Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s winter, and the dumpster in the alley behind the Lighthouse coffee bar is coated in a thin sheet of ice that crackles when Rook pushes the lid up.

“Hand me that one before I get frostbite,” she says over her shoulder, after tossing in the trash bag from her right hand with a grunt. Her left hand is already tingling from contact with the frozen metal.

Neve passes Rook the other, heavier trash bag before promptly tucking her gloved fingers under her armpits.

Gloves, Rook thinks, I really should have worn gloves. But checking the weather forecast on her way out the door was the last thing on her mind this morning. She needed to stop at the ATM, pick up some donuts from the local bakery, get extra milk, wine, and trash bags at the grocery store, and put gas in her shitty old beater of a car, all before the Lighthouse opened at 8 AM. A cold front descended on the city a few hours later, bringing icy winds and freezing rain that chased all of her regulars back into the warmth of their own homes before Neve’s shift even started.

“This really could have waited until morning,” Neve mutters from behind her, shifting from one foot to the other to generate some warmth in the frigid night air.

“You’re just saying that because you don’t open tomorrow.”

Rook has to wrestle this trash bag over the edge of the dumpster. Is it ripping? It better not be ripping.

“Exactly,” Neve says frankly, “and I’m going to be holed up inside under my duvet all morning. I can’t believe Harding was out camping in this.”

“At least she’s staying at a motel tonight.”

In an ideal world, Harding would have made it back to the city in time for her shift tonight instead of getting stuck out in Arlathan National Park. But, Rook shoves any resentment away, I’m more relieved that she didn’t try to drive for hours through an ice storm than annoyed that I had to work a double at my own coffee bar.

Besides, it’s not like it was busy.

“Still, who goes camping in January in the first place? The bag is stuck on that metal thing.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Rook can’t keep the irritation out of her voice as she switches from pushing to pulling, counting down the seconds until the stupid bag rips. Her hands are going numb. “I thought you liked cold weather.”

“Not this cold,” Neve says under her breath.

Her sleek, dark hair is tucked under a teal beanie and the collar of her wool coat is turned up against the wind. Of course Neve is prepared for any weather, Neve is prepared for everything—and on the rare occasion she isn’t, she’s a master at faking it. Unlike Rook, with her thin sweater and too-big denim jacket and avalanche of a life.

“It’s not like it’s supposed to be any warmer tomorrow,” Rook says, forcing down a sense of foreboding.

It’s fine, it’ll be fine. Her brain is already working on contingency plans. They’ll do half-price hot chocolate and toddies tomorrow, think up some ice-themed happy hour specials, and post about it on all of the Lighthouse’s socials to try to draw people back out into the cold. She can’t afford another slow day.

The trash bag rips as it finally teeters over the edge, spilling coffee grounds, stale beer, and trash juice onto Rook’s jacket before descending into the dumpster. Fucking fantastic.

She lets the lid of the dumpster fall with a clang to drown out Neve’s snort of laughter, and it echoes oddly.

“Did you hear that?” she asks, but Neve has already turned toward the source of the echo farther down the alley, her dark eyes alert and searching.

Silence stretches out for a few seconds, and then the sound happens again without the noise of the dumpster lid to hide it. It’s a shout. A very human shout.

“Maybe someone slipped?” Rook says, starting down the alley, trash juice-covered jacket already forgotten.

“Be careful,” Neve says simultaneously, already one step behind her. For a second, Rook thinks Neve is talking about the ice, but then she sees Neve pull out the taser she always keeps in her bag. The Lighthouse is in a relatively safe, if shabby, neighborhood, but if Rook has learned anything in her 30-odd years, it’s that bad things happen everywhere.

They get past the dumpster and their view of the alley opens up just in time to hear another, louder yelp. Two figures cast shadows at the other the end of the alley, just outside the pale glow of a streetlight from the next block over. One is on the ground, the other looming above with their leg pulled back for a kick.

Rook’s sprinting before she has time to think.

“Hey!” she yells, startling the standing person. Their head whips up, but they’re backlit and wearing a hoodie and it’s impossible to make out any features. They pause for half a second, land one last vicious kick to the ribs of the person on the ground, and take off running into the street beyond.

Neve rushes past to get eyes on the attacker while Rook skids to a halt and crouches beside the person on the ground, almost falling on her ass in the process. He’s curled into himself on the icy pavement and she can’t see his face, but his breath fogs out in quick gasps. The pocket of his coat is turned out, and it’s hard to tell in the dim light of the alley, but the coat looks like it costs more than Rook makes in a week. An obvious target for a mugger. Which begs the question: what’s someone this well-dressed doing out in this neighborhood at 10pm on a Tuesday?

“Are you okay?” she asks, reaching out for the man’s shoulder.

Cold fingers close around her wrist in an instant, halting her mid-reach.

“Watch it,” Neve says sharply, turning the corner back into the alley. She lets the taser in her hand spark briefly in warning. The man’s grip spasms in panic at the sound of the taser, and he lets go to scrabble back against the alley wall.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice ragged, his palms raised to show he’s not a threat.

Rook’s wrist is colder now in the absence of his fingers.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Rook says firmly, calmly. Never mind that her heart is trying to hammer its way out of her chest. The man finally meets her gaze. Strong brows are furrowed in pain and suspicion, and a neat black beard frames lips pressed into a tight line. “Can you stand?”

After a beat, he braces one hand on the ground and slowly leverages himself into a seated position. Rook has to fight the urge to reach out again to help him, even moreso when he lets out a sharp hiss, his free hand flying to his side.

“I’m calling 911,” Neve says, pulling her phone out of her pocket with her own free hand.

“No!” the man bites out.

Neve and Rook exchange a glance. A familiar, what have we gotten ourselves into this time glance.

“Please, no hospitals,” he says, softening his tone when he realizes he startled them again. His eyes jump back and forth between them, pleading, assessing.

Rook can’t figure him out. He’s clean, well-groomed, doesn’t look drunk or strung out. Honestly, he looks like the type of guy whose family has an entire hospital named after them, not somebody who panics at the mere mention of one.

He’s also going to freeze his ass off if he stays out here much longer, they all are.

“We’re going to go inside and warm up. There‘s a first aid kit. We’ll see what the damage is and go from there, okay?”

Rook keeps her eyes on the man the entire time she speaks, watching his hunched shoulders relax infinitesimally as he realizes they aren’t immediately sending him to the hospital. “Okay.”

“Can you put your arm around me—“

“Lucanis,” he offers.

“—Lucanis. I’m Rook, this is Neve.”

Neve waves her taser in greeting, looking resigned. “I’d say nice to meet you, under other circumstances.”

“Likewise,” Lucanis says dryly. He lets Rook close the remaining distance between them and pull his arm around her shoulders, so she can bear more of his weight. Rook guides him up slowly, hears him breathing sharply through his nose in an effort to hide his pain. He smells good, like he does laundry regularly and buys cologne somewhere fancy and artisanal. And I smell like trash juice.

Neve leads the way down the alley to the back door of the Lighthouse and opens it with a jingle of her key ring. Rook lets Lucanis set the pace, and realizes as they shuffle gingerly towards the promise of warmth and safety that they’re about the same height, and she’s squarely average. Him being short shouldn’t make her feel protective, but it does, and she mentally rolls her eyes at herself—this is why Harding calls her the mom friend and dad friend all rolled into one. This protective urge has gotten her in trouble more times than she can count.

Hell, it could still get me in trouble tonight.

They finally cross into the back hallway of the Lighthouse, and the ever-present smell of coffee, empty wine bottles, and slightly musty old furniture envelops her. Rook deposits Lucanis onto a worn leather couch, watching him take in his surroundings. The Lighthouse hasn’t changed much over the years since it opened—scuffed wood floors with a few thick rugs placed strategically to hide stubborn stains, mismatched secondhand furniture that’s more about comfort than cohesion, plants and stained glass hanging in the high, arched windows, shelves of books and games lining one wall next to a tiny stage for readings and open mic nights, and a long bar with all manner of coffee beans and booze behind it. Tinsel, paper snowflakes, and string lights still hang from the ceiling, the last stragglers from what Neve deemed “an aggressive amount of decorations” and Harding said was “like if holiday cheer got drunk and barfed everywhere.”

Some of the tension automatically bleeds out of Rook’s bones. She feels more at home here than she does in her own tiny apartment, even after-hours with a beat-up stranger in tow.

Maybe it’s because Neve only turned on half the lights, but there are deep shadows carved under said stranger’s eyes that seem at odds with the comfort he clearly lives in. His long hair doesn’t quite fit with Rook’s mental image of a guy who can afford what looks like bespoke tailoring, either.

“We’re in a coffee shop?” Lucanis asks, like he hadn’t really considered where they were taking him and is probably having his own internal dialogue about following strange women into unfamiliar places.

“Slash full-service bar,” Rook answers. “Need a shot? Espresso or whiskey, or both?”

Lucanis’s tired eyes light up. “I’d take a cup of dark roast, if it’s not too much trouble. Though…I don’t think I can pay you.”

He pats the pockets of his coat, as if remembering all over again that the only reason he’s here right now is because he got mugged.

“They got your wallet, hmm?” Neve asks, sitting on the coffee table in front of him with the first aid kit while Rook heads behind the bar to fix him a cup of coffee.

“Phone, too,” Lucanis says, breathing out in dismay.

“Let me take a look at your ribs, and if it’s not too bad we can get you an Uber home.”

“My ribs are fine—”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Are you a doctor?” Lucanis retorts.

“I’m a trained first responder,” Neve shoots back smoothly. “I’m also a private investigator, and I got a decent look at your mugger’s face. If you let me check your ribs, I just might pencil it into my schedule to help you track the bastard down.”

Rook scoops some ground Andoral's Breath into the moka pot reserved for employee use only, staying quiet. Lucanis’s arms have crossed protectively over his ribs and his spine is rigid. He reminds Rook of the feral cat who lives behind her apartment and hisses whenever she tries to feed him. But, at the mention of Neve’s help and the potential for—what, justice? Revenge?—his face stills and his eyes become calculating.

“Fine,” he eventually says, and begins unbuttoning his black coat, then the vest and crisp dress shirt beneath it. “But they’re not broken, just bruised.”

“And I’m just supposed to take your word for that?”

Lucanis averts his gaze as Neve leans forward to prod gently at his exposed skin, accidentally makes eye contact with Rook, then quickly turns his head the other way. His next words are quiet, almost swallowed by the dark corners of the Lighthouse. “I’ve had broken ribs before. That felt worse than this.”

Neve catches Rook’s eye briefly with an arched brow that says, what is this guy’s deal?

Rook gives a tiny shrug. Who knows. But there’s something about the straightforward way Lucanis mentions an old hurt, without bragging to show how tough he is or rushing to provide context for what could have been a simple accident, that makes Rook’s protective instincts sit up and take notice once again. They just met, he doesn’t owe them any explanations, but what he’s choosing to leave unsaid speaks volumes.

Silence fills the room for a moment, soon joined by the rich, bitter scent of coffee. Some of the feeling begins returning to Rook’s fingers.

“Does it hurt to breathe? Any dizziness?” Neve asks, sitting back to rummage through the first aid kit.

Lucanis takes a deep, wincing breath, and with Neve out of the way, Rook can see a sliver of his bruised torso. Wow, was not expecting abs.

“A little,” he says, “But I don’t think I punctured a lung, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“That and internal bleeding. I think we’d know by now if things were that dire, but you should still get checked out by a real doctor. Soon. Like by tomorrow,” Neve says, squeezing an instant ice pack before giving it a brief shake and handing it to him. “Sooner if you have any sudden pain or start puking up blood.”

She moves from the coffee table to the other couch across from Lucanis’s, giving him space. Lucanis gives a noncommittal hum as he buttons his shirt and vest back up, but he does hold the ice pack to his side and nod his thanks to Neve.

“How do you take your coffee?” Rook asks, pouring the contents of the moka pot into a chipped mug that says “All My Friends Are Dead” beneath a sad cartoon dinosaur.

“No cream, three sugars,” he says, and Rook obliges. On a whim, she grabs the last two donuts from the domed cake stand on the bar.

All their usual takeout spots closed early thanks to the weather, so for dinner Rook and Neve shared the donuts they usually sold to customers and a can of soup left behind from their holiday food drive last month. Rook considered closing early a few times herself.

She’s stricken by the thought: If I had, what would have happened to Lucanis?

“Here,” she says, passing the mug to him with one hand and offering a donut with the other. “They’re from the vegan bakery in the Chantry District. Not even a day old, technically.”

Lucanis’s hand wraps around the mug, and he hesitates for a moment before taking the donut, his eyes flicking up to Rook’s with an uncertain smile. Like he can’t really believe she’s offering it for free. That, or he distrusts vegan baked goods.

He takes a deep, appreciative inhale of his coffee before the first sip, and his smile blossoms into something big enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes. The furrow in his brow eases just a little.

“Good?” she asks, then breaks the other donut in two and hands one half to Neve, plopping down onto the couch next to her. She crams her half of the donut into her mouth, suddenly far too aware of the amount of small talk they’re going to have to make until he can leave.

He nods. “Very, thank you.”

“Isn’t it a little late for coffee?” Neve asks, taking a more delicate bite of her donut. She has her phone out, thumbing through the Uber app.

“I don’t sleep well anyway. Insomnia.”

That explains the dark circles under his eyes.

“Well, there aren’t a lot of drivers out in this weather, the closest Uber is twenty minutes away,” Neve says, frowning down at her phone.

Rook cut rideshares out of her budget ages ago so maybe things have changed, but twenty minutes is about four times longer than she was expecting it to take. She starts weighing the risks of offering a ride to Lucanis herself—he hasn’t tried to murder them so far, but he could be lulling them into a false sense of security.

“There’s someone I can call, if I can borrow your phone?” Lucanis asks, interrupting Rook’s train of thought. It’s obvious he’s just as ready as they are for this night to be over.

Neve’s fingers clutch instinctively around her phone, tucking it closer to her chest. “Umm…”

“Use mine,” Rook says, rolling her eyes good-naturedly at Neve and fishing her phone out of her pocket. “She’s extremely protective of her phone. Private investigator shit.”

“There’s a lot of sensitive information on this device!” Neve exclaims around another mouthful of donut. She doesn’t need to add and I don’t know this man out loud, but Rook hears the subtext.

“I understand,” Lucanis says mildly, probably thinking about his own stolen phone. Rook is one thousand percent certain he can afford to pay upfront for a new one right away.

She hands her very old phone over with a wince. “Sorry it’s a little sticky. And maybe smelly. I lost a fight with a dumpster earlier.”

Lucanis glances at her jacket, which is still wet and definitely stained down one side, and graciously says nothing. Rook is almost too tired to be embarrassed. Almost.

He dials a number and whoever’s on the other end sounds like they're out at a bar or club—unintelligible background conversation and indistinct techno music blares into the Lighthouse’s quiet confines.

“It’s me, I lost my phone,” Lucanis says, which is certainly one way to oversimplify the night’s events.

“Lucanis? Where’d you go, cousin?” a man, presumably Lucanis’s cousin, shouts over the background noise.

“I went for a walk. Needed some air,” Lucanis says, looking down at his lap. “Can you pick me up?”

“A walk?” the cousin says incredulously. “Lucanis, you’re a free man now, you need to be out with other people, not—’getting air.’ And it’s 20 degrees out! Fucking hell, Teia’s going to kill me. Where are you?”

Rook is trying to look anywhere but at Lucanis during this conversation, to give him some pretense of privacy. Neve clearly has the same idea and mouths, 'a free man now’? to Rook.

Rook caught that too, obviously, how could she not? It could mean so many things. Her first thought is prison, her second thought is recently divorced.

“Ah, where am I?” Lucanis asks politely.

“The Lighthouse, a few blocks north of the Crossroads on 24th,” Neve answers, referencing the giant intersection everyone in the city unofficially knows as the Crossroads.

