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Chapter Text

Rook couldn’t sleep.

She’s had restless nights like this one for as long as she could remember. When she was a girl, the rumble of thunder with heavy rain would wake her, and she would seek out Viago to find comfort.

It was a weakness. It was something a Crow should not allow themselves to suffer. But each night that rain flooded the gutters, raised the canals, or pattered outside of a window—she dreamt of blood and shackles. It went roughly the same way each time, with variations that aged with her as well as aged her.

The rain soaked her curls and weighed down her little threadbare coat, but her mamma held her hand tightly as she pulled them from alley to alley, giving no pause for her comfort. It felt as though the streets were alive– they stretched ahead, reaching into the dark of the night.

“Affretarsi! Dobbiamo andare. Andiamo!” Her mother’s hand wrapped completely around hers in a crushing grip, and tears pricked at Ivy’s eyes. She did not understand. Why did they have to go? Where were they going?

“Devi vivere,” her mother panted, yanking her around a corner. “Devi vivere!”

Her mamma was so soft, why was she acting this way? Where were they going? Why was she saying these things and squeezing her so tight?

She blinked, and everything shifted. She had only blinked, she knew it, nothing more. It had been less than a second. But where was her mamma? And why did her wrists hurt? Mamma had not held her that tightly, she would never. She looked down, and the cold weight of thick metal cuffs pinched her freckled skin. Her head hung low, just above her hands, and she watched where a swirl of red reached towards her, pooling at her feet as it was carried by the downpour.

She followed it to its source, eyes blinking away the heavy rain falling past her lashes.

“Mamma!” She screamed, reaching for the slumped form of her mother that lay in the alley. It was dark, but Ivy could see the blank stare in her eyes, her mouth open in what was left of a scream—the expression forever frozen by her choking on the rivulets of red that had been pouring from her lips. Her throat had been split open by a blade.

Her mamma had hair fierier than hers, skin fairer yet just as freckled. Her hair would have matched now, with how it was darkened by the pouring rain. She was paler than she’d ever seen her— somehow, Ivy knew that the red that was washed away in the rain had once filled her mamma’s cheeks, flushing them pink with joy on a bright sunny morning along the streets of Treviso.

She wanted to go to her, but her feet would not take her. She pulled, she thrashed, she screamed. A man’s voice called for her to be silent, so she thrashed harder. As she finally slipped free, her face landed hard on the pavement as chains pulled her down.

Pain bloomed across her nose, her cheeks, her head—the biting cold of the shackles on her wrists making her hands go numb. Despite this, she crawled. She pulled herself along the wet cobblestone path, scraping her belly as she went.

Blinking past more red and rain, she saw that the slackened face in front of her was not her mother.

“No—” She choked, hands scrambling on soaked leather, trying against hope to rouse him. Her hands weren’t quite as small as they were a moment ago. “Viago! Fratello mio, per favore—wake up!”

Viago’s skin was usually warmer than hers—the color of it just a bit more olive-toned where she had a touch of her mother’s pale complexion, his was darkened by far more exposure to the Antivan sunshine. Yet, here he was now—blank eyes staring ahead, skin now a sickly pallor.

She would put her hand to his when he felt playful, palm to palm— when he would humor her childish games. Testing the size of it, seeing how she grew alongside him, her skin always so light against his. Her hands so cold against his blazing warmth. She grabbed his hand now, pleading, pressing their palms together. The warmth was gone, and she knew it was now being carried away by the rain that she felt she could drown in. The color of their skin almost matched.

The gaping wound at his neck was a clean cut. “Please,” she cried, “wake up! This isn’t funny, Viago—” her voice choked on a sob as his blood stained her clothes red. “I won’t be reckless again, I won’t—I’ll finish my contracts, I’ll be careful, please, don’t leave me.” The chains weighing her down clinked as she placed her hands frantically against his throat, pressing down to the sluggish wound, the blood no longer being pumped through him to drain onto her fingers– it was sticky on her skin. His face stayed just as slack, his usually fierce gaze now glassy and distant. Her head pressed down against his chest, and she heard nothing but her skin sliding against slick leathers.

