him a soft smile. “Do you want to finish off the rest of the cake with me?”
He returns the smile, still giddy that she’d so readily accepted his culinary offering, and, more importantly, understood its meaning. “Of course,” he says, reaching out to carry the plate for her, “at the table or… the chairs in the corner are more comfortable?”
Her head shakes. “Come on, let me show you somewhere.”
She’s gesturing towards the door and Lucanis feels a sudden jolt of… he’s not sure. Fear? Apprehension? Everything has felt so perfect within the warm, close confines of the dining hall. Easy conversation, casual touch. He’s not quite processed what it will mean for him to leave, to go out into the wider world now that Rook and him have come to this new… understanding? Arrangement? Relationship. It makes it real.
“Or… we could stay here?” she offers, sensing his hesitation.
“No, no – please – show me.”
She’s smiling as she slips her hand into his, pulling him gently out of the kitchen and across the dining hall. He follows her – like he’s been following her ever since she rescued him from the Ossuary. He would follow her anywhere, he’d realised a long time ago – it’s taken him until now to figure out how to tell her that.
She leads him across the courtyard into the library, through a set of doors he’s never used before and, to his surprise, into a blinding swirl of magical energy that lands them on the top of a tall tower, floating high above Harding’s conservatory.
From up here they can see across the entire courtyard, see each of the floating buildings where their companions reside. If he looks close enough, Lucanis is pretty sure he can see Davrin sitting in his room, whittling another one of his figurines while looking out over the endless Fade.
“How did you find this place?” he asks, looking down over the side of the tower to try and orient himself.
She shrugs, happily settling herself on the stone-paved floor, legs dangling over the edge. “Just… exploring. The same way I found the music room.”
He nods, sits down beside her, moving gingerly to make sure he doesn’t drop the torte.
“I come up here sometimes when I want to just sit,” she explains, “it’s a nice view up here – I like being up high.”
He chuckles, thinking of how gleefully she throws herself across the Treviso rooftops, how readily she clambers up ladders and platforms when traversing Minrathous. “I’ve noticed.”
She playfully swots him on the shoulder before reaching across to take the plate from him, handing him a fork in exchange. He watches as she scoops a mouthful, slips it passed her lips, chocolate ganache smearing as she does. He feels a now-familiar warmth blooming in his chest again, though she hasn’t even touched him this time. Belatedly, he realises she’s talking to him.
“It’s just nice to have a different perspective on things sometimes,” she says, helping herself to another mouthful, “you’re the same way, surely. I’ve never seen you more comfortable than when you’re on the Treviso rooftops. Well… maybe in the kitchen.”
“Ugh, yes, I agree,” he says, not completely convinced he’s caught enough of what she was saying to really respond appropriately.
“The view here’s not as nice as Treviso, though,” she continues, seemingly oblivious to his inattention. “I mean – the Lighthouse is beautiful, in its way. But there’s something about being in the Fade that’s a bit… sterile? The air doesn’t feel quite right here. And there’s no warmth in the sunlight. And yet…” She pauses, gesturing with her fork. “Is it strange that I think this place feels like home now? Having everyone around. It’s warm and safe and cosy, I guess.”
There’s a pinch between his brows as he considers what she’s saying, tries to relate her words to the only home he’s ever known. “I understand what you’re saying but… home was never that cosy for me. Just Caterina and Illario and a constantly-changing complement of household staff. And Caterina was hardly… warm. No, the Lighthouse doesn’t remind me of home – but it does feel nice.” He ducks his head forward to catch her eyes. “It has you here.”
She blushes, huffs with amusement before gently nudging her shoulder against his. “You Crows, always so smooth with your words.”
He barks a sharp laugh, surprised by the compliment. “No one has ever accused me of that! Smooth words were always Illario’s forte. I have—” he looks down, feeling a little sheepish, “—I have never been good with words.”
A hand lifts to his chin, raising his face until he’s looking at her again. “I find that so hard to believe, Lucanis, when there is no one I would rather talk with.”
That swell of warmth is a full burn now, at her touch, at her words. That she can so easily dismiss his long-held inadequacies. He takes her hand from his chin, entwining their fingers, squeezes her palm in silent thanks. It is such a novelty, he realises, to have someone speak of him with such… fondness. His eyes suddenly feel a little damp.
There’s a little bit of hazelnut torte on the corner of her mouth, he notices. He lifts the hand not already holding hers, braces it against her cheek so he can wipe the offending crumb away with his thumb. She sucks in a sudden breath, and he doesn’t know whether it’s the gasping sound or the soft skin beneath his thumb but the simmering burn is now white-hot, spreading through his chest and heading lower. Feeling bold, he drags his thumb across her whole bottom lip, delighting as she sucks in another shaky breath.
He's not really sure what he’s supposed to do now. He wants to keep touching her. He would quite like Rook to touch him. Despite his uncertainty, he feels this inescapable pull towards her. He leans forward, the hand at her cheek sliding back to tangle in her hair so he can tilt her face and press his lips to hers in a kiss.
His needy moan when their mouths meet should be embarrassing. Except he’s too overwhelmed by the sensation of Rook’s lips slanted against his own to feel anything other than warmth and joy and relief and… maybe a little bit of terror.
Terror that he’s doing this all wrong, terror that Rook’s going to sense his inexperience, be disappointed with his technique, or lack thereof. But the terror is slowly diminishing as Rook responds, the stillness of momentary surprise fading away until he can feel her pushing back with a neediness almost equal to his own.
She shuffles a little closer, bracing a hand against his hip to steady herself as she leans forward eagerly. There’s a slight clang as the torte slips from her lap and onto the flag-stones. “Ignore that,” she mumbles against his mouth, her lips brushing against his. He only hmmms in response, kissing her again.
He feels the swipe of her tongue against his bottom lip, has read enough romance novels to know she wants to deepen the kiss, wants him to open for her. It feels a little awkward, the slip of her tongue into his mouth. He’s not entirely sure what he’s supposed to do with his own tongue. But everything about Rook is soft and warm and inviting, and when he tentatively caresses his tongue against hers, she responds with a low moan that immediately stirs something in his crotch.
The romance novels make sense to him then – the heat, the craving for touch, the throbbing in response to every groan. Sensations he’d assumed were exaggerations, having eluded him for so long. But now, with Rook’s lips against his, her hand on his hip, he knows he won’t be satisfied until he’s tasted every inch of her skin, until he’s coaxed out every gasp and moan, until he’s uncovered all the ways to bring her pleasure. If there’s a more noble cause to dedicate his life to, he can’t think of it right now.