Lucanis relays the information to his cousin, who shouts, “24th? What are you thinking walking sixteen blocks in this cold? I’ll be there in five.”

The cousin hangs up before Lucanis can say anything else. He blinks down at the phone twice, before giving it back to Rook.

“Thank you. That’s beautiful, by the way, who’s the artist?” he asks.

It takes Rook a second to remember that her phone background is from her latest work in progress. A charcoal study of crows taking flight, that she’ll eventually translate into part of a larger landscape painting once she can get the sense of urgency and momentum right.

“Oh. Me.”

Lucanis’s eyebrows lift slightly. “You’re talented.”

“Thanks. So your cousin’s coming?” she asks, pivoting immediately from talk about her work. She isn’t normally cagey about it, but this piece is frustrating and elusive and still very much in her head. It feels too raw, still.

“Illario, yes. He’s, ah, well I’m sure you heard. He’ll be here soon.”

A slightly awkward silence descends. At least Rook thinks it’s awkward. The adrenaline has officially worn off, and Rook is starting to feel what a colossally long day it’s been. In five more minutes, she can leave work for real, and ten minutes after that, she’ll be home under a hot shower. Well, lukewarm shower, her apartment’s hot water situation can be hit or miss.

“So, sixteen blocks?” Neve drawls. “Were you at the Cantori Diamond?”

Lucanis’s eyes widen in surprise, then narrow. “How did you—”

“Private investigator, remember? The Diamond’s the only bar in a sixteen block radius open this late on a Tuesday that has a DJ. Swanky place.” Neve’s tone shifts to sarcasm on the word “swanky.” Rook was thinking the same thing, honestly. The Cantori Diamond is one of the douchiest bars in the city, and the only people who go there are finance bros and influencers.

Lucanis shrugs, his posture stiffening, closing off a little. “It’s not my usual—well, nevermind. Yes, it is…swanky.”

He finishes his coffee and donut, fastidiously wiping away any lingering crumbs. Rook shoots Neve a give him a break look, and Neve returns a the Diamond? Really? look.

“May I keep this?” he asks, holding up the ice pack.

“Of course,” Rook and Neve both say at the same time.

God, these last few minutes are taking a lifetime.

“So, you’re a private investigator, and you…own this place?” Lucanis directs the second question to Rook. Maybe she’s projecting, maybe she’s just tired, but she sees herself through his Cantori Diamond eyes—her ruined jacket, self-administered short haircut, the couple of tattoos visible outside her long sleeves and pants—and feels like he must think she’s some stupid kid in way over her head, instead of a semi-responsible adult who’s probably only a few years younger than he is.

“I do.”

“It looks like it’s been here a long time, that’s impressive,” he says, without an ounce of condescension.

Rook watches him look around again, and remembers what it was like when she saw the Lighthouse for the first time. Who else was here. Her heart clenches, and she clears her throat.

“I took things over after—there was a previous owner, who…”

“I also work here part-time,” Neve swoops in, steering the conversation away from troubled waters before Rook can flounder. “P.I. gigs don’t actually pay all that well, if you can believe it.”

“Perhaps not in the circles you run in.”

Before Neve can react to whatever that means, passing headlights on the street out front slow to a stop. Music with a heavy bass line thumps distantly. A car horn honks once.

“That will be Illario,” Lucanis says, and the expression on his face is hard to read. Resigned, maybe. A little relieved. A little lost.

For the second time tonight, Rook has to stop herself from reaching out to help him up. He stands slowly, on his own, still holding the ice pack to his ribs beneath his long black coat. Neve pushes herself up, flicking through her key ring for the front door key, so Rook stands too, suddenly feeling useless after the night’s unintentional heroics.

Lucanis pauses, then removes his coat, careful not to twist his torso too much. He holds it out to Rook.

“Please, take it. You shouldn’t go back outside in a wet jacket.”

Rook stands there with her mouth open like an idiot.

“I—what? I’ll be fine, I can’t take your coat.”

The car horn honks again.

“It’s the least I can do to repay your generosity.”

“But won’t you be cold?”

“Illario’s car will have the heat blasting.”

“But—”

“Rook, I insist.”

There’s the sound of a car door opening, the techno getting louder, and a man’s head appears over the top of a sleek looking SUV on the driver’s side. He has a ponytail, because of course he does. “Lucanis, are you coming or what?”

Rook takes the coat.

“Thank you both. For everything.”

Neve walks him to the door, shooting a did that just happen? look over her shoulder at Rook, and unlocks it to let him out. The bells above the door jingle. A blast of cold wind sneaks in. Lucanis jogs stiffly to the passenger side of the SUV and slides in, and Rook hears Illario say, “What the fuck happened to you?” as the door shuts.

Then he’s gone. And Rook has a new coat.

Chapter Text

“He really said ‘you’re a free man now’?” Bellara asks, raising her voice over the hiss of the steam wand and the din of a completely packed Lighthouse.

Schools are closed and people are already bored out of their skulls after a day and a half cooped up inside. By the time Rook’s alarm went off at 6 AM, the Lighthouse’s half-price hot chocolate and toddies post had double the usual likes. Then a neighborhood parents group reposted it, and the line that formed by 8:30 AM still hasn’t let up.

“He really did.”

“That could mean so many things,” Bellara breathes.

She’s another Lighthouse part-timer, juggling work and getting her PhD in…something sciencey Rook doesn’t actually understand no matter how much Bellara explains it. She’s been manning the espresso machine all morning with her typical level of controlled chaos, her black hair pulled out of her face into a huge bun and stacks of bracelets jangling from each wrist. The excited squeak in her voice, as she listens to Rook recount the events of last night between customers, is reaching chipmunk decibels.

“He was in prison, right? Probably white collar crime?” Rook says, passing someone their change.

“Or he had a bad break up!” Bellara loves romance novels, so of course she wants it to be that. Not that Rook hadn’t thought the same thing—calling someone “a free man” after a break up is exactly the kind of alpha male bullshit a guy with a ponytail who goes to the Cantori Diamond would say.

“Can I have two hot chocolates, please, with extra whipped cream and extra sprinkles?” Rook’s next customer says.

“One for your dad, Mila?” Rook looks down at the child standing confidently in front of the register in a bright blue snowsuit. She and her dad, Holden, live around the corner and come in most days after school for hot chocolate and homework. Holden is nowhere to be seen today, but it’s not unusual for Mila to pop in when he’s busy working at home.

“No, they’re both for me! He gave me enough money for one hot chocolate, but he doesn’t know they’re half-off, so if I get two it’s actually the same as getting one,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Makes sense,” Rook says, knowing she’ll get an earful from Holden about the impending sugar high, but she’s too impressed by Mila’s wiliness to care.

She’s also too tired. Despite her best efforts and how truly bone-weary her body felt when she finally collapsed into bed last night, her brain just refused to shut off. Every time she closed her eyes, the night’s events replayed on a loop. Lucanis saying, “please, no hospitals,” the dark circles under his eyes, the way he buttoned his shirt collar up all the way to the top, the sincerity in his voice when he said the Lighthouse was impressive, the weight of his coat when she took it from his outstretched hand.

Rook tried all the things her old therapist recommended for sleepless nights: breathing in for five and out for seven, scanning her body from bottom to top one part at a time, listing all the fruits she could think of, listing random things that all started with the same letter. By 2 AM, she was so delirious with exhaustion that she would have believed the whole night had been a figment of her imagination. Except the smell of Lucanis’s cologne, rich and warm and a little citrusy, still lingered on the black coat she’d tossed over her couch, right outside her bedroom door. Eventually, she dragged herself and her quilt out of bed and curled up on the couch, where she finally fell asleep with her cheek resting against the coat.

“Um, excuse me?” someone says.

Rook blinks, and realizes another regular, Flynn, is waiting patiently in front of the register. Their eyebrows are furrowed in concern. Shit, how long was I spaced out?

Someone gently shoulders Rook aside.

“Sorry about that, Flynn, Rook was up late last night playing Batman, don’t mind her.”

“Harding, you’re back!” Bellara says, as Rook blearily realizes Harding has appeared out of nowhere to save her from falling asleep on her feet in the middle of a rush. Like an angel sent from the heavens, if angels were really short and embraced gorpcore. Her red hair is even braided around the crown of her head, like a halo.

Obviously, Rook already texted Harding all the details about last night over the course of the morning.

“More, please,” Mila said from the other end of the bar, pulling Bellara’s attention back to the whipped cream canister in her hand. Did I charge her for those hot chocolates? Probably. Maybe?

“You’re not working today,” Rook protests as Harding finishes ringing Flynn up, which definitely counts as working.

“I know,” Harding says, looking up at Rook with a grin on her freckled face, “but I felt bad about missing my shift last night and the roads were mostly salted and clear by this morning. Plus, Neve said she was running late.”

“Would’ve been nice if she told me that,” Rook says sourly.

“She did, she texted both of us earlier, remember?” Bellara pipes up. “You had a whole mini-meltdown about it?”

Oh, right. That text feels like it happened days ago, but it was only a few hours. Something about chasing a lead for a case.

“I did not have a meltdown. And Harding, thank you, you’re an angel,” Rook says, draining the dregs of her third cup of coffee. Or is it fourth?

“And you look like hot garbage,” Harding replies affectionately. “Maybe go grab a bite to eat? Have you had any real food today?”

“Ooh, speaking of hot garbage, Rook did you tell her about the coat?” Bellara interjects, getting to work on Flynn’s latte. “The rich guy gave her his coat because hers got—”

“Yes, I told her,” Rook says defensively. She wore Lucanis’s coat today, and Bellara immediately zeroed in on it hanging from the coat rack in the back room. It’s warmer than anything Rook owns and temperatures are barely above freezing, what is she supposed to do, not wear it? “And Harding, I ate a Poptart on my way in, so there.”

“The Poptart that’s been under the passenger seat of your car for like a month?”

“It was still in the packaging!”

“Okay fine, but you got here how many hours ago?”

“You know I can’t do math when I’m tired,” Rook grumbles, conceding defeat. Harding might survive on Nature Valley bars and ham and jam slams, but she makes a good point.

“Just get something at the Garden, Bell and I can hold down the fort,” Harding says, referring to the food truck next door that shares outdoor seating with the Lighthouse and serves nothing leafy or green like the name might suggest, just an endless assortment of vegan hot dogs cooked up by the owner, Keller.

Rook heads down the hallway into the back room to get Lucanis’s coat—she still can’t think of it as hers. There’s a plate of brownies on the back room table, which must have been there all morning because they actually look edible and Harding can’t bake. It takes every ounce of Rook’s willpower to continue buttoning her coat.

“Real food,” she reminds herself. Out loud, like a crazy person.

Now that Harding has forced her to realize how hungry she is, Rook knows a hot dog’s not going to cut it. She’ll have to go farther afield than the Garden.

She hears Harding say, “Wow, that is a nice coat” and Bellara respond, “He’s gotta be loaded, right?” as she heads out the door.

The air has bite, but the sky is a clear, perfect blue and Rook remembered not only gloves but a hat this morning. The knit gloves were a Christmas present from Harding, and the hat she crocheted herself. They both look very obviously handmade and don’t go with the sleek, black coat at all, but Rook can’t find it in herself to care. At least the coat is the right length on her, even if it is a little big in the shoulders.

The Lighthouse is in a pretty residential area, and Rook passes a mix of Craftsman style houses, small apartment buildings, and a few newer condos as she trudges over the salt-crusted sidewalks towards her favorite deli. Most of the businesses here are independently-owned places like the Lighthouse—little hole in the wall restaurants with striped awnings, a used bookstore, a mechanic who always waves hi to her when he’s working outside, a food co-op, a few tiny galleries, a single-screen theater that shows old movies for $5 on the weekends. All the other streets that intersect at the Crossroads connect people to bigger, busier parts of the city, but not 24th Street. Rook knows the neighborhood will change eventually, as old families and businesses move out or are bought out, but in her heart it will always be the first place that felt like home. A place where she’s made some of her best memories, and a few of her worst.

She detours around 27th and Ritual Street without really needing to think about it anymore.

A blast of heat greets Rook as she opens the door to Flora’s Deli, along with the mouthwatering scent of bacon grease. Flora herself is slicing cold cuts behind the counter.

“Rough night?” she says to Rook with a sympathetic smile, as she layers the cold cuts into a sandwich and starts wrapping it up for another customer.

“You could say that.”

The other customer turns and a wide smile splits his face at the sight of Rook.

“Rook! Long time no see!”

“Tarquin!”

“The usual?” Flora asks Rook, who nods distractedly.

Flora starts making Rook a Dragon’s Bounty. It’s been the deli’s sandwich special for as long as Rook has been coming here, and it has a little bit of everything good on it: bacon, potatoes, cheese, heaps of arugula, and a housemade rosemary spread that might be Rook’s second favorite condiment. Her first is obviously Taco Bell fire sauce.

Rook and Tarquin hug, and when she steps back she chucks him under the chin.

“Beard’s getting a little long.”

He smooths his hand down his beard all the way to its pointed end. “Eh, No-Shave November hit and I never looked back.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen you since sometime around then. Too busy shuffling papers to swing by the Lighthouse these days, huh?” Rook teases.

Tarquin used to be a regular, but his commute changed when he got a job at the county clerk’s office downtown.

“I’m the worst, I know. I was craving Flora’s for lunch, but I have to get back pretty soon—those papers aren’t going to shuffle themselves,” he says with a self-deprecating grin. “Hey it’s not like you ever come to the Viper’s Nest anymore, though! You should text Ashur, he was asking about you the other day.”

The Viper’s Nest is the queer bar on the outskirts of the city where Rook worked before the Lighthouse. Tarquin’s partner, Ashur, is Rook’s old boss. To say Rook and Ashur didn’t always see eye to eye would be the understatement of the century.

“He could text me, too.”

“You know Ashur.”

“Busier than ever organizing the next community resource fair slash drag show?”

“That’s actually a pretty good guess…”

Tarquin spends the next few minutes chatting at Rook about Ashur, the weather, some local gossip. And then:

“Have you heard from Solas recently?”

Every cell in Rook’s body freezes, then bursts into prickling flames. She imagines this is what it feels like to fall into a pool of lava. She imagines pushing Solas into a pool of lava.

“No.”

Her voice sounds weird to her own ears, like she’s being strangled.

“I ran into him downtown yesterday,” Tarquin says, eyeing Rook cautiously, curiously.

“Okay.”

“Seems to be doing well.”

“Great.”

“Anyway,” Tarquin says, taking the hint, “do you know who else I saw the other day? Cida Ciconia! She back from her tour, and I hate to say this, but it doesn’t sound like it went well…”

Rook sighs inwardly at herself as Tarquin hits his gossip stride again. It’s not Tarquin’s fault for asking. Just because the people closest to Rook know not to ask, doesn’t mean everybody does.

But the mood is spoiled, and Tarquin takes off a minute later after making Rook promise to text Ashur.

“It was really good to see you, Rook,” he says at the door.

“You too. Don’t be a stranger.”

Flora presses an orange into Rook’s hand along with the sandwich when Rook goes to pay.

“The sandwich is for the hangover and the orange is on me, so Bellara doesn’t worry about you getting scurvy.”

The orange is an apology for someone bringing up Rook’s ex. Rook accepts it with as big a smile as she can muster.

“It’s more of an emotional hangover than anything, but thank you.”

“Stay safe out there, Rook,” Flora says with a wink, clearly not believing her. God, I must really look like shit.

The cold air helps clear Rook’s head, and she double times it back to the Lighthouse. The sooner she gets there, the sooner she can ask Harding more about her camping trip, and brainstorm with her and Bellara about what garnish they should put on the Ice Dragon cocktail for happy hour, and think about literally anything that isn’t Solas. She’s had months of practice, she’s an expert at not thinking about Solas. If the bells above the front door of the Lighthouse jingle a little aggressively when Rook opens it and her lug-soled boots stomp a little louder than usual over the floorboards, well, so what. At least it looks like the rush has died down.