His heart was silent.

When she was first brought to house de Riva, her dreams–nightmares– were simple. Her mother would drain blood into the streets as Viago held the dagger that slit her throat. Ivy would wake up, startled, shaking silently as she clenched the chain of her mother’s locket tightly in her little fist, suffering alone. But then during the day, he would speak to her so softly. He would call her uccellino, and treated her so differently from the other fledglings. Like she was precious. 

She was confused. She felt guilty when she felt she got preferential treatment. Never in front of other Crows or fledglings, no. But she knew her training was not as brutal as her peers’. Viago would never allow it– or admit it. 

Even still, she couldn’t deny she felt at home beside him, and it scared her. He spoke to her every day, and he struggled to be what he thought she needed. What she did need. Her fratello.

Her nightmares changed, then. The figure holding the dagger was closer to reality, rather than the strange boy who plucked her from a slaver—a shadowy figure of a woman. A woman that, she recognized, would sometimes take Viago away to train, and Ivy knew that she was the one that killed Ivy’s mamma, truly.

She learned what a Crow truly was. She learned that she would begin to become one, and she did not fight it. Crows took in orphans. Crows created orphans. Widows. She became numb to it– knowing that her mother’s killer walked the same halls every day. Who looked at her for too long when they crossed paths– and later, she realized this was who had also decided to let her live.

Her dreams changed again. She was alone in the rain, no familiar face in sight– shackled and covered in blood. Whose blood, she could not say.

In the waking world, the shadowy woman stopped taking Viago away for training. Ivy was older, just turning 8 years old, when he told her he was going on a contract that would take him away from Treviso for several weeks. The Fifth Blight had ended in the south, and their fellow Crows were being hunted. She could not understand what was different about this contract, and she didn’t like it. She told him as much. His eyes were fierce, then—as harsh as she’d ever seen them.

“You must listen to Heir, Ivy. You pick up the dagger, and you listen. Use your left hand, and do not stumble. You will learn to wield a Crow’s dagger in each hand, and you will not falter. Do you hear me?”

Her eyes were wide, and he gripped her hand as he stooped to her level. It was a tight grip. “I will not be here to protect you.” His eyes were so sad. So scared. She wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and squeeze until he laughed again, swinging her over his shoulder. She knew she could not. “But–”

“Uccellino. Devi vivere.” His voice was low, whispered– and though she did not know why, those words made her blood run cold. He cupped her cheek. “Do. You. Hear me?”

“Sì, fratello.”

“Good.”

He was not gone for a few weeks. He was gone for nearly a year . She learned to wield her dagger in her left hand, And she no longer stumbled over her own feet. She failed far more than she succeeded– until she did not. Scars already littered small hands, skin cracked and calloused where she held daggers and bows until her arms could not lift above her shoulders. Heir chastised her, saying that a dead fledgling would never fly the nest. That she needed to care for herself.

She had to live. She had to protect herself- so that Viago did not suffer for doing it himself, when he came home. He would come home. As terrified as she was of the rain, she woke from her nightmares to simply stare at the ceiling until morning, and she trained. At Heir’s words, she ate and drank as though puppeted. She slept when her mind would allow. And she trained.

All of her dreams included Viago, then. He never survived. The rain poured, and she held her brother’s body as he went to the Maker. At 8 years of age, almost 9, she believed she was destined to be truly alone, the blood of those dear to her sinking under her nails and never scrubbing out. 

And as she reached her 9 th nameday, Viago came home.

She saw him when she was in the training yard. It was almost dawn, the light weak but sparkling against the Treviso canals. He was a little tanner than she remembered. He had a beard, something so foreign on his once stern yet boyish face. He’d grown taller. Her heart stilled in her chest. He was alive.