“Look, Bellara, I got fruit and everything,” Rook announces as she rounds the bar, trying haphazardly not to drop the food in her hands while shrugging out of the coat. When Bellara doesn’t immediately praise Rook for putting something healthy in her body for once, Rook pulls up short, halfway out of the coat, holding her orange in one hand and her paper-wrapped sandwich in her mouth.

Bellara and Harding are standing beside each other at the register, looking at whoever’s ordering with the most poorly disguised expressions of glee on their faces.

“Oh, Rook, perfect timing…” Harding says, and Rook immediately picks up on her forced nonchalance. She finally looks at who they’re looking at, and the sandwich falls out of her mouth.

“Hello, Rook,” Lucanis says.

His eyes dip down to the floor behind the bar where her sandwich landed with a plop, then back up to her.

“Hi.”

Rook does not move to pick up the sandwich. What sandwich? There is no sandwich and nothing embarrassing just happened.

“Lucanis,” he says, after a beat.

Like Rook could forget his name.

“I know,” she says, because she has forgotten how to have a normal conversation. Her surly, sleep-deprived brain flails into overdrive trying to figure out why he’s here, and lands on the most obvious conclusion: “You came to get your coat back?”

“Ah, no,” he says. She notices then that he’s wearing a different black coat, with a grey scarf peeking out above the high collar. He probably has dozens of coats, why would he want this one back? Why is it still weird that I’m wearing it right now?

His eyes shift from her to the other two women behind the bar, then back to her, clearly bewildered but attempting to be polite.

“I was hoping to speak to Neve, about…” he trails off, glancing at Bellara and Harding again.

“The mugging?” Bellara asks.

“Yeah, they know all about last night,” Rook says, extricating herself fully from the coat—her coat, officially?—in an effort to appear slightly less unhinged. All thoughts of Solas have vanished.

“We do,” Harding confirms.

“Are you feeling okay?” Bellara asks, her face pinched in genuine concern.

“I am, thank you. Just a little bruised,” Lucanis says, and Rook thinks he’s telling the truth. He looks different in daylight. The shadows under his eyes are less pronounced, and she can actually see what color those eyes are—deep brown, like the cup of coffee she made him last night, framed by thick lashes. There’s also a slight hollowness to his cheeks that she didn’t pick up on before. Like he was sick recently, or hasn’t been eating well. But he mostly just looks more human. A relatively short, impeccably dressed human. With big ears.

“Neve’s running late,” Rook says.

A small grimace crosses Lucanis’s face, but smooths over almost immediately.

“Well, that’s unfortunate. Could you please give her this?” he asks, holding out a matte black business card. And then he offers up something from his other hand. “And these are for both of you, as a token of my gratitude, but there are enough to share.”

Rook takes the card and a glass tupperware container lined with wax paper that obscures its contents. She lifts the lid to behold a dozen long pastries sprinkled with sugar. The sweet scent of fried dough fills the air, and Rook’s stomach grumbles. She spares a fleeting thought for her sandwich, slowly oozing out of its paper wrapper onto the floor at her feet.

“You didn’t have to do this, you already gave me your coat. And it’s a really nice coat,” Rook says, looking up from the pastries to make sure he understands how big of a gesture that was—he’s rich, he probably doesn’t realize, right?

“And you didn’t have to give me coffee and a donut, after quite possibly saving my life last night, but you did,” he responds simply, holding Rook’s gaze. Then he fidgets a little. “Although, these aren’t vegan, I hope that’s okay? They’re churros, made fresh this morning.”

“Rook just gets stuff from the vegan bakery because we have a lot of vegan customers,” Bellara says, plucking a churro out of the container and taking a huge bite. “I tried being vegetarian for awhile but—oh my god, these are incredible! Where’d you get them?”

Lucanis’s polite smile deepens into something real at Bellara’s obvious delight. “I made them.”

“You made these?” Harding asks, reaching in to try one now that they have Bellara’s stamp of approval. Her freckled face scrunches up in bliss after the first bite.

“Thank you,” Rook says, catching Lucanis’s eye again and hoping he understands her sincerity. But then she can’t help herself, and says, half-joking, “I was going to have some of the brownies Bellara made for dinner, but these look even better.”

“Churros for dinner?” Lucanis asks, slightly aghast, at the same time Bellara says, “Oh, Rook, no, those brownies are medicinal, don’t eat too many.”

Rook puts the lid back on the container, cutting Bellara off from her third churro so she’ll focus for a second. She has granulated sugar on her nose.

“’Medicinal?’ Why didn’t you label them? What if I’d eaten five already?”

Bellara’s eyebrows shoot into her hairline. “You didn’t, did you? There’s a devil on them. For devil’s lettuce.”

“Obviously,” Harding says. She’s probably the one who told Bellara to call it that. Rook ignores her.

“I thought that meant they were spicy, like when you made the cinnamon-cayenne ones. Why not just write ‘these have pot in them’ like last time?”

“That was for the Christmas party, after we were closed! What if there’s a surprise health inspection today?”

“Weed is legal here, I don’t think the health inspector would care.”

“I bet they’d even understand the whole devil label thing. I did,” Harding says. Rook shoots her a dirty look.

Lucanis clears his throat lightly, and the three women remember that he’s there.

“Sorry,” Bellara says to Lucanis, “my pharmacy has been out of my ADHD meds for like a month, there’s a nationwide shortage. Cannabis is helping in the meantime. Kind of. Do you want one?”

Lucanis shakes his head curtly, “No, but thank you. It was nice to meet the two of you—”

“Bellara and Harding,” Bellara says, pointing to herself and Harding in turn.

“Lucanis,” he responds.

“We know,” Bellara and Harding say in unison, and Rook wants to kill them.

The corner of Lucanis’s mouth twitches, like he’s suppressing a grin. “And a pleasure to see you again, Rook. Please ask Neve to call me?”

“I will.”

Rook watches Lucanis walk out the front door of the Lighthouse for the second time in less than 24 hours, and the emotional hangover quip she made to Flora feels truer than ever. She didn’t really consider that she’d ever see him again. Neve did P.I. stuff at the Lighthouse sometimes, sure, but Rook kind of just figured that last night would live in her memory as one of the weirdest nights in her weird, fucked up life, and then life would carry on and eventually it would just become a story she and Neve pulled out when they were drinking and telling tall tales.

But Lucanis had come back.

“Are you still going to eat that?” Harding interrupts Rook’s thought process, pointing down to the sandwich on the floor.

“Of course I am.”

“Great, while you do that, I’m going to internet stalk Lucanis,” Harding says, plucking the business card out of Rook’s hand. “Bell, you’re in charge.”

Ten minutes later, Rook is fighting off heartburn after housing her sandwich in record time, and Harding is hunched over the back room table across from her, swiping furiously on her phone.

“What kind of business card doesn’t even say what you do for a living?” she mutters.

“You seem cranky, do you need a brownie?” Rook asks, stifling a burp.

“Aren’t you at least a little curious? We know his name is Lucanis Dellamorte and he works at Talon Corp, but his social media presence is basically nonexistent. Illario Dellamorte, on the other hand—that’s what you said the cousin’s name is, right? Illario? Can’t be a coincidence. Well, he posts nonstop and seems to have a new girlfriend every week. And Talon Corp’s website is very fancy but doesn’t tell me what they actually do. Real estate? Investments?”

Rook is extremely curious, but admitting that to Harding feels like feeding a fire she’s not prepared to fight.

A manila folder slaps down on the table, and Neve stands before them with one hand on her hip and a gleam in her eyes.

“Talon Corp is a hedge fund manager, among other things, and netted millions in investor profits last year. The CEO, Caterina Dellamorte, was in an accident right after Christmas and has been on life support for the last few weeks. Her grandson, Illario Dellamorte, is the face of the company. His cousin, Lucanis Dellamorte, is on their payroll as a senior analyst and seems to work mostly behind the scenes. Not only does Lucanis have a conspicuously small digital footprint, he’s been responsible for the majority of Talon Corp’s most lucrative deals up until last year, when he basically fell off the face of the earth.”

“You make it look so easy,” Harding grumbles, tossing her phone down on the table.

“I’m guessing this is the reason you’re running late?” Rook asks, side-eyeing the folder, banked curiosity making her fingers itch. As much as she wants to, she doesn’t open it. Whatever’s in there is none of her business.

“Of course it is. God, I love a good mystery!”

Rook taps the container of churros.

“Bet you didn’t know he bakes.”

Chapter Text

Thursday happy hour at the Lighthouse is always a bit of a mad rush, with people stopping in for a drink on their way home after work or before heading out to livelier parts of the city to get a head start on the weekend. Between the chatter of a dozen conversations and the music blaring over the speakers—Neve and Rook have been switching between Talking Heads and Beastie Boys all day—it’s loud enough that Rook can barely hear herself think.

She loves it. When it’s dark outside and the Lighthouse is warm and bright and full of people, she can forget the rest of the world exists.

The only other time Rook feels this present is when she’s painting, but her current work in progress has been in progress for months now, sitting mostly untouched on the easel in the corner of her living room. Finding the inspiration is hard enough as it is, but keeping the Lighthouse running on her own takes so much of her energy that, whenever Rook does get some tiny, magical window of free time to paint, she just stares at her canvas getting increasingly frustrated and thinking about all the other stuff she has to do. And she knows she could delegate more, that she’s not totally on her own, not really, but she wasn’t the one in charge before—

Shit.

Rook takes a deep breath at the blooming ache in her chest, tries to tamp it down. Focuses on the smooth wood-grain of the tap handle under her fingers, listens to the glug of beer filling the pint glass in her hand, smells hops and espresso and the store-brand chex mix they put in bowls on the bar after 4pm. Feels her own fragile heart beating steadily behind her ribcage. Hears Harding sing along to the music as she walks by with a tub of dirty glasses: “I don't mean to brag, I don't mean to boast, but I'm incontinent when I eat French toast.”

Rook laughs, she can’t help herself, and the ache in her chest eases a little bit. “Harding, it’s ‘intercontinental,’ not ‘incontinent.”

“Oh! I just thought one of the Beastie Boys had a gluten sensitivity or something.”

“You thought he was rapping about French toast making him shit himself?”

“Wouldn’t be their weirdest lyrics.”

“Fair.”

When Rook glances up to scan the crowd and make sure everyone’s glasses are at least half full, she catches Neve and Lucanis in close conversation over at the table in the corner. Curiosity chases the rest of that ache in her chest away.

Lucanis has shown up three days in a row at this point. That doesn’t make him a regular yet—and Rook is pretty sure that after his business with Neve is done, he’ll forget the Lighthouse ever existed—but it feels…surprisingly right that he’s here right now. Rook can’t tell if he feels the same—he doesn’t look uncomfortable, exactly, but he does stick out like a sore thumb amidst the usual Thursday crowd, even in a turtleneck sweater and slacks.

It’s not that the Lighthouse is a dive bar, it just isn’t the Cantori fucking Diamond.

It’s also a wonder he and Neve can even hear each other over the roar of the Lords of Fortune pre-gaming before their weekly bowling match. The Lords descend on the Lighthouse every Thursday to amp themselves up, trash talk the other teams in their league, and eat most of the chex mix and a truly staggering number of hot dogs from the Garden. They all seem to work in IT, and Rook assumes this is the one night a week they can shed their mild-mannered help-desk personas and really let off steam.

Their nonstop rounds of drinks and boasting—the Lords lost last week, but Isabela “accidentally” tripped one of the winning team’s bowlers so that made up for it—keep Rook busy enough that she hasn’t had a chance to say hi to Lucanis yet. He managed a small wave in her direction when he first arrived, but Neve immediately herded him away to talk business, shouting to Rook over her shoulder that she was going on her break.

It’s impossible for Rook to hear what they’re saying, even if she was trying to eavesdrop—which she’s not. But that manila folder is on the table between them, and whatever information Neve found for Lucanis about the mugging does not seem to be going over well. Lucanis’s face gets a little more shuttered every time Rook looks over, like an old house trying to weather a storm.

So Rook keeps her distance. She pours drinks, laughs at Isabela’s pervy joke about Bharv getting his fingers stuck in a a bowling ball, and tries not to think about how someone could fall off the face of the earth for a year.

She hands the bowlers’ last two pints over to Isabela and closes her out. Happy hour is coming to an end, and after the Lords leave, business will quiet down. Some of the evening’s sparkle will dissipate. Rook will be able to hear her own thoughts again.

“What’s got your panties in a pretzel, kitten?” Isabela asks, taking sips from both pints even though only one is hers. Then again, it’s Isabela, so who knows.

“Nothing! It’s fine, I’m fine,” Rook says, putting on her brightest smile.

Isabela just arches a brow at her. “Did you have to cancel your knitting club thing, is that it? Are your knitters finally ditching you for a hobby that isn’t stupendously boring to anyone under the age of eighty?”

“What, like bowling?”

“You said it, not me.”

“Well, Knitting Night is not canceled. It’s actually more popular than ever.”

“Popular” is maybe a stretch, but the Lighthouse has been hosting Knitting Night the third Thursday of every month for awhile now, and attendance has been steady.

“Hi, Isabela!” Bellara says, weaving through the Lords clustered by the front door with a giant tote bag slung over her shoulder. She’s wearing a big fluffy coat that looks like she skinned a teddy bear, and her tote bag keeps slipping down her arm. “Rook, Irelin can’t come tonight, she’s busy in the lab. And Rana has a date. Oh, and Antoine and Evka are still on vacation.”

Isabela smiles smugly at Rook, letting the I told you so go unsaid. “Bell, are you and Irelin back together or what?”

“No! I mean, I don’t know. Why, did she say something?” Bellara asks, blushing furiously as she almost drops her tote bag again and sends balls of yarn scattering everywhere.

Before Isabela can say anything, Bellara’s eyes snap into focus on someone out in the crowd and she blurts out, “I’m going to go get a pot brownie, do you want one, Isabela?”

“Do you even need to ask?” Isabela says, following Bellara’s gaze. “Who’s mullet man?”

Of course they’re looking at Lucanis. It’s impossible to miss him, his casual wear is what most of the people here would wear to a fancy dinner. He’s pulling on his coat and heading over to the bar. Where’s Neve? If she ditches knitting night, too…

By the time Lucanis reaches the bar, Bellara and Isabela have disappeared into the back room—which is supposed to be for employees only, but Isabela does whatever she wants and Rook learned a long time ago not to fight it.

“Hello, Rook,” Lucanis says, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Everything okay?” Rook asks.

He blinks, and Rook wonders if she’s overstepped. Or if people just don’t ask him that enough.

“Yes,” he says, looking away and then back at her. “Neve said to tell you she’s taking her real break now. And I—do you still serve coffee this late?”

“Sure do. I’m guessing you want it to go? Unless you’re sticking around for Knitting Night?” Rook asks cheekily, and immediately regrets it because it was a lame joke and he’s clearly not in the mood. Why does my brain let words come out of my mouth?

Lucanis just cocks his head. “I think you’re being sarcastic, but…I do know how to knit.”

Of all the things Rook expects him to say, it is not that. But she’s never met a bit she won’t commit to.

“Well in that case, you really are welcome to stay, if you don’t have other plans. Bellara has enough yarn to feed an army…of…sweaters…”

As Rook trails off, confused by her own metaphor, the corner of Lucanis’s mouth quirks up in a way that’s becoming familiar. He’s trying not to laugh at her. Rook is discovering that she likes making him laugh.

“Yeah, that kind of got away from me at the end there, didn’t it?”

“Enough yarn to dress an army?” Lucanis suggests.

“Maybe. Enough yarn to knit a stuffed army?”

“Better.”

“Well?” Rook holds up a paper cup in one hand and a ceramic mug that says “Big Drink Energy” in the other. Why am I doing this? He doesn’t want to hang out for fucking Knitting Night, he must have better things to do.

Lucanis only hesitates for a second before pointing to the ceramic mug. “I don’t have other plans.”

Twenty minutes later, Rook is sitting between Neve and Bellara on one couch, and Harding and Lucanis share the other. The Lighthouse is mostly empty. They take turns getting up to help customers whenever someone does need something. David Byrne croons, “home is where I want to be, but I guess I’m already there” over the speakers.

Rook feels present again.

“Please tell me you’re joking. It’s the five second rule. That sandwich had to be on the floor for at least five minutes!” Lucanis says with a disbelieving laugh.

His laugh is warm and a little scratchy, like it doesn’t get enough practice.

“You weren’t supposed to notice that! And it was wrapped in paper. Harding, back me up,” Rook says.

Without missing a beat, Harding says, “I’ve seen Rook eat a gas station breakfast burrito after she dropped it in the parking lot.”

Rook hides her face behind her granny square, but she’s laughing too hard to be mortified. “Okay, when I said ‘back me up’ that’s not what I meant.”

“That sentence started off bad and somehow just kept getting worse…” Lucanis says.

“So! You really can knit,” Rook says in a desperate bid to change the subject. She points with her crochet hook at the couple inches of scarf Lucanis has made so far, in a tidy stockinette stitch with a plum colored yarn happily donated by Bellara.

“You didn’t believe me?” Lucanis asks.

His borrowed needles clack dexterously in his fingers. He’s on his second cup of coffee and, discussion of Rook’s questionable eating habits aside, seems to be cautiously enjoying himself.

“Who taught you?” Bellara asks. Whatever she’s working on started out as a vest a couple months ago and has morphed into a sort of free-form poncho. Her smile is pleasantly fuzzy—the pot must be kicking in.

“YouTube, mostly,” Lucanis answers with a shrug. “Someone suggested it to me a few years ago as a stress-relieving activity. How long has your Knitting Night been going on?”

Rook wonders who “someone” is. The CEO grandmother?

“Since last summer. Harding’s the only one who knew how to knit, and I’ve crocheted off and on since I was a teenager, and we kind of just…roped everyone else in.”

“We also have a Book Club that meets the second Saturday of every month. That’s been going on for years,” Bellara says. “You should come next month!”

“What kind of books do you read?”

“Um…” Bellara trails off.

“Smut, they read smut,” Rook says.

“They’re romance novels!” Bellara corrects her.

“Smutty ones,” Neve finally chimes in. She tends to do more wine-drinking than knitting during Knitting Night, but she’s been unusually quiet. She’s mulling something over, Rook knows that look. And with the side-eye she keeps giving Lucanis, Rook assumes it has to do with whatever they talked about earlier.

“Ah, thank you for the invitation,” Lucanis says diplomatically.

“You’re not really going to keep slumming it down here on 24th now that Neve’s helped you out, are you?” Harding asks over the rim of her pint glass.

It comes off as good-natured teasing, but there’s something sharp behind Harding’s words that punctures Rook’s light mood. Lucanis doesn’t visibly react. Maybe Rook is imagining things.

“I would hardly call 24th Street ‘slumming it,’” he says.

“Oh yeah? Where do you live?” Harding asks.

“The Market District.”

“Thought so,” Harding says smugly, taking another sip of her beer.

“Swanky,” Neve says.

Lucanis shifts a little bit in his seat. Barely enough to be noticeable, but the creak of the leather couch gives him away.

The Market District is the neighborhood where anyone young enough to care about what’s trendy and wealthy enough to afford an address with social clout lives. Rook went to a restaurant there once on a date, and afterwards she had to grab a slice at the pizza place below her apartment so she didn’t go to bed starving.

“Oh, Irelin goes to yoga somewhere up there!” Bellara says. “Yoga is great for stress relief, do you like yoga?”

“I—”

“So, you knit, you bake, you may or may not read smutty romance novels. Wholesome hobbies for a guy who lives in the Market District and works in finance.”

That edge to Harding’s voice is still there, masked by her sunny smile. Rook finally understands.

Harding doesn’t like him.

“Does anyone need another drink?” Rook asks a little louder than necessary, reaching for her empty soda glass.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever described me as wholesome,” Lucanis says. His knitting needles have lost their rhythm.

Why doesn’t Harding like him?

“I’ll go, Rook, I’m next up for customers anyway,” Harding says cheerfully. As she stands, she looks down at Lucanis. “How do people describe you, then? Because I’ve never met anyone who makes as much money as you do who isn’t at least a little bit evil.”

She says that last bit with a cute little squint, then walks away toward the bar without waiting for Lucanis to respond.

“What the—” Rook gapes after her. Evil? Really?

“Ignore Harding, she shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach,” Neve interrupts. Rook’s about to point out that Harding doesn’t drink, that was nonalcoholic beer, but Neve shoots Rook a we can all talk about this later look.

Lucanis is studiously focused on his knitting, and gives them a tight smile.

“I get it. And she’s not wrong.”

“I mean—” Rook starts before she even knows what she’s going to say, desperate to salvage the night.

“What is a hedge fund, anyway?” Bellara asks.

“It’s really not very interesting,” Lucanis says.

“But you like your job, right?”

“I…yes. I’m good at it.”

“Is it a family business?”

“Excuse me,” Lucanis says, standing abruptly. His knee smacks into the coffee table, and his coffee mug clatters to the floor. The handle snaps off.

“Oh no! Here, let me—” Bellara starts to untangle herself from her poncho.

“I’m closer,” Neve says, setting her wine glass down to scoot forward.

“I’ve got it,” Lucanis says. He bends to pick up the pieces of the mug, then jerks his hand back with a hiss.

“Did you cut yourself?” Rook asks, starting to stand.

Lucanis’s hand flies out, a barrier between himself and the three women. Blood drips down his thumb. “No, it’s fine! I’m fine.”

He turns and beelines for the bathroom, leaving Rook, Neve, and Bellara to stare at each other.

Rook moves first, rushing down the hallway to grab the first aid kit from the back room.

“Real nice, Harding,” Rook snaps as she passes the bar. Harding glares defensively at her, but her cheeks are bright red and she has the decency to look slightly ashamed.

Rook’s never seen Harding be that rude to someone she barely knows. Harding gets flustered if she forgets to hold the door for strangers! Sure, they routinely make fun of the hustle culture, seven figure salary, loafers with no socks, startup investor types who the city attracts like flies. But Lucanis has been nothing but kind. He made us fucking churros!

The Lighthouse has two single-occupancy bathrooms, and only one has the door closed when Rook returns to the hallway with the first aid kit. She can hear the faucet running. He’s probably rinsing off his cut.

Another minute passes. Rook half expects Lucanis to storm out of the bathroom and leave any second. If he was going to keep slumming it down here before, he definitely isn’t now.

Harding slinks past Rook to rejoin the others, mouthing an “I’m sorry, okay?” Rook waves her off with a roll of her eyes.

A couple more minutes pass.

Finally, Rook knocks on the door. “Lucanis? I have some bandaids.”

“Okay,” he says, his voice strained.

Maybe the cut’s deeper than it looked?

“Can I come in?”

There’s no answer, but after a second the lock unclicks and the door opens inward. This bathroom is painted dark blue, with glow in the dark stars stuck to the ceiling. Rook sees the sink with the faucet still running, the toilet beside it, and then, in the reflection of the mirror, Lucanis sitting with his knees drawn up on the floor behind the door.

Shit.

Rook wedges herself inside, closing the door behind her.

“Hey, are you okay?”

His arms are crossed over his knees with his forehead resting on them, and he’s trembling. Rook can see him trying to contain it, can see the rapid rise and fall of his breath in the hunched line of his back, can see that he’s clutching his elbows so tightly his knuckles are white.

He shakes his head without looking up. Not okay.

Rook’s fragile heart breaks.

“I’m going to sit next to you, okay?” she asks. When he doesn’t object, she sets the first aid kit on the sink ledge and settles down on the tiles beside him, her legs stretched out in front of her around the base of the toilet, her hands at her sides. So he can see her in his peripheral vision, so he knows where she is. The bathroom is pretty cramped, but she tries to make sure they’re not touching and he still has some space.

“You’re going to be all right,” Rook says softly. “I’m going to take some deep breaths, and I want you to try to follow along.”

And then Rook sits there, staring up at the constellations on the bathroom ceiling, slowly breathing in and out. The faucet keeps running. The phone in her back pocket vibrates with a text and she ignores it. She doesn’t let herself think about anything but counting inhales and exhales. Eventually, after what feels like ages but is probably only a few minutes, the sound of Lucanis’s short, gasping breaths starts to even out. They don’t match hers yet, but they’re getting there. Rook feels something brush against her hand, and she looks down.

Lucanis is holding her hand. Loosely, just barely letting his hand rest on top of hers. She laces their fingers together and gives a gentle squeeze, and he lets out a long, ragged sigh.

“Thank you.” His voice is hoarse.

“Panic attack?”

He nods.

Rook swallows the lump in her throat. “I got them a lot after…I was in an accident last year. It was pretty bad.”

He turns his head to look at her, with his cheek still resting on his other arm. His eyes are red and the circles beneath them are deep hollows. This close, she can see that his eyelashes are wet with unshed tears.

“I started having one at the Diamond, the other night. That’s why I left.”

“To get some air.” She quotes him.

“It usually helps. Well, getting mugged didn’t help. Coffee did, though.” He manages a weak smile. “This helped. Thank you.”

“Did Neve find anything out for you? About the mugger, I mean?”

His smile falls.

“It’s complicated.”

The period at the end of that statement is a hard stop.

Rook hasn’t actually talked to anyone about her accident. She’s talked around it, but words cannot adequately translate the experience of it, or the giant black hole that’s existed inside of her ever since. If Lucanis doesn’t want to talk about his mugging or whatever’s going on, she understands.

“Sorry about Harding. She was out of line.”

“I’m sorry about your mug.”

Rook already forgot that he broke one, and she lets out a surprised laugh.

“Oh, I get them from the thrift store, it was probably like $2. How’s your thumb?”

“I’ll live.”

“That’s good.”

“I hope no one else needed to use the bathroom.”

“Do you want to go back out there?”

“In a minute.”

They lapse back into silence, sitting there on the bathroom floor, and the solid weight of Lucanis’s hand in hers makes Rook feel more present than she has all night.

Chapter Text

Two weeks go by with no word from Lucanis.

“I still can’t believe you held hands.”

“He was having a panic attack.”

“It’s still sweet.” Neve smirks.

Rook is tempted to tilt the umbrella in her hand and let Neve get soaked by the cold February drizzle. But Neve is holding the Book Club flyers, so Rook musters up some rarely-used self-control and keeps the umbrella over both their heads.

Neve slaps a flyer against the telephone pole in front of them, next to the soggy, week-old flyer advertising the Lighthouse’s First Friday event, and Rook staples it on with the staple gun in her non-umbrella hand. Putting event flyers up around the neighborhood is only a two person job if it’s raining, which it usually is this time of year. Rook was happy to have company until Neve brought up Lucanis.

I was doing such a good job not thinking about him, too.

“Do you think the panic attack was from Harding being a jerk or Bellara bringing up his family?” Rook asks as they continue down the sidewalk to the next telephone pole.

She knows firsthand that panic attacks don’t need a logical trigger. It could have been anything. But Rook can’t help but feel like they all fucked up, somehow. Knitting Night was going well. That invisible weight on Lucanis’s shoulders seemed to be lifting. And then, well.

Rook reminds herself again, for the dozenth time, that she expected nothing less—Neve got him the information he wanted, and that was that. The late-January cold snap finally broke, so the heavy coat he gave her is tucked away in her hall closet, out of sight. And there have been a million minor emergencies since then, including when Bellara somehow locked herself out of the Lighthouse before opening, with her keys and phone still inside, and didn’t have anyone’s phone numbers memorized to call for help. Plenty of things to distract Rook from thinking about Lucanis’s sad brown eyes.

“I thought you said you didn’t want to dissect the whole thing?” Neve says.

“I don’t! I mean, I don’t know, you’re the one who brought it up in the first place.”

“Fine, I’ll bite. By ‘his family’ do you mean because his grandmother is in the hospital?”

“Yeah.”

“How much dirt do you actually want?” Neve asks.

“I don’t want to know all his deep dark secrets,”—yes I do—“I just want…your opinion. Not dirt,” Rook says.

“My opinion is informed by the dirt I dug up for him. And on him.”

“Oh come on, give me something.”

“All I’ll say is that he has a lot going on. Harding probably hit a nerve.” Neve stops walking, forcing Rook to stop too or leave her behind in the rain. There’s a forced casualness to her tone when she says, “You know Harding was just being over-protective, right? The last person you dated was a rich loner with control issues, and we all saw how that ended. I’m not saying you’re even interested in Lucanis, and I’m not saying he’s like Solas, but I can see how Harding made the leap.”

Rook stands there, listening to the staticky sound of the drizzle hitting the umbrella over their heads.

Oh.

“Yeah. She apologized. A lot.”

They move on to the next telephone pole and staple in silence.

“He seemed pretty upset after you two talked that night,” Rook says a minute later, because she doesn’t know when to let things go.

“I gave him information he didn’t want to hear.”

“About who mugged him?”

Neve sighs, and Rook can see her mentally calculating how much she can share without it counting as dirt. “It wasn’t random.”

“What do you mean?”

“The man who mugged him was also at the Cantori Diamond that night. I saw the stamp on his hand. And he left in a car.”

Rook’s steps slow. “Someone followed him from the Diamond? In a car? Why?”

Neve purses her lips and shrugs. Right. Dirt.

“He’s not a thing for you to fix, Rook,” she says lightly.

“Ha! Glad I’m not on flyer duty today,” a deep voice calls from across the street.

Rook and Neve look up to see Davrin jogging over to them with his border collie, Assan, on a leash. He’s wearing some kind of sporty, waterproof rain jacket and, despite his joke about flyer duty, looks perfectly content standing in the drizzle. Assan shakes some of the water off his fur, sending it flying onto Rook and Neve, and pants up at them happily.

“Assan, no,” Davrin says sternly, but Neve is already bending down to pet him.

“Why doesn’t Assan get a raincoat?”

“He had one, but he ate it. This is why you’re still in training, boy,” Davrin says to Assan, who’s ignoring him to flop over in a puddle and let Neve rub his belly.

“You just love making the Lighthouse smell like wet dog, don’t you?” Rook asks Assan. His tongue lolls out of his mouth.

Davrin is a Marine veteran who trains service animals during the week and works at the Lighthouse on Friday and Saturday nights. And goes to the gym regularly, and plays Monster Hunter obsessively enough to turn it into a semi-lucrative Twitch stream, and whittles amazing little wood carvings that are going to be for sale during First Friday tonight. Rook doesn’t think he believes in downtime. He gets more done in two days at the Lighthouse than Rook does all week.

“I brought towels, I’ll try to dry him off,” Davrin says with a sigh. “We better run, lots to do for tonight. Are we handing out free wine again?”

Shit, I knew I forgot to order something.

“Yeah, someone needs to go get a case of the cheap, shitty stuff before 5pm. We’ll figure it out, we should be done with flyers soon.”

They wave him off and carry on down the street. The drizzle is starting to let up, and Rook hopes it stops by the time First Friday festivities start. Most businesses in the neighborhood get in on the event in some way or another, showcasing work by local artists, offering cheap eats, doing raffles—anything to get people out and supporting the community. It’s always a fun night. So why am I not excited?

“I don’t try to fix people,” Rook says abruptly.

She can feel Neve’s sidelong glance without looking, and it feels judgy. “Remember that time I asked you to come hang out at the waterfront and skip stones, and the second I started bitching about Aelia you came up with five different plans to ruin her life?”

Aelia Vint was a city councilwoman who ran on a platform of bringing “traditional values” back to the city, and was so corrupt it practically circled back around into farce. It would almost have be funny, if she didn’t spend every second of her term actively making her constituents’ lives harder. Neve saw all of that first-hand in her P.I. work, helping people who city officials or cops wouldn’t help, and made it her mission to ensure Aelia only served one term.