He came to the edge of the training yard, stopping to speak quietly with Heir. He did not look at her. Ivy’s head swam with fear—had she not done well enough? Did he hear about her incident in the canal, and decide that a Crow that could not swim was no Crow at all? Would he find out she could not save herself then, and leave her for good? Heir’s gaze turned to her, and her brow was creased, her eyes boring into Ivy like they did when she had forgotten to eat.

She swallowed against the knot in her throat, and with more composure than a 9-year-old ought to have, she turned back to her knives and continued to nail her target. She could be good enough, she would show him. She had worked so hard. Her fingers stung as the knicks and raw skin rubbed against the knife’s handle, and she threw it anyway.

Her eyes blurred with tears, and the next knife clinked against stone rather than sinking into wood. She blinked hard, trying to will them away as she picked up the next blade. Her neck itched as the hairs on them stood on end, a shadow passing over her.

She turned quickly, blade poised to strike, only to have her smaller arm gripped by someone much larger, the warmth of the hand wrapping entirely around her forearm. Her eyes were wide with fear, as if she was prepared to take a life to spare her own. Perhaps she had been. The strike was so clumsy that she doubted it would have landed if her attacker had stood still.

Viago’s face was thinner, this close. It was stony, showing nothing as his eyes skimmed her features. He had crouched to one knee, and she could see new lines around his eyes. Shadows that dug deeper than before.

Her hand dropped the knife, and his face grew less and less focused as his visage was warped with her tears. She blinked harshly, lifting her chin under his scrutiny. She could be good enough. She would be. Even as her throat constricted and her eyes burned.

Something in his expression fractured, his mouth pinching minutely and his eyes closing in a long blink. He sighed through his nose, his gaze flicking over to where Heir should be, somewhere over Ivy’s shoulder.

He saw something there, as he stood and led her to the armory that was kept to the side of the grounds. She was so scared. She could not let him see her fear– the fear that he pulled her aside to yell that he would be rid of her.

The heavy door shut, and her heart dropped. No one would hear him yell at her from here. Heir had come to attempt to pull her from the grounds– no other crows or fledglings were training in that wing before the dawn.

She braced herself, eyes trained to the floor.

Viago dropped to one knee once again, and she was yanked into a fierce hug. Her body tensed, pulled taught– tight as a bowstring– before she collapsed.

And she wailed.

She cried for her mother. She cried for the brother she had been given and believed to have lost. She cried for her childhood, for the wounds she’d gained and the innocence she’d lost. She cried in relief that he had returned and in fear that he would leave again. She felt heavy; she felt older than her years as Viago held her. Without his arms around her, she would have collapsed onto unforgiving stone.

She tucked her head under his chin, and breathed in the scent of patchouli and leather. Pressing close, she could hear him soothe her as her sobbing continued, wracking her tiny body with the force of it.

“You are okay, you are okay,” he said, low. Neither of them was certain if he said it to reassure her, or himself. “Shh, uccellino mio. I am here. Ti voglio bene, I know.”

His gloved hand cradled her head, his nose pressed to her hair. He hugged her too tight, but she held him tighter. Her words were muffled and slurred around her cries, each syllable drawn out as she attempted to reply. “A-Anch'io t-ti voglio-o bene,” she nuzzled further into his hold, pressing her ear to his chest to find his pulse.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

“Mamma is gone,” she cried, “I thought you were gone. ” A hiccup, “I thought you left me.”

A pause, and a choked reply– “I am here. I am home. And you have been so strong, uccellino. Ivy de Riva . You have done our house proud.” His voice rumbled against her ear, and she felt her head buzz as she came down from the adrenaline. She was trying. She was trying so hard.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

Her sobs slowed, and she realized he had been slowly rocking them together, speaking and shushing into her hair as she shook in his arms. Her racing heart slowed as she heard his beating against her cheek, and her hiccupping cry calmed to sniffles.

She was so tired. She hadn’t been sleeping, and her sobbing sapped whatever energy she had left. She was losing her grip on his leathers, the scabs on her fingers stinging after they had cracked under the pressure of clinging to him.

She mumbled something against his chest that he did not hear, so he pulled back just enough to face her. Her eyes were heavy and puffy, but she stared back at him. “Y-you– you are late, Vi.”

He looked surprised, his eyes widening and a shocked smile forming on his face. She hadn’t noticed he’d been crying until a tear fell down his cheek, shaken loose by his sudden huff of laughter.

She gave him a watery smile in return. She hadn’t meant to make him cry. She had never seen him cry before, but– she also made him laugh. She always felt so special when she could make him laugh.

“Mi dispiace.” He chuckled, before he sighed and ran his eyes over her face again. She was fighting to keep her eyes open, unsure of why she was suddenly so exhausted. Why now, when he had just come home?

He had to tell her about his contract– he must have so many stories. He had to see her throw her knives or walk across a beam all by herself. She hadn’t gotten the hang of throwing marks yet, but Heir said that she was getting there. She just… felt so safe. So warm. The relief she felt made her so happy, so why couldn’t she keep her eyes open?

She blinked awake as she was tucked into her cot. Only briefly, just to see Viago settle into a chair next to her before he pulled out a dagger to clean. 

“Go to sleep, Ivy. I will be here when you wake.”

She heard rain begin to fall outside of her window. For the first time in years, even if just for one night, she fell into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

But tonight? No. Tonight, Rook couldn’t sleep. She’d tried, and it took no time at all for her to wake in a cold sweat, heart beating out of her chest. The dream felt like it had lasted so much longer than it did, but– 

But what bothered her tonight was not that she had a terrible dream. It was who the dream was about.  The dream had become a constant now. It didn’t come every night– not since she was a child. But often enough, she would have this dream in its different variations. This nightmare .

Alone.

Viago.

Her mother , whose face she has not been able to fully conjure in memory for well over a decade now.

And back again to alone.

Rook sat in the pouring rain, lightning flashing above her as she stared numbly at her hands. She knew this song and remembered the steps. The shackles were still there, just as they always were. She pressed her palms to the cobblestone beneath her, feeling the ridges and dips of it as she was trying to find some way to distract from the pain she knew was coming.

She’d become accustomed to the sight of blood at a young age. Her mother was the first corpse she’d ever seen. Past that, a life in the Crows would never be free of bloodshed.

This did nothing to soothe the coil in her gut at the sight of it swirling through the rainwater, running across her fingers and increasing in volume the longer she stared.

She missed Viago. She missed simpler times, when their job was what threatened their lives, rather than an occupation, or the Blight, or… or these fucking blighted gods. An assassin was supposed to fear a blade or poison, not ancient magic and an apocalypse. She missed being scolded for running into a fight too soon, or sweet talking the rival houses, or helping the fledglings get away with pranks.

She was afraid for Viago, with the current state of the world. So, she figured, it could be him that awaited her in the darkness tonight. It hadn’t been her mother in a while– only when something reminds her a little too much of her childhood. These days, she held so many lives in her hands that the blood that covered them was nameless more often than not.

But it wasn’t Viago. It wasn’t her mother. And there was, in fact, a body lying in the alley in front of her. Blood covered her hands completely now, and she finally looked up.

Her heart stopped. Her ears were ringing. Her veins constricted like she had taken a large swig of one of Viago’s favorite poisons. 

Lucanis.

“NO!” She scrambled forward, forgetting the chains that held her down for the first time in years. They pulled tight, just as they ought to, the clink of metal against metal ringing loud through the air even as the sounds of raindrops on pavement filled it first. She did not fall– she held herself up, clawing and yanking as she made her way to his side. 

“Lucanis! No, no, no, no–” she heaved, pulling the chains loose enough to kneel above his still body. And this dream– this dream was different. It was meant to break her.

Lucanis coughed. Blood gushed from his mouth, but his throat had not been cut. There was no wound for her to try to staunch the bleeding, and her hands frantically ran over his form as she tried to think of something, anything to do. There was so much blood. Why was there so much blood?