“The plans started with ‘egging her house’ and ended with ‘seducing her and leaking a sex scandal about us so she’s forced to resign and flee the city in disgrace,’ yes I do remember that,” Rook says proudly.

Neve smiles and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I didn’t ask you for any of that. I just wanted to vent. You hate when your friends feel bad, and we love you for that, but you don’t always need to fix everything. Sometimes things are just shitty.”

Neve holds up another flyer and Rook staples it with a little more force than necessary.

“They shouldn’t have to be.”

“I know,” Neve says looping an arm around Rook’s shoulders under the umbrella.

“We did get Aelia voted out though, that fixed some stuff.”

“It did.”

“I just hope Lucanis is okay,” Rook says, and there’s this small, sad feeling in her chest, like a tiny rock is stuck deep inside of it. A tiny rock of sadness.

“Don’t lose sleep waiting for him to reach out. You can’t force people to do things they’re not ready to do.”

It’s not lost on Rook that Neve says this as they cut over a block to avoid Ritual Street.

Half an hour later, Rook opens the front door of the Lighthouse directly into a ladder with Davrin at the top.

“Whoa, watch it!” he says, gripping the ladder to steady himself.

“Maybe not the best place for this?” Neve says, scooting around the ladder to let herself fully inside.

“What are you even doing?” Rook asks.

“Taking down the Christmas decorations.”

A buzzing starts in Rook’s ears. She looks around and realizes he’s already halfway done. A pile of dusty tinsel and string lights sits on a nearby table like a deranged bird nest.

“What, why?” she asks, a little too sharply.

“I wanted to take them down right after New Year’s but you wouldn’t let me, remember?” he says impatiently. “You said it could wait until next month, and now it’s next month.”

“Right,” Rook says faintly.

That stupid tiny rock of sadness in her chest gets bigger, and she suddenly, forcefully knows she can’t be in this room right now.

She mumbles something about checking on Assan, and escapes to the back without waiting for any acknowledgement. There’s an old loveseat wedged against one wall of the back room where Rook has taken more naps than she can count, and Assan is sleeping there on top of some towels. The buzzing in her ears won’t go away.

Rook perches on the edge of the cushion next to Assan, breathing in wet dog, weaving her fingers through his damp fur. No one else is back here. It’s quiet, and her breath sounds too loud in her ears, but a snippet of conversation from the front still filters through.

“…her first Christmas without him, and he loved the holidays. You should have seen this place the year before last, he got a real tree and filled stockings for all the staff and set up one of those mini Christmas villages with fake snow and everything. It’s…she just needs time.”

“It’s been six months.”

“She needs time.”

Rook sinks lower on the couch. The buzzing in her ears gets loud enough that she can’t hear whatever Davrin says in response to that. Her throat gets tight and her eyes start to feel hot and prickly and—

Nope, fuck this.

Rook is on her feet before consciously even deciding to move, startling Assan awake.

“I’m going to get the wine!” she calls out the door to the hallway, shutting it quickly before Assan can make a break for the front. And then she heads out the back door into the alley so she doesn’t have to see Neve and Davrin making constipated “are you okay, Rook?” faces.

The errand doesn’t take as long as Rook hoped and she’s not ready to go back to the Lighthouse yet, so she decides to go home and shower and change. Then she can come back for First Friday looking like someone who has their shit together, even if she doesn’t feel like one.

Rook’s one-bedroom apartment is maybe twice the size of the Lighthouse’s back room, and that’s a generous estimate. It’s like the Lighthouse in a lot of ways—threadbare and homey. Well-loved. Cluttered with books she’s borrowed from Neve and never returned, plant cuttings Harding gave her to propagate, odds and ends from estate sale shopping with Bellara, who loves old junk. A cat tree from Davrin, which is the only sign a cat lives here because she spends most of her time hiding. Not much to show from Rook’s time on the east coast trying to make it as an artist after college didn’t work out. Considering she could only take what would fit in her car, not much survived the cut for her subsequent move out west.

In the shower, the lukewarm temperature and feeble water pressure don’t refresh Rook so much as make her feel vaguely clammy, but she likes the smell of her drug store conditioner and hey, maybe that counts as aromatherapy. She has the sudden impulse to go get Lucanis’s—no, her coat from the hall closet and bury her nose in it to see if it still smells like his cologne.

Stop, you’re never going to see him again, move on already.

Except…maybe she could get Lucanis’s phone number from Neve, and just text him. Neve said not to lose sleep over him not reaching out, she didn’t say anything about Rook reaching out. Just a quick check-in text, a little “hey hope you’re doing ok.” What’s the worst thing that happens? Well, the worst thing that happens is that Neve refuses to give Rook his phone number. But she can still ask.

I’ll ask.

Rook does the bare minimum to get ready to face the world again, but she also puts on lipstick because sometimes it tricks people into thinking she’s okay. People with tiny sad rocks inside them don’t put on lipstick, right? Right. No one will be the wiser.

She stares at her reflection in the mirror. Her roots are coming in, her eyebrows need a tweeze, and her smile is more like a grimace.

I don’t want to go. I want to stay home and not talk to anyone and lay on the couch watching Bravo for six to eight hours or however’s long enough for the cat to come out and grace me with her presence and share a bowl of cereal with me.

She puts food down for the cat on her way out.

It’s dark by the time Rook gets back to the Lighthouse, but the rain has stopped and people are already out for First Friday in enough force that she has to park a few blocks away.

Rook pauses outside the coffee bar, looking in. The windows are a little fogged up from the damp, and a hazy, golden glow spills out onto the sidewalk at her feet. It looks like Davrin strung some heart garlands across the ceiling while she was gone, in preparation for Valentine’s Day. She tells herself they look nice, because they do. But they’re a reminder that time is passing. Just like when she put the Christmas decorations up. Time is moving forward, and Rook doesn’t understand how it can be when she’s so stuck.

It’s not too late. I could just go home.

The crowd inside shifts as someone shuffles through on their way out the door, and Rook sees Lucanis.

She does a double take, like a goddamn cartoon character, but no, it’s him. He’s standing there inside, talking to Davrin. There’s a brown paper gift bag in his hand, and Rook wonders if he bought a carving. He’s dressed well, of course he is, and Rook suddenly, absurdly wishes she’d done more than the bare minimum.

The case of wine in her hands is getting heavy, so she forces herself to stop staring at Lucanis like a creep and go inside. She heads straight to the bar, setting the case down on the counter.

“Did you see—” Harding starts to say, looking up from the drink she’s pouring.

“I did see,” Rook cuts her off. “Are the little plastic wine cups in the back?”

“Yup. Are you—”

Rook flees to the back room for the second time that day, before Harding can ask whatever she was going to ask. She takes off her coat, suddenly too warm. Why is my heart beating so fast? The wine wasn’t that heavy. I’m in decent shape. Get it together, Rook.

It takes a lot less time than Rook hopes to rummage through the storage closet and find the plastic wine cups, even with Assan trying to help her. She stops for a second to smooth down her hair before returning to the front, then feels stupid, then gets mad at herself for feeling stupid, then pushes the door open before she can have any more feelings about her feelings.

“Oh, excuse me,” someone says as she barrels past him down the hallway.

Rook pulls up short. The lighting is different so it takes her a second, but she recognizes him.

“Illario Dellamorte,” he says, flashing two rows of very white teeth. “I think you might know my cousin.”

Oh right, Mr. Ponytail.

He’s undeniably good-looking, and it’s obvious he knows it. He’s got the smooth, dewy skin of a person who can afford regular facials and trips somewhere sunny during the winter. His hair is slicked back into a neat little bun instead of a ponytail tonight. It’s even shinier than Neve’s. He reminds Rook somehow of the fancy dogs at the dog show that airs at the same time as the Super Bowl.

“Rook. I was here the other night when you picked him up,” she says.

“It’s nice to meet you, Rook,” he says, moving closer into her personal space. “Lucanis speaks very highly of you.”

Rook leans back, but a blush creeps up her cheeks at the idea that Lucanis speaks of her at all. “What are, uh, what brings you all the way down here?”

“Ask him,” Illario says, looking over Rook’s shoulder and stepping away.

“Hello, Rook,” Lucanis says from behind her.

Rook turns in time to see Lucanis giving Illario an inscrutable look, before focusing his full attention on her. Those brown eyes she’s been busy not thinking about for two weeks straight are right in front of her, and they briefly settle on her lips—her lipstick—before flicking away.

“Hi, Lucanis.”

How are you? Are you doing okay? I hope you’re okay.

“Well, what are you waiting for? The sooner this is done, the sooner we can go to dinner,” Illario says impatiently.

“Right,” Lucanis says, and holds out the brown paper gift bag to Rook. “This, ah, this is for you.”

Rook takes the bag with a quizzical glance at Lucanis, who is now looking anywhere but at her. She reaches inside and pulls out not a carving, but a mug. It has a crab smoking cigarette on it, framed by the words “Life Is Relentless” in large black letters. There’s an orange $1.50 sticker on the bottom.

A guffawing laugh escapes Rook’s mouth and she claps her hand over it in embarrassed delight.

“This is amazing. Thank you? Why—“ she starts, but answers her own question. Because he broke one of her mugs.

Lucanis looks pleased and, Rook could be imagining it, a little relieved. The tips of his ears turn rosy.

“We had to go to three different thrift stores before he found this one,” Illario says, seeming genuinely perplexed. Rook gets the distinct feeling he’d never been in a thrift store before.

“Four,” Lucanis corrects him. “The Lighthouse mugs have a certain…”

“Tackiness, you can say it,” Rook says.

“I was going to say ‘charm.’”

“I told him to just order one from L’Objet, but what do I know?” Illario interjects. Rook has no idea what L’Objet is, but it sounds expensive.

“No, this is perfect,” Rook says, directly to Lucanis. That eye-crinkling smile appears on his face.

A bright, fizzing feeling fills Rook’s entire body, like she could float away, and she laughs again when she realizes. It’s happiness.

“Well, your persistence clearly paid off, cousin,” Illario says. “Pardon me, I’m going to get another drink.”

Rook and Lucanis watch him swagger—that’s how he walks, Rook doesn’t know how else to describe it—back down the hallway toward the bar, and they stand in comfortable silence for a moment.

“You really came all this way to give me a thrift store mug?” Rook asks, because right now it feels easier than asking how he’s been doing since they held hands two weeks ago on the floor of the bathroom ten feet away.

“I would have come sooner, but Illario wasn’t kidding, it took awhile to find the right mug.”

Rook mentally short circuits. He didn’t leave the Lighthouse behind after Neve’s manila folder and the Knitting Night disaster, after all. He was always going to come back.

“Well, you came on a good night. I saw you talking to Davrin, have you had a chance to look around at the art?”

“I have,” he says, looking toward the crowd mingling at the other end of the hallway. “You’re an artist, right? Are you selling anything?”

Rook’s arms start to cross instinctively and she forces herself to relax them. “No. I haven’t made anything in awhile. Well, there is one piece up, but it’s not for sale.”

“Will you show me?”

With a shrug, she leads him to the community bulletin board by the front door. Above the giant corkboard full of flyers, pamphlets, and business cards, is an oil painting of a lighthouse at night.

“It’s a little on the nose,” she says.

It’s dark, all prussian blue and burnt umber, with the lighthouse jutting up from a stark horizon. She’d been inspired by Caspar David Friedrich’s The Monk by the Sea. The landscape looks bleak and lonely, but the lighthouse is a beacon. A sanctuary.

It’s been hanging above the community bulletin board for years. It will never be for sale.

“It’s haunting, but hopeful,” he says after a few moments of consideration, looking to her. “Who’s that little figure there on the beach?”

The person standing on the beach is shadowed and featureless, so small they’re barely noticeable. But Lucanis noticed.

Rook shrugs again. “No one.”

The First Friday crowd ebbs and flows around them. There’s so much she wants to know about him—is his grandmother still in the hospital? Why would someone follow him from the Cantori Diamond and try to hurt him? Does he like yoga? Can he bake other things besides churros?—but she doesn’t want to ruin the moment. So they stand quietly for another minute, looking at the painting to avoid getting back to their respective lives.

Shoulder to shoulder with him, Rook can smell his cologne. Yep, aromatherapy.

“Oh, huh,” Lucanis breaks the silence, and for a crazy second Rook worries he just read her thoughts.

“What?”

“Your book club this month,” he points to the flyer on the bulletin board. The first one Rook stapled earlier this afternoon. “I’ve read that book.”

“Sorry, what? You’ve read—” She re-reads the title twice to make sure. “—Mistress of the Scarlet Moon?”

It’s Lucanis’s turn to shrug, unperturbed. “I never said I didn’t read smut. I thought this one was going to be more of a thriller, but it was overall pretty boring. I didn’t really enjoy it.”

“You have to come to Book Club.”

Chapter Text

Lucanis: Should I bring anything?

Rook: baked goods are traditional

Lucanis: Do you bake?

Rook: lol no thats what stores are for

They text now, Rook and Lucanis.

They’re people who text.

“Friends” feels too advanced for whatever this is, but the texting is frequent and delightful and Lucanis’s dry humor keeps catching Rook by surprise.

Lucanis: Not even something from a boxed mix? Children can make cookies from a boxed mix

Rook: children have adult supervision

Lucanis: I can’t believe I’m suggesting this but what about those presliced take and bake sugar cookies?

Rook: Bellara wont let me make them anymore

Lucanis: Don’t tell me you burned them. Or underbaked them?

Rook: yes

Lucanis: Yes to which one

Rook: both

Lucanis: …store-bought is great

That was yesterday. Now it’s Saturday, Book Club day, and Rook’s car won’t start.

Lucanis is picking her up.

Rook has been tearing around her apartment in pants and a bra for the last half hour trying to figure out what to wear. Saturday is usually her one day off, her one break from the Lighthouse, the only time she can pretend to have a life outside of it. But when Lucanis asked if she would also be attending Book Club before agreeing to come, she blurted out a yes without a second thought. So now she’s going to work on her day off. And she hates everything she owns.

Is her outfit panic partially fueled by a more all-consuming panic over why her car didn’t start when she went to get a bagel this morning and how much it will cost to get it fixed? Yes. Is trying to convince herself that’s a problem for Future Rook working even a little bit? No.

Rook doesn’t need a car to get to the Lighthouse, technically. She could walk or take the bus, those options just take about three times longer than driving. Harding and Neve will already be there after working the opening shift, and Bellara bikes everywhere. Davrin lives close enough that he doesn’t need to drive. Everyone else she knows well enough to bum a ride from lives out of the way, in the other direction. So she said fuck it, and asked Lucanis.

And now her doorbell is ringing.

“Fuck!”

Rook grabs a sweater, any sweater, and pulls it over her head so at least she’s no longer half-naked, then clomps over to the door with a boot on one foot and a sneaker on the other. She opens the door.

Lucanis stares at her, or not at her exactly, but at the space around her head. Her short, bleach-blond hair is definitely sticking up in a million different directions.

“Your neighbor let me up.”

“You’re early.”

“I can wait in the car, if you—”

“No, wow, I’m rude. Please come in and, uh, ignore all of the…everything…”

Lucanis enters Rook’s apartment. It’s impossible to ignore all of the everything, it’s like a tornado swept through and deposited the entire contents of her closet all over her living room and kitchen. And bathroom, not that he can see that.

Hopefully he doesn’t need to use the bathroom.

Rook tugs her brush out from between the couch cushions and quickly runs it through her hair, while Lucanis waits at the entrance to her living room with his hands in his pockets. She watches him look around her space, and wonders what blanks he’s filling in about her based on what he sees. His gaze lingers on the easel in the corner, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I’ll just be another second,” she says. He gives a patient nod.

Rook grabs a belt off the floor, determined to just throw on whatever’s within reach at this point so they can get going. When she lifts up her sweater to slide the belt through the loops in her black jeans, it exposes a sliver of her stomach. Lucanis catches the glimpse of bare skin and quickly glances away.