“Ro-ok,” he croaked, and his once smooth and soothing voice sounded as though it had been dragged across stone. Not like Spite, no– this was painful, as though he had been gargling glass. Her hand cupped his cheek, tears running down her face as she shook her head.

She swallowed hard, “No, no, hush, shh, don’t speak. Where do you hurt? It’ll be okay, I’ll fix it, okay? It's going to be alright." 

His eyes were heavy as his bloodied mouth stretched into a smile. “Ivy,” he rasped, and his hand came up to hold hers against his face. She shook her head. No. “There is noth-” he hacked, squeezing her hand as more blood spilled down his chin. “Nothing you c-can do.” His mouth was smeared red, the dark spread of it dulling the bright gleam of his teeth. She just kept shaking her head.

“No, we can figure this out, okay? Please. Please, don’t leave.” She sobbed, “Per favore. Please.”

His smile stayed, close-lipped and wistful. Her tears fell onto his chest. “I’m serious, Lucanis, you– you’re going to be okay. Spite? Spite, please, help me. We need to get you both out of here. I need you–”

Lucanis’s hand started slipping from hers, and she yelled, screaming, “No! Help, someone, Bellara–Emmrich, someone– Neve! I need help!” Both of her hands framed his face now, and the light had left his eyes. She shook him, shaking as she slapped at his cheek, begging. “Spite, answer me– wake up!” She heaved a breath, and her hands shook harder against his skin as the color drained from his face.

“Wake up, Lucanis, don’t do this. Wake up, wake up–!”

“Wake up, Rook.”  

She gasped as everything went dark; she was pulled from Lucanis and thrown into a freefall. She saw as Solas looked down at her from a ledge, as though he had pushed her. He wore a complex expression that she had no time to decipher.

Have you ever fallen in a dream? You always wake before landing. She began doubting this fact as the ledge became smaller and smaller– she braced for a millisecond before–

The glow of the fish ‘tank’ illuminated the room as she jolted awake. Ripples reflected on the ceiling, and the roaring in her ears made her feel as though she’d been pulled under. She never had learned to swim.

So, here she was. It was the Lighthouse’s designated nighttime, regardless of the ever-present daylight outside. She knew that when she had gone to sleep, everyone was perfectly fine and accounted for. That did not help, however.

She sighed, wandering to the table on the far side of the room where she kept her personal missives. It took her no time to find two carefully folded pieces of parchment that reminded her of home.

“Don't fail, and don't get yourself killed, or I will come after you in the Fade myself. -Viago.” A letter sent only 6 months before the beginning of the end of the world. And, tucked just underneath, was the letter sent in response to an audience request she had sent to the Crows– asking for a contract with Lucanis Dellamorte to kill gods.

“Come home. You’re late. -Viago.”

She huffed a sigh, flopping back onto the ridiculously large green sofa in her room. She’d been having these nightmares for most of her life– ever since she was barely 6 years old, and her mother died in front of her. When Viago first made his appearance in them, she had no comfort. They ran her ragged, and the only thing that soothed the pain was when she could finally press her ear to Viago’s chest when he had made his way home.

She was so little then– with what felt like the weight of the world resting on her 9-year-old shoulders. That soothing comfort of his heartbeat had become a rarity as she grew older.

She learned to calm herself, to ground herself in reality. She would allow herself to visit Viago– when it was appropriate– to soothe her anxious thoughts, but only if absolutely necessary. And if they were apart because of contracts, she had no choice but to learn to stop and settle her mind with no promise of proof of his well being. At home, it wasn’t that she couldn’t hug him if she wanted to, it was just that neither of them displayed any type of brother-sister affection in front of anyone other than Teia. 

And now, she guessed, Lucanis– since Viago seemed content to hug her and act more casually with him around when the two of them had visited Treviso so soon after the rescue mission.

There lies the problem.