“This is a nice place,” he says, craning his neck a little to look into the tiny kitchen.

“Would you believe me if I said it’s not normally this messy?”

“No comment. Is that a Bodum French press? I have the same one.”

It’s a double-walled stainless steel press Solas got Rook for her birthday a couple years ago. She still thinks about throwing it away sometimes, like she did with everything else that reminded her of him.

“Really? You don’t have like a robot coffee butler or something?”

“Really. With coffee, I think simple is best. And I had to fire my robot coffee butler, he was stealing my fine china.”

His expression is solemn but there’s a twinkle in his eyes, like stars peeking out from behind a veil of clouds. She’s learning that he doesn’t actually take himself as seriously as she first thought—he just wants to be in on the joke, especially when it comes to their wildly different lifestyles. She smirks, and he smirks back.

Rook thought it would feel weird having Lucanis in her apartment after only a week of existing as text-acquaintances, like a really obvious game of “one of these things is not like the other,” but somehow he fits right in. He’s even dressed casual casual, not the business casual she’s accustomed to seeing him in.

“Is it rude if I say I didn’t think you owned jeans?”

“Why wouldn’t I own jeans? Everyone owns jeans.”

“Not nuns.”

“I think some nuns.”

“Cool nuns?”

“Yes, cool nuns.”

“Okay, is it rude if I ask how much your jeans cost?”

“Sort of, and a lot.”

“More than fifty dollars?”

He scoffs. An actual scoff comes out of his mouth. “Yes.”

“How much do think my jeans cost?”

A smile teases the corners of Lucanis’s mouth. He knows the question is a trap, but he’s going to play along anyway.

“…Fifty dollars?”

“Oh my god, this is like when Lucille Bluth didn’t know how much a banana costs, isn’t it?”

“Who?”

“Let me try again: this is like when Bill Gates didn’t know how much pizza rolls cost, isn’t it?”

“Are you saying I’m out of touch?”

Rook scoots past him to open her hall closet and get her denim jacket, which has been washed and no longer reeks of trash juice. She swears he makes a pleased little noise when she rifles past his old coat and he sees it hanging with the rest of her outerwear.

“I’m saying we should watch Arrested Development sometime. Come on, we’re going to be late and I need to make a pit stop.”

“Hold on, I might be out of touch but even I know people aren’t going out wearing two different shoes.”

Rook looks down.

“Oh, shit. Good catch. What do you think, sneakers or boots?”

“Boots.”

Rook hops on one foot to pull off her sneaker, and almost tips over into Lucanis. His hand shoots out immediately to steady her, warm and reassuring on her arm, before disappearing back into his pocket.

“Sorry, thanks,” she says with an awkward chuckle, and clomps back into the living room to find her other boot.

Rook is bent over rummaging under a pile of shirts when Lucanis says, “Oh, hello.”

When she whips around to make sure her ass isn’t hanging out or something, he’s crouched down with his hand outstretched. The cat has come out from wherever she was lurking to give him a tentative sniff.

Rook almost falls over again out of sheer disbelief.

“She never says hi to strangers. She barely even tolerates my presence.”

Lucanis calmly pets the cat’s mottled brown and black head, clearly unbothered by what a big deal this is.

“Cats like me. What’s her name?”

“Bianca.”

“A distinguished name for a distinguished cat. Hello, Bianca,” he says. The cat butts her head against his palm.

“I can’t take credit for it, I inherited her. From a friend.”

Something funny is happening in Rook’s heart seeing Lucanis with the cat. Like it’s breaking and getting stitched back together all at the same time.

“I have a cat. He’s only one and he’s already a little demon. His name is Spite.”

“Sounds accurate.”

“Too accurate.”

“Well, there’s a feral cat who lives by the dumpsters if you want to try charming him too, but he bites and I don’t think we have time to go to urgent care.”

And you remind me of him sometimes, but not in a bad way?

“Tempting, but I think I’ll pass.”

When Rook finally has a boot on each foot and makes her way back over to the hallway, Bianca flicks her tail up and saunters away to hide in one of her many nooks.

“Typical.”

They head downstairs and emerge into a midafternoon downpour. Rook’s street smells like ozone, wet concrete, and Italian food. She takes a hard left under the awning of the pizza place on the ground floor of her building.

“Pit stop, come on,” she says to Lucanis before heading inside.

“For pizza?” he asks, following behind her.

Walking into the pizza place, aptly named Pizza Stone, is like stepping into a time capsule. The decor hasn’t been updated since the late 90s, when the current owners bought the place from an old couple who finally decided to retire somewhere warm. The vinyl booths are ripped and patched in multiple places, the cracked linoleum floor is always sticky, and the walls are decorated in faded, water-stained scenes of the Italian countryside. There’s a jukebox in the corner that has never worked in all the years Rook has lived here. The whole place looks like a front for a much shadier business, and honestly it could be, but their pizza is decent enough.

More importantly, they have a shelf of grab and go desserts in their drink fridge.

Rook takes a plastic container from the fridge and heads to the register. The owner, Stalgard, has a barrel chest and a huge, dark blond beard, and Rook secretly thinks he was the frontman of a Viking metal band before he made the career change to pizza.

“You’re here for the special?” he asks, glancing between her and Lucanis and pointing at the paper sign taped to the counter. His accent is vaguely Eastern European but Rook has no idea where he’s actually from.

The sign on the counter says: “Valentine’s Day Lovebirds Special. 1 med pizza + 1 dessert + 2 drinks (no alcohol). $20. Good deal!” with a few poorly placed clip art pictures of hearts and pizzas.

Rook and Lucanis finish reading it at the same time. She can tell because his posture suddenly gets very rigid, like he’s fighting the same urge she has to shuffle away and put some physical space between them because she forgot it was Valentine’s Day and oh my god, Stalgard, seriously?

“No, we’re not, but thanks, Stalgard,” Rook says quickly. “Just this.”

“It’s a good deal,” Stalgard replies stubbornly.

“We have other plans,” Lucanis says, his face carefully blank.

“Fine, fine.”

Stalgard’s sister, Durra, bustles out from the kitchen in her usual chunky heels and high ponytail. There’s a cordless phone in her hand, because Pizza Stone only has a landline. No website, no online orders, no delivery apps. Again: super shady.

“Oh, hey Rookie,” she says to Rook as she crosses behind Stalgard. “You finally dating again? Lovebirds Special?”

“Nope, just friends!” Rook says. And suddenly saying it out loud makes it feel true, even though less than an hour ago she was deliberately thinking of Lucanis as an acquaintance. She refuses to look at him, because what if he’s making a politely horrified face at the idea of being called her friend, and why can’t this interaction just be over already? “Can I please pay you now?”

Durra squints skeptically at Rook, but remains blessedly silent. Stalgard finally lets her pay—cash only, of course—and Rook and Lucanis escape back out to the rainy sidewalk.

There’s a momentary pause, where Rook scrambles to think of something to say that will smooth over that entire interaction, but all she can come up with is:

“Tiramisu.” She holds up the plastic container, in case it wasn’t obvious. “My baked good contribution.”

“Ah,” Lucanis says, audibly relieved to be talking about desserts and not the Lovebirds Special. “You know tiramisu is easy to make. No baking required. And it has coffee in it.”

“Trust me, I’d still manage to screw it up somehow.”

“I could teach you,” he offers, then looks shocked that those words came out of his own mouth.

“Okay,” Rook agrees before he can get too flustered and take it back.

“Okay,” he says with a nod, and that settles that. “I’m parked just down there.”

Even though Rook knows less than nothing about cars, Lucanis’s car is still exactly what she thought it would be: a black, nondescript luxury sedan with faintly tinted windows. Inside, it has leather seats that are probably heated, a push-button starter, and a spaceship’s worth of bells and whistles. Whereas Rook’s car has manual locks, a CD player with a Wilson Phillips CD stuck in it that won’t play anyway, and a garbage can’s worth of trash on the floor.

“Thanks again for the ride.”

“Do you know what’s wrong with your car yet?”

“No, Bellara said she’d check it out tomorrow.”

“Bellara, really?”

“Yeah, she likes fixing things. She changed my oil last year.”

“If you need a good mechanic, I know—”

“No offense, but I really doubt I can afford your mechanic.”

Before Lucanis can either walk that one back or double down, the car’s touchscreen lights up and music automatically turns on.

He was a skater boy
She said, "See you later, boy"
He wasn't good enough for her

Lucanis jabs the mute button, his face frozen in alarm. Like Rook is a T-Rex, and if he can just stay still and quiet enough, she won’t notice that “Sk8r Boi” was just playing on his bluetooth stereo. Rook grins a T-Rex grin.

“Avril Lavigne, huh?”

Lucanis clears his throat and gives her a sideways glance. “I find pop music to be calming in stressful situations.”

Shit, wait, is this a stressful situation? Is he nervous Harding is going to be a dick again? Is he nervous about me?

“No, I get it. And early aughts pop is some of the best pop. I just thought you listened to like…jazz or something, I don’t know.”

“If I tell you the name of my Spotify daylist right now will you promise not to laugh?” he says with utter seriousness.

Oh god yes, how bad can it be?

“I promise.”

He takes his phone out of his pocket and reads: “Bubblegrunge 1900s Sunshine Saturday Afternoon.”

It takes all of Rook’s willpower to keep her promise, because hearing those words in association with the man sitting next to her is the silliest thing that’s happened to her all day.

“Amazing. This is like a secret window into your soul and I love it,” she gushes, and Lucanis’s cheeks immediately turn bright red. He is very obviously dying a little bit inside. “Would it make you feel better if I told you mine?”

“Yes.”

She checks her phone.

“Black Cat Adolescent Angst.”

His eyebrows raise thoughtfully. The blush is really making his cheekbones stand out. He has really nice cheekbones.

“That does seem fitting. What’s on it?”

“Mostly a lot of Mannequin Pussy.”

He blinks. “Sounds angsty?”

“More like angry. But it also helps me de-stress.”

They listen to a couple Mannequin Pussy songs on the way to the Lighthouse. Lucanis seems surprisingly into it—and surprised that he’s into it—and the drive goes by fast, even with Saturday afternoon traffic.

“You ready for this?” Rook asks Lucanis after they park, pausing with her hand on the car door handle. She’s also asking herself, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“It’s a book club, how ready do I need to be?” he jokes, but Rook can hear the undercurrent of stress now. The stress is there. They should have kept Avril Lavigne on.

“I don’t know if you remember, but the last time you hung out with me, Harding, Neve, and Bellara, it did not end well.”

Lucanis shoots her a flat stare.

“For real, you can bail anytime,” Rook says firmly, staring back. “But for what it’s worth, I’m happy you’re here.”

His dark eyes search her face for a few seconds, like he’s trying to catch her in a lie, before he breaks eye contact and opens his car door. “Come on.”

The Lighthouse is even more decked out for Valentine’s Day than when Rook left yesterday afternoon. The heart garlands Davrin hung up last week are now accompanied by handmade candy heart cutouts that say things like “yes chef,” “ur hot,” “be gay,” and “do crime.” The front of the bar is covered in red and pink paper chains, and each table has an honest to god lace doily and mug of carnations on it.

And for some added cognitive dissonance, the music blaring over the speakers sounds like Stalgard’s hypothetical Viking metal band but whinier.

“Taash, what did I say about playing screamo before 7pm?” Rook shouts over the music, abandoning Lucanis by the door so she can go turn the volume down.

“It was Davrin’s idea,” Taash says from behind the bar where they’re making a batch of pink cold foam.

“Like hell it was!” Davrin says, glaring up at them.

Taash has only been working at the Lighthouse for a few months, ever since Harding and Rook met them at the Viper’s Nest’s Annual Halloween Queeraoke Party. They were introduced by Isabela, of all people, who Rook later found out had taken Taash under her wing at the IT firm where they both work. Their costume that night involved lots of leather and a pair of plastic horns that added a foot to their already intimidating height, and when their turn for karaoke was up, they sang “Living Dead Girl” by Rob Zombie. Harding was instantly smitten. By the end of the night, Rook talked them into working weekends at the Lighthouse as a way to save up money for their real passion, which involves the words “volcano surfing.”

“Harding, you’re supposed to be a good influence on them,” Rook says over her shoulder, to where she thought Harding was standing by the couches. But Harding is now over by the door, talking to Lucanis.

“Hey, I’m off the clock,” Harding says with a shrug, then resumes her conversation.

Lucanis is looking at Harding a little warily, but nods a few times to whatever she’s saying. He glances up at Rook and smiles.

Oh god, Harding being nice to Lucanis might be even worse than her being mean. Please don’t be talking about me. No, calm down, she’s probably just apologizing.

“What are you doing here? You don’t work today,” Taash says with their usual bluntness.

“Are you mad I caught you breaking the screamo rule?”

“Nah, there’s plenty of worse shit we could’ve been doing.”

Rook is now imagining Taash and Davrin throwing raves and having wrestling contests every Saturday night. Or bench-pressing customers. She knows the two of them have become gym bros. Rook has never seen Taash wear a shirt with sleeves, and hell, if she had muscles like that, she wouldn’t either.

“No there’s not,” Davrin interjects. “We don’t get up to any shit.”

“What do you call all this shit, which I actually really love?” Rook says, gesturing at all the decorations.

“It was a slow night. I made that one for you,” Davrin says, pointing to a candy heart that says “disaster bi.”

“Hilarious.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Taash says. “What’s up?”

“I’m just here for Book Club,” Rook answers with what she hopes sounds like nonchalance.

“Really? You never go to Book Club,” Davrin says, seeing right through her.

Rook is feeling distinctly ganged up on.

“Well, I’m going today.”

“Is it because of that guy you’re with? Is that the guy who got mugged in the alley last month?” Taash asks, looking over Rook’s head at Lucanis, who is now sitting down next to Harding and putting his baked good contribution on the coffee table.

“That’s who that is? He was here on First Friday. Didn’t buy anything…” Davrin says, his eyes narrowing.

“Yes, his name is Lucanis, he’s a friend, I guess, and I just need you both to be normal, please.”

Davrin just rolls his eyes. “I’m the most normal person here.”

“Come on, we’re starting!” Bellara scampers by down the hallway with a plate of cookie bars in her hands.

“Lucanis, what are you drinking? Coffee? Wine?” Rook calls over.

“Coffee’s good.”

Rook grabs a cup of coffee for Lucanis—in his “Life Is Relentless” mug—and a glass of wine for herself. She has a feeling she’s going to need it to get through the next two hours.

Lucanis gratefully accepts his coffee, and gives her a lopsided grin when he notices what mug it’s in. She sits next to him, with Harding on his other side. Neve, Bellara, and Emmrich share the other couch. Lucanis has met everyone except Emmrich, so introductions are brief.

“Lovely to meet you, Lucanis. And so wonderful to have you back at Book Club, Rook!” Emmrich says, beaming over at her.

Emmrich is a professor at the university where Bellara’s getting her PhD. They immediately hit it off after being introduced by his husband, Strife, who is also Bellara’s thesis advisor, even though she’s more applied sciences and he’s a bigwig in the clinical psychology department. He’s taken to grading papers and reviewing coursework at the Lighthouse in the evenings, and will distract Bellara for half her shift if they really get to talking. Taash once told him that he looks like if Vincent Price and Mister Rogers had a tall, lanky baby, and he took it as the utmost compliment.

“It’s nice to be back,” Rook says. She’s not sure if she means it yet, but it’s hard not to appreciate Emmrich’s warm welcome.

“You don’t usually attend?” Lucanis asks her.

“I haven’t in awhile,” Rook says.

In six months, to be exact.

“Is this everyone then? Forgive me, but I’m beginning to think the Lighthouse’s clubs are just an excuse for the employees to hang out together,” Lucanis says, which gets a chuckle out of everyone.

“Flynn is on call at the hospital, Holden caught whatever flu is going around Mila’s school, and Irelin isn’t talking to me right now,” Bellara says that last part in a murmured rush.

“What, why?” Neve demands.

Bellara hunches over the book in her lap with a miserable pout. “I don’t know! I mean, I might have told her that she was too judgmental and that’s why she has trouble forming real attachments with people, including me.”

“Why on earth would you do that?” Neve asks.

“Right before Valentine’s Day?” Harding adds, aghast.

“I thought you were trying to get back together with her,” Rook says.

“Oh, Bellara,” Emmrich winces.

“You told me I should share my feelings with her!” Bellara says to Emmrich.

“Perhaps not in those exact words.”

“Wait, before we get too off track,” Harding loudly interrupts. “I picked this month’s book so I’m running today’s meeting, and we have a lot of ground to cover!”

She holds up a bullet-pointed list as proof.

“We always get off track,” Rook whispers to Lucanis, who hides a smirk behind his coffee mug.

“Always?” he whispers back.

“Just watch.”

“I’m so excited to jump in, Harding, but first can everyone share what they brought to eat and whether it has any peanuts or gluten in it?” Emmrich says, right on cue. “I promised Manny I’d bring something home for him, and he won’t like anything from the restaurant Strife and I are going to for dinner later.”

Emmrich’s son, Manny, is allergic to all the usual things a kid can be allergic to, and then some. Everyone at Book Club knows this, and at least two people always make something he can eat without going into anaphylaxis, but Emmrich is a dutiful parent and always double checks.

Rook’s tiramisu doesn’t pass the test and neither do Neve’s store-bought cupcakes, but Harding brought a giant bag of Skittles, Bellara made the Manny-approved magic cookie bars she makes for every Book Club meeting, and Lucanis’s amaretti cookies are also deemed safe.

“Homemade, I’m assuming?” Rook says, biting into an amaretti. Amaretto? They’re delicious, intensely almondy, crisp on the outside and soft on the inside.

“I’m offended you’re even asking at this point.”

“Okay, let’s kick things off with the traditional quote from our club’s founder,” Harding says, raising her glass. “‘There's power in stories, even smutty ones.’”

Rook takes a big gulp of wine. You’re fine.

“Hear, hear,” Emmrich says reverently. They all toast. Rook gets to it a second late, but she gets to it.

“This month we read Mistress of the Scarlet Moon by Irian Cestes, and I just want to start off by saying that they got all the camping scenes completely wrong.”

“That’s what’s most important to you?” Neve asks.

“There was a lot of camping!”

And off they go. Rook tunes out for a little bit. With Lucanis quietly sipping his coffee next to her, it’s easier to ignore the empty armchair between the two couches. She doesn’t have to think about who used to sit in it. Probably if they weren’t down three people today, it wouldn’t even be empty. It wouldn’t be noticeable at all.

Rook tunes back in before her thoughts can spiral too hard in that direction. She didn’t actually read the whole book, but the plot is straightforward enough. A city girl hot-shot investment banker goes on a work retreat upstate, gets bitten by a sexy werewolf, and has to figure out how to break her werewolf curse—and quell her growing lust for the werewolf who bit her—before the blood moon, or…something bad will happen, presumably.

Harding starts demonstrating the correct way to tie food up in the wilderness, because the way the characters did it in the book would have gotten them all eaten by bears, apparently, and in her enthusiasm she almost falls off the couch into the baked goods. Neve catches her.

“Okay, but they did talk about food a lot, and it did kind of make me hungry,” Neve says, in a halfhearted attempt to bring the discussion back to the book. She grabs another cupcake after getting Harding back on her feet.

“Does it count as cannibalism if you’re technically a wolf when you eat someone?” Bellara asks.

“They address that exact question in chapter fifteen—wait, did you even finish the book?” Harding demands.

“Um, I had to return my copy to the library when I was about halfway through,” Bellara admits. “But Emmrich told me what happens! And I knew Elle was going to realize she wanted to stay a werewolf and be with Bridget instead of going back to her stressful job in the city, I totally called it.”

“That part did feel accurate,” Lucanis speaks up for the first time. “I don’t know that being a werewolf would actually be less stressful than being an investment banker, but the investment bankers I know are generally miserable.”

“What an interesting insight!” Emmrich says.

“Okay, group poll, would you rather be a werewolf or an investment banker? I think werewolf,” Rook says.

“Investment banker is much more practical,” Emmrich says. “Also, I’m a vegetarian.”

“Werewolf,” Harding and Bellara say in unison.

“How do the werewolves make money though? This is still the real world and you still need to buy stuff. I’m leaning banker,” Neve says.

“A year ago I would have said banker,” Lucanis says, holding his mug between both hands. “But after spending some time away from that world, I like to think I’m gaining some perspective. Werewolves and investment bankers are both monsters, but at least werewolves are honest about it.”

The way he says the word “monsters” sticks in Rook’s brain. Does he think of himself as a monster?

“Were you on a sabbatical?” Emmrich asks. “I find sabbaticals so necessary in my line of work, and I imagine it’s even easier to get burnt out in finance. Such a cutthroat business!”

“Something like that.”

“So, team werewolf then?” Rook asks.

“Team werewolf,” Lucanis says with a nod, his brow slightly furrowed.

“Well, it’s an even split, we need a tiebreaker vote,” she says.

“Davrin, Taash, would you rather be a banker or a werewolf?” Bellara yells across the room.

“If they each vote for a different one, it won’t break the—” Neve starts.

“Werewolf,” Davrin says immediately.

“Duh,” Taash agrees.

“Werewolf wins!” Harding pumps her fist.

“Now, can we talk about the absolutely ludicrous number of sing-a-longs at Elle’s retreat…” Emmrich starts.

A couple hours later, Rook and Lucanis are back in his car, driving to Rook’s through the rainy half-light of dusk. The stereo is off. The tail lights of the car in front of them cast a smudged, red glow across the windshield. The seats in Lucanis’s car are in fact heated, and Rook is warm, full of cookies, and a little buzzed after drinking a second glass of wine.

“That was actually very fun,” Lucanis says.

“It really kind of was,” Rook agrees. “I can’t believe you won the dice roll to pick the next book. Do you have any ideas?”

“A few.” He doesn’t elaborate further.

“Fine, keep your secrets. You have to tell us before Monday though.”

“Are you going to go next month?” he asks, his tone gently curious.

Rook stills. “Oh. Yeah, I mean I think so. Like you said, today was fun.”

“Is there a reason you haven’t gone in awhile?”

“There…is.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

A pause. “Did you go today just so I would come?”

Rook feels a flush creeping up her neck and hopes the red glow of the tail lights hides it. “I would’ve felt a little bad, inviting you and then leaving you to those maniacs.”

He huffs out the barest hint of a laugh. “Rook, I know you’ve seen me…not at my best, but I’m not some fragile little flower.”

“I know. I mean, I don’t think you are. Fragile.”

They pull up in front of Rook’s apartment, and Rook’s heart sinks at the sudden realization that the day is basically over. She’ll go upstairs, eat some boxed mac and cheese, stare at her sketchbook full of crows, watch another episode of a cult documentary show instead of painting anything, and fall asleep. And Lucanis will do the same, or similar, probably without the boxed mac and cheese, and there's still so much she doesn't know about him.

“Were you really on a sabbatical last year?”

Lucanis exhales through his nose. “No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, fully expecting another no.

There’s a long stretch of silence where she doesn’t think he’s going to answer her at all. The lights from passing cars shift across his shadowed, hawkish profile as he stares ahead. The seconds tick by. Rook takes the hint and starts to reach for her car door.

“I was hospitalized. Twice.”

Rook’s hand drops. “Are you sick?”

He shakes his head.

“I’ve been on antidepressants since I was a teenager. They were working. They’d been working for twenty years. Then last year, things got…a lot worse. Work got a lot worse. The panic attacks started. And my meds weren’t helping anymore.”

“Lucanis...”

“The second time I got out of the hospital—the psych ward—was in the beginning of January.”

Only to find out his grandmother was in a coma. Fucking hell.

“Illario doesn’t want me back at work,” he continues with a bitter fondness. “He’s worried about me. Barely lets me do anything alone. But that’s family, right?”

“Sounds right. The Lighthouse crew is my family, and I think they worry about me constantly,” Rook says quietly. “It’s good you’ve got Illario looking out for you.”

“He’s sort of all I have at this point.”

“You have me.”

Lucanis finally looks over at her. A complicated series of emotions flashes across his face, too quick to decipher, but he manages half a smile. “Thank you, Rook.”

“Will you text me when you get home?”

“I will.”

“Night, Lucanis.”

Rook leaves the warm confines of Lucanis’s car and crosses the sidewalk into her apartment.

Twenty-three minutes later, while she’s pouring the pasta into boiling water for her boxed mac and cheese, she gets a text:

Lucanis: Home. Thanks again, Rook.

Rook: have you watched that new cult documentary on netflix?

Lucanis: No, is it good?

Rook: it’s super fucked up. you wanna text watch the first episode together? i’ll start it over

Lucanis: Sounds perfect, give me ten minutes

Rook: oh and the opening credits song is by Avril Lavigne

Lucanis: Low blow

Rook: i’m going to change your name in my contacts to Bubblegrunge

Lucanis: I regret everything

Rook: no you dont

Lucanis: No, I don’t

Chapter Text

True to his word, Lucanis is teaching Rook how to make tiramisu.

At his apartment.

Her kitchen was deemed too small for a cooking lesson, and also she sometimes uses her oven as an extra dresser. Not that they need an oven to make tiramisu, that’s kind of the whole point, but Lucanis seemed to object on principle.

Rook stares out the bus window, pop music blaring in her headphones. She’s been listening to pop music all week, no reason, just because. It’s definitely making the forty-five minute bus ride to the Market District more bearable. But being crammed on a completely packed bus that reeks of perfume and farts is worth it if she gets to eat homemade tiramisu and hang out with Lucanis.

Riding through his neighborhood on a Saturday afternoon is surreal, sort of like landing on an alien planet. Everyone here looks like the “after” picture in a glow up montage.

Case in point, Rook has seen three separate groups of women sitting in the windows of three separate bars who all have salon-fresh blow outs, which has to be statistically impossible, but how else does their hair look so great?

And there are so many men in loafers, just loafers as far as the eye can see.

All of these people could, without a doubt, pay the $650 to replace Rook’s alternator with the money that’s already in their wallets.

That guy probably paid $650 for a bottle of wine with his brunch this morning and didn’t bat an eyelash.

As Rook steps off the bus a few blocks from the address Lucanis texted her last night, flurries begin to fall. It’s cold again, hopefully the last cold snap before spring finally arrives, and she’s wearing Lucanis’s old coat. She wraps it around herself like armor, like camouflage, secretly hoping it helps her blend in a little with all the stunning locals who look like they just wandered out of a designer fragrance ad. Even the bus stops here are upscale, with actual bus shelters and benches and LED signs displaying wait times. The stop by Rook’s apartment is just a single sign post with the bus number and an outdated schedule on it.

She heads down the sidewalk toward Lucanis’s place, the flurries swirling around her feet. There are no flyers stapled to the telephone poles here, no tags spray painted on the mailboxes, no random stickers on the backs of the street signs. It’s hard to believe this is the same city she lives in.

Her phone buzzes.

Harding: text me when you get there and when you leave ok?

Rook: ok mom

Harding: :P

Harding did apologize to Lucanis at Book Club last week, and told Rook that Lucanis “seems okay, actually.” Not the most ringing endorsement, but she’s trying. It probably doesn’t hurt that he brought more churros by the Lighthouse a few days ago.

Lucanis’s high-rise apartment building has a doorman, which Rook has only ever seen in movies and didn’t expect to ever encounter in real life. It’s like checking into a very modern, minimalist hotel. With a fountain in the lobby. She tells him who she’s here to see and gives him her name, and he makes a call.

“Afternoon, Mr. Dellamorte. I’ve got a Rook—” An attentive pause. “Yes, sir. Very good, sir.”

The doorman gives her a curious smile and nods towards the elevator across the lobby. “Not often Mr. Dellamorte receives guests. You can go on up.”

There’s a recessed chandelier inside the elevator and an abstract metal sculpture hanging on the wall, which feels like decorative overkill. The hallway Rook steps out into has white marble floors, more recessed lighting, and black leather benches staged at various intervals.

In case anyone gets tired walking from their luxury car to their luxury home, I guess?

“Where am I?” she mutters out loud to herself.

She texts Harding a picture of the hallway as she sets off to find Lucanis’s apartment number.

Harding: real american psycho vibes

Harding: don’t get murdered

Rook: lol no promises

After getting turned around a few times, Rook finally stands outside Lucanis’s door. Now that she’s come all this way, she’s paralyzed by a sudden, giddy sense that she should just turn around and go home. She doesn’t belong here. Lucanis is going to take one look at her and realize their friendship only works within the very safe, very specific parameters of the Lighthouse.

Oh, fuck it.

Rook knocks.

The door opens almost immediately.

“Hello, Rook,” Lucanis says.

The sight of his crooked smile sends Rook’s paralysis whooshing away. She’s already smiling back.

“Hi. Harding says you’re not allowed to murder me.”

“Well there goes the evening’s entertainment,” he says ruefully. “We’ll have to play Pictionary instead.”

“Please, I would crush you at Pictionary.”

Lucanis’s apartment is enormous, but still smaller than Rook thought it would be. It’s open concept, which isn’t surprising, and the floor to ceiling windows offer a gorgeous view of the snow now falling gently over the city. It’s very clean, but in a lived in way, not like he tidied up specifically for company. It’s also cozy, which is surprising. The walls are a warm, dark grey and the parquet floors are covered in what are probably real antique Persian rugs, the family heirloom kind. There’s a fireplace. Loads of bookshelves. Interesting art on the walls. Not a ton of knickknacks, but he doesn’t seem like a knickknack kind of guy.

“Can I take your coat?”

“You sure you don’t want it back? Now would be the time,” she jokes as she hands it over.

He gives her an exasperated stare and hangs the coat in a closet whose door is flush with the wall and seems to materialize out of nowhere.

Rook follows him to the kitchen, which is easily as big as her entire apartment.

“Okay, fine, I can see why we’re using your kitch—ahh!”

A small black cat streaks across the floor right in front of Rook’s feet, almost tripping her, and disappears under the couch.

“I’m guessing that was Spite?”

“Sorry, he’ll probably do that at least five more times,” Lucanis says with a sigh. “Consider yourself warned.”

He opens a drawer full of neatly folded dish towels and takes out two aprons. He hands one to Rook, who has never owned an apron in her life and eyes it dubiously. His house, his rules, I guess.

Then she sees Lucanis tie his apron behind his back and roll up the sleeves of his sweater, and something about the sight of his exposed forearms suddenly makes aprons seem like a great idea, actually. His forearms are lightly muscled and dusted with dark hair and…distracting.

“So, tiramisu,” he says, snapping Rook’s attention back into focus.

She scrambles to put on her apron and push up her own sleeves.

“First step, we make the coffee. It needs to cool a little bit before we can use it,” he says. “Do you want a cup for yourself? Or I have sparkling water, wine—”

“Coffee’s fine.”

He does in fact have the same French press as Rook, but he also has a gorgeous stainless steel Lelit espresso machine with wooden accents that Rook knows for a fact costs thousands of dollars.

“Holy shit, I might steal this.”

“It’s pretty heavy, I don’t know how far you’d get.”

“The adrenaline rush would power me through it, like when a mom lifts up a car to save her baby.”

He opens up a vacuum sealed container of coffee beans and grabs a scale.

“So in this analogy, you’re the mom, the espresso machine is your baby, and I’m…the car?”

Rook thinks about it for a second. “No, I think the espresso machine is the car. And also the baby?”

“And I’m just an innocent bystander?”

“Well I’m stealing your baby, so maybe not.”

“The espresso machine is our baby?”

“I don’t know! Whatever, I think I could steal it even without the adrenaline, I’m pretty strong. Have you ever changed a keg? That shit is no joke.” Rook knows she’s babbling at this point. Also blushing. Already.