Rook couldn’t just… go hug Lucanis. As much as she would love very much to do that, he would look at her as though she sprouted two more heads. Or, worse, would pull away. She knew they had something , the two of them. But Lucanis– he wasn’t ready for anything right now. She didn’t know if he ever would be, either. And she should concern herself more with saving the world anyway, right?

A little impulsive thought told her to hell with it– just go talk to him. He was likely awake, anyway. If not, she could get herself some coffee and be on her way. But if he was? She could see him draw breath, could stand in his bubble and feel the warmth that seemed to radiate from him. She wasn’t sure if it was just Lucanis, or Spite’s influence, or a mixture of both that made her feel that way.

She’d always been drawn to warmth.

Before she could talk some sense into herself, she was halfway across the courtyard and headed straight for the dining hall. She didn’t want to be murdered, so she made her steps audible as she slipped inside of the building. She also didn’t want to wake Lucanis if he actually was asleep, so she still had to be quiet.

As she slid into the dining hall and pulled the giant doors gently closed, she withheld a sigh and pressed her forehead against the wood. She was bleary-eyed, her mind was going between bouts of dread and anxiety, and she could really use a cup of coffee.

“You’re up late.”

She gasped, jumping at Lucanis’s voice coming from the sitting area, and immediately scolded herself for not being more aware of her surroundings. She knew better than that.

Her hand flew to her chest, and she pinched the bridge of her nose to compose herself before she replied. “Right, yes, I am. Sorry. I just–” Wanted to see you. Needed to hear your voice. Wanted you to hold me. “Needed some coffee.”

His voice had been playful, a smirk clear on his face, but something about her response gave him pause. “Rook? Are you alright?” He stood from the chair he’d been reading in, the joking demeanor being replaced with gentle concern. It made her chest hurt.

She smiled. A small, pinched thing. “Yeah. Have to be.” Seeing him helped, she admitted. He seemed to have all of his facilities intact, and no blood slipped past his lips as he spoke.

He made a sympathetic noise in his throat as he stepped closer. “I just made another pot. Should be enough for two?” He was finally close enough for her to feel that hum she got when she was in his presence, and the air around him felt warmer. Comforting.

She hoped her eyes didn’t show evidence of the fight against tears she’d been waging for the past hour or so. She gave a sad smile. “I’d like that. Thank you.” He smiled in return, but the concern in his eyes did not ease.

She made her way to the fire as he prepared her cup. She always felt cold these days. It was as though her connection to Solas, to that prison he was held in, leeched the minimal heat she had held in her veins and left nothing behind. Her hands had always been an icy cold when she touched someone– she used to press cold fingers to the side of Viago’s neck to make him swat her away, her heart light as she cackled and dodged. She could always find warmth somewhere.

But now, no matter how warm her body became, she felt cold inside.

A mug pressing into her hands pulled her from her musing, and she gave Lucanis a grateful smile. Her fingers tingled where his hand brushed against them. “Grazie.”

She could swear his eyes twinkled. He had told her once that her Antivan was ‘beautiful,’ so she endeavored to use it more often when it was just the two of them. The thrill of him finding anything about her ‘beautiful’ could improve her mood alone.

“Of course.” He leaned against the side of the fireplace, closest to where she stood. It comforted her that he hadn’t stepped away. It also made her pulse race. “You seem far away, tonight.”

She couldn’t help but skim her eyes over his face, taking note of his features– seeing him alive. The color of his skin, the life in his eyes. It helped. It did. It just–

“Ivy?”

It wasn’t enough. “I’m sorry. I just–” she sighed. “Can I ask you for something ridiculous?” His brow raised slightly, but he did not protest. Of course, he waited for the question– he wouldn’t answer if she didn’t ask it.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” He continued to wait for the real question.

The speed of his answer, the lack of hesitation, made her eyes begin to grow glassy and wet. He noticed. His brows drew close, and she could tell he was holding himself back from asking what was wrong. Still waiting for her favor. Always so considerate.

“Can– Can I see your hand?” His face was so expressive, for an assassin. She loved it so much. He was confused, she could tell, but he simply held his right hand out to her, outstretched in the fairly minimal space between them.

She set her cup aside, and he watched her patiently as she moved in silence. Both of her hands, still slightly cold but warmed from the steaming mug, cradled the hand in front of her. This close, she could hear the hitch in his breath. He stayed resolutely still.

His palm faced up, and she brushed one hand across it, skating over the skin before pressing two fingers to the pulse point at his wrist. 

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

She hadn’t realized how tense she was until she felt it fall away from her shoulders, her breath leaving her in a soft sigh. He was likely confused, but she needed to feel solid proof that he was alive. It was childish, but it had felt so real as he–

“Hey,” he soothed, using their joined hands to pull her closer. He pressed her palm to his chest, and she felt his heart beating strong against it. His own hand remained over hers, cradling it there as though it were fragile.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

She let out a ragged breath as tears threatened to fall, and she felt her heart skip a beat when his other hand cupped her cheek. 

As her hand raised to cover his, it reminded her of her dream. But she was the one bleeding out in front of him in the night. She dragged her eyes from their hands against his chest to look up at his face, much closer than it had been before.

“I am here,” his voice was soft, gentle between them. Like he was afraid to disturb her thoughts, but had to reassure her. “What is wrong, tesoro mio?”

She would not cry. She would not. She had not cried in front of anyone in ages. She was their leader. He had so many things to worry over, they had not heard of Illario’s movements, and just– no.

“Mi dispiace.” She gave a nervous laugh, “I am being silly. I just–”

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

She felt him there, alive under her fingers, and the lack of sleep started to catch up to her. He was okay. She was okay. For now, they were safe.

“Had a rough night?” They were so close now, closer than their almost-kiss in the pantry. It felt like he surrounded her, and she wondered, idly, if Spite was holding her there, too.

“Yeah,” she smiled, leaning against the hand still cradling her cheek. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly higher, and she couldn’t help the way her eyes darted to follow the movement. They were so close.

His eyes glanced down as well, directly to her lips, and it seemed like he realized only then how close they were standing. She felt his heart pick up its pace, and she swore she saw a tinge of color flood his cheeks. His eyes widened so slightly that she would not have caught it had they stood mere inches further apart.

Tesoro mio, he’d called her. 

He closed his eyes, and her heart clenched tight in her chest as it prepared for rejection. Instead, he leaned forward, pressing his lips to her forehead in a whisper of a kiss. She inhaled sharply, and she knew he heard it.

“You are falling asleep where you stand,” the low tone of his voice was a balm to her senses, and she knew it was making it even more difficult for her to evade her exhaustion. She felt so at home here, this close to him.

She hummed. He’d kissed her. It wasn’t the kiss she craved, no, but it was a kiss.
“I guess I am,” she breathed a small laugh– she didn’t know how he pulled them from her so easily. He hadn’t taken his hands from her, content to leave them anchored right where they were.

“You do not have to tell me what troubles you. But know that I am here, should you have need of me.” His thumb brushed against her cheek, and she shivered.

“Do you have any particular hours that you’re available, Ser Dellamorte?” She tried, her tone low and flirtatious. The words were only very slightly shaky, annunciated slowly with the growing need for sleep– the only things betraying her use of humor to mask the shadows in her eyes.

“For you? It’s an open-door policy.” His smile made the shadows just a little bit smaller.

“I plan to abuse that power, I hope you know.” She grins, a real one that spreads slow and sweet across her cheeks. 

“I count on it. Now. Go to bed, Ivy de Riva.”

Her body flushed with heat, and it had nothing to do with the fire beside them. His eyes were heavy-lidded, and the sweet expression on his face changed slightly– showing something familiar now that she had experienced it twice. This was the face he made when she felt like he might want to kiss her. Really kiss her.

They still did not kiss, much like before. But, this time, their parting was slow and sweet, and she walked back to her room feeling lighter than she had in a while.