Lucanis looks up from the coffee beans he’s grinding. His gaze gets stuck on her arms for a second before finding its way to her face. The forearm appreciation is mutual?

“I like your tattoos,” he says.

Oh.

There are a lot. A chess piece, a crumpled playing card, a few birds, a crossbow. A dragon, an hourglass, a plant with clumps of dirt hanging from the roots. More hidden under the rest of her shirt, and elsewhere on her body. One of the birds near her elbow is bisected by a long, jagged scar.

“Thanks,” she says. “Do you have any? And should I be helping with something?”

“No, and no, not yet. Do they mean anything?”

“Some do.”

Rook doesn’t elaborate, and Lucanis doesn’t press. She likes that about him.

After another minute, the rich, nutty scent of espresso fills the kitchen. He adds the espresso and some hot water to a plain, white mug and passes it to Rook. She takes a sip and can’t help the little hum of pleasure that comes out of her mouth.

“This is a fucking good cup of coffee, Lucanis. If you ever need a fallback career, you’re hired at the Lighthouse.”

“Ha, good to know.” His ears turn a little pink. “There’s milk in the fridge and sugar over there if you need it.”

It’s a relief that he’s letting her poke around and find things. Easier than him being overly attentive. It already feels easy just being here, in his apartment.

“I like to add a little Marsala wine to the coffee to enhance the flavor of the tiramisu, but you don’t have to,” he says, measuring out a few tablespoons into the cup of espresso he has set aside.

Rook has only heard of Marsala wine because of the time her liquor distributor sent her a bottle instead of the vermouth she’d actually ordered. She gave it to Emmrich.

“Mmhmm, sure. Should I be taking notes?”

“I already printed you a copy of the recipe,” Lucanis says without missing a beat, and Rook realizes that this is him in his element. Calm, competent, in control. It’s impressive. “Have you ever separated egg whites from the yolks? I’m not trying to be condescending, I promise, I just don’t want to make assumptions about your skill level in the kitchen.”

“Assume I know nothing,” she answers with a laugh. “I sometimes watch Top Chef when I’m stoned, but I have picked up zero tips.”

He demonstrates how to crack an egg and gently swap the yolk between the two halves to let the egg white goop fall out into the bowl below. Rook separates the other three eggs, less gracefully but without any major mishaps, while he gets out a stand mixer. She doesn’t let herself look at his forearms when he lifts it onto the counter.

“You’re good at this, why don’t you cook more?” he asks.

Rook shrugs, wiping egg goop off on her apron. “I grew up in a Hamburger Helper household, and I guess I just never cared enough to learn after I moved out. Where’d you learn to cook?”

“We had a household staff growing up, which included a private chef. I liked to help in the kitchen, and the chef very kindly obliged me.”

A private chef, I should have guessed.

“I bet you were a good student.”

“Always have been. Now we’re going to whip the egg whites until they’re stiff.”

Rook mentally congratulates herself for resisting the urge to snicker like a thirteen year old boy when he says “stiff,” the way she would with Harding or Taash or literally anyone who isn’t Lucanis. We’re not there yet.

“So, neither of our parents really cooked when we were kids,” she says instead. “Something else we have in common besides panic attacks and a caffeine addiction.”

Lucanis huffs out a little laugh. He watches the stand mixer like he’s considering his next words carefully. “Caterina, my grandmother, raised me. And Illario. Both of our parents died when we were young. And before you say anything, it’s okay, it was a long time ago.”

“Oh god, still. I’m sorry, Lucanis.”

His grandmother—who raised him—has been in the hospital for over a month and he was hospitalized himself right before that. No wonder Illario is being overprotective, good lord.

His shoulder lifts in a dismissive shrug. “Like I said, it was a long time ago. But my grandmother definitely does not cook, never has. Okay, now scrape the egg whites into this bowl and put it in the fridge, please.”

Rook obliges, grateful to be given something else to do. The quick glimpse into his fridge reveals a lot of vegetables, wine, and condiments in fancy jars that probably aren’t even expired.

“Next, we beat together the yolks with some sugar, just for a few minutes until it looks smooth. Can I ask what your parents are like?”

Rook takes another sip of her coffee to avoid answering for a second. It’s always hard to tell how this particular hurdle of getting to know someone is going to go.

“I was adopted, actually. I don’t know anything about my birth parents, but my adoptive parents were both in the military, so we moved around a lot when I was a kid. They’re retired now. We, uh, I haven’t talked to them in a little over a decade.”

Lucanis’s eyes fix on her, wide with surprise or disbelief. “That’s a long time.”

“Do you really want to hear this story?”

“Only if you want to tell it.”

Rook has said these words enough times over the years, to Harding, to Neve, to everyone she’s close to, that it doesn’t feel as personal anymore. She has distance, now. “They’re very traditional. Southern, religious, you get the idea. I was supposed to go to OCS—Officer Candidate School—after college, follow in their footsteps. When they found out I switched my major to art halfway through my freshman year, they flipped out. Said they wouldn’t help with any of my financial aid the next year if I didn’t stick to their plan, which meant I would have either gotten screwed on my FAFSA or had to take out a ton of private loans. So I dropped out. That obviously didn’t go over well, there were a lot of ultimatums issued. I left and never went home again.”

He’s quiet for a moment, his brown eyes searching hers.

“So when you said the Lighthouse crew is your family...”

“I meant it. It’s fine, though,” she says with a big silly smile to break some of the tension. “Look at us, we’re both fine.”

His expression is wistful. “You were braver than I was. My grandmother always had a plan for me, and impossible standards to go along with it. When she said jump, I asked how high. I still do.”

“Do you regret it?”

“No,” he says simply.

He opens a container of mascarpone cheese, and Spite appears on the counter out of nowhere to investigate.

“Get down!” Lucanis commands, shooing the cat off the counter. Spite weaves between his ankles and yells a couple times. “No, we’ve talked about this. Dairy makes you throw up.”

“Is Spite an IBS girlie?” Rook asks, as the cat gives up and sprints away.

“I think he just does it for attention.”

Rook watches Lucanis mix the mascarpone into the egg yolk and sugar mixture. Like with knitting, with separating the eggs, with every task she’s seen him do, his movements are confident and precise.

Panic attacks must be extra hard when you’re so used to being in control.

“What’s next? This is already a lot of steps.”

“Four steps is not a lot of steps.”

“Says you.”

Lucanis rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Now that the mascarpone is mixed in, we add the egg whites back.”

This part is done by hand, without the mixer, and he watches her attentively after giving her a spatula.

“Nice and easy, you don’t want to overmix.”

“This is a lot of pressure.”

“It’s just eggs.”

“If I fuck it up—”

“You won’t fuck it up.”

Rook believes him. Or she at least believes that he’ll jump in to help before anything goes too wrong. Despite her teasing, the weight of his gaze feels reassuring, not intimidating.

“Good,” Lucanis says when she’s finished. Rook warms at his praise.

The next steps are relatively straightforward. He gets out a package of ladyfingers—Rook once again keeps her snicker to herself—and he shows her how to dip them one by one into the cooled espresso and arrange them into the bottom of a glass dish. Then it’s a layer of the mascarapone egg mixture, then another layer of ladyfingers, then the rest of the mascarapone. When Rook is finished with the layers, Lucanis sifts cocoa powder over the top.

“And we’re done!” he says with a satisfied grin. “Now it rests in the fridge.”

Rook’s burgeoning sense of triumph deflates.

“Wait, we don’t eat it?”

“Not yet. It’s best if it sits overnight. I’ll bring it to the Lighthouse tomorrow.”

“Overnight? I came all this way and I don’t even get to eat any today?”

“It needs four hours, at a minimum,” he says firmly.

Rook checks her phone. It’s almost 5 PM.

“Can I stay over?” she asks.

Lucanis’s eyes widen and he fumbles the empty bowl he’s putting into the sink.

“Just a few hours, until the tiramisu is ready,” she clarifies quickly. “We can play Pictionary? Or just watch TV or something? Please? I’m starving.”

“Starving?” he asks skeptically, recovering his composure.

“I would have had a snack before I got here, but I thought I was going to be eating tiramisu for dinner!”

She can see the wheels turning in his brain, see him reassessing and adapting.

“Okay,” he relents. “But I’m cooking you a real dinner. Tiramisu is dessert.”

His phone rings on the counter. Rook sees Illario’s name pop up on the screen.

“Where’s your bathroom?” she asks, standing and untying her apron. The least she can do is give him the privacy he didn’t have last time he talked to Illario on the phone around her.

“Down the hallway on the left,” he says, picking up his phone.

Rook heads down the hallway and finds the bathroom. His toilet paper is at least ten-ply, his soap smells like citrus and rosemary, and his hand towels feel like drying her hands on a cloud. She doesn’t remember the last time she was in a single man’s bathroom that even had a clean hand towel, let alone more than one.

At least, she assumes Lucanis is single. He would have mentioned it, right? Why do I even care? I don’t care.

Back in the hallway, she spots three other open doors. The one at the far end looks like the primary bedroom, which makes the one across from the bathroom a guest bedroom, and the other room is probably an office or something. Maybe a home gym, considering those forearms.

Be normal, Rook.

Lucanis is still speaking quietly into his phone, so Rook dawdles, looking at the framed photographs that line the hallway.

Most of them are professionally done, but there are a few candids. One is of a young Lucanis, no more than five or six, blurrily in motion being wrapped up in a woman’s arms, his eyes scrunched shut, obviously shrieking in delight. The woman has his dark hair and his dark eyes. His mother. In the photo next to it, he’s only a couple years older, standing stiffly beside a seated, grey-haired woman, with another little boy flanking the chair on the other side. His eyes are big and solemn. Rook’s seen that expression on his face before, but it’s uncanny to see it on a child.

God. He really was just a kid when his parents died.

“I told you, it’s nothing to worry about.”

Lucanis’s voice is heated, rising in what sounds like frustration.

“Some dumb, drunk kid who thought I’d have lots of cash. He didn’t know who I was.”

Is he talking about the mugging?

“I do know! I had someone check it out.” A pause. “They haven’t found the phone. I deactivated it as soon as I got home, it doesn’t matter. Illario, this was a month ago, why—”

Rook realizes she’s holding her breath. Is it worse to keep eavesdropping in the hallway or to come back now and act like I wasn’t eavesdropping?

“I have to go, I have company.” Another pause. “Yes, she’s—“ A longer pause. “I don’t need—“ A sigh. “Bye, cousin.”

Rook rounds the corner back into the kitchen, definitely acting overly casual. “Everything okay?”

“Just Illario being paranoid,” Lucanis says, gripping his phone in one hand and rubbing his forehead with the other.

He shakes his head, like he’s physically shaking off whatever thoughts Illario put in there, then turns on a Bluetooth speaker and puts on a smile. “Please, sit. You’re not vegan, right?”

Ten minutes later, the apartment smells like frying bacon and Rook is sitting on the other side of the kitchen island with a glass of wine, listening to Japanese Breakfast and watching Lucanis cook her dinner.

“It’s guanciale,” Lucanis says, taking a sip of his own wine.

“So, rich people bacon.”

“In carbonara, guanciale is better.”

Water is coming to a boil on the stove. The bacon—sorry, guanciale—is sizzling. Lucanis is chopping ingredients for a salad.

“I can’t believe you have all this stuff just sitting around. Were you going to have carbonara for dinner tonight anyway?” Rook asks, legitimately confused.

“Probably not, but it’s nice to have the ingredients on hand just in case,” he says, deftly finishing up with the salad and adding pasta to the boiling water. It’s like watching a dance.

“I don’t remember the last time anyone cooked me dinner,” Rook says, after a moment of realization. Sure, her friends all have dinner together at each other’s places sometimes, but the amount of actual cooking is basically nonexistent.

Lucanis’s movements slow for a moment, and he looks thoughtful.

“I don’t remember the last time I cooked dinner for anyone.”

“I’d say we should do this more often, but it seems a little unfair that I just get to show up and eat.”

“You made dessert, remember?”

“I barely helped,” Rook snorts.

“You help more than you think.”

Rook doesn’t know what to say to that, so she takes another sip of wine.

Lucanis turns his attention back to the stove. More culinary wizardry happens involving more eggs and cheese, and in a very short amount of time, a plate of silky looking pasta and a bowl of salad is presented to Rook with less fanfare than at an Olive Garden.

“This is normal to you? You just eat like this all the time?” she asks incredulously.

Lucanis reaches behind his back to untie his apron and join her.

“I think you’re asking if I cook every day, and the answer is yes, usually. Can you—I think my apron is knotted, can you untie it?”

He comes around to her side of the island and stands with his back to her. She fumbles with the strings for a moment—they are definitely knotted—but starts to slowly work them loose. Her fingers brush against the small of his back, and he crosses his arms in front of his chest, suddenly fidgety. Probably just eager to eat his dinner.

His sweater is ridiculously soft, and Rook almost wants to brush her fingers against it again, but she stops herself.

“There, got it.”

“Thank you,” Lucanis says, stepping away immediately. “Do you need any more wine, before I sit down?”

“Sure, I took the bus so it’s not like I’m getting behind the wheel tonight or anything.”

His hand pauses mid-reach for the bottle.

“The bus? Is your car still not fixed?”

“The alternator’s busted. Bellara said she could probably figure it out, but then she saw how rusty the brackets are and noped out of the whole situation. My local mechanic gave me a good quote, but he said it would take awhile and ‘labor ain’t cheap.’”

Rook could just put it on a credit card, but she’s still paying off medical bills from the accident and she doesn’t need any more debt. Being financially responsible sucks.

“Rook, if you need the money—”

She laughs. “Nope, no, borrowing money from friends is never a good idea.”

“I can give you the money. It’s not—”

“You don’t even know how much money it is.”

“How much is it?”

“Six hundred fifty dollars.”

His expression doesn’t change. “I can give you the money.”

“That’s like a dollar to you isn’t it. Like a quarter.”

He lets out an exasperated sigh.

“I have the money, and you need it.”

“Let me think about it. Come on, this beautiful pasta is going to get cold.”

He relents, unhappily. It’s like he knows that by “let me think about it,” Rook means “absolutely no way in hell.” But this is one thing she won’t budge on. Owing people money, owing people anything, is just a recipe for disaster.

Rook raises her wine glass to Lucanis after he sits down next to her at the island. “Cheers. Thank you for making me eat real food.”

Their glasses clink together, and he smiles, and the tension dissolves.

I really like his smile.

Dinner tastes even better than it looks. Even the salad. Spite seems to think so too, and Rook and Lucanis take turns getting up to chase him off the counter every five minutes.

“Only two hours and forty-nine minutes until tiramisu time. That’s almost half a season of Arrested Devleopment,” Rook says, after convincing Lucanis to let her load the dishwasher. “You’ve really never seen it?”

“This is going to sound more pretentious than I mean it to, but I never really had a lot of time for TV.”

“Time to fix that.”

They move to the living room. After Lucanis presses a few buttons on a remote, the fireplace lights up and the TV turns on.

“This couch is more comfortable than my bed,” Rook says with a happy sigh, sinking deeper into the plush surface. With the snow still falling gently outside, a stomach full of carbs, and another glass of wine in her hand, she is feeling unbelievably content.

Lucanis doesn’t say anything for a second, and when Rook glances over she sees that he’s looking at her with an unreadable expression.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just…I was worried you’d feel awkward or out of place here, but you’ve made yourself at home—and that’s a good thing,” he adds quickly. “I’m glad.”

“You know, I had the same feeling when you were at my place last week? I thought you were going to be like ‘oh gross, Rook lives like a poor little gremlin person,’ but you fit right in.”

“You are kind of gremliny.”

“Okay wow, press play.”

Rook doesn’t realize she fell asleep until she wakes up. She cracks opens her eyes and sees that she’s scrunched into one corner of the couch with her legs draped over Lucanis’s lap. He’s facing the TV, and hasn’t noticed she’s awake yet. The firelight lends a soft sheen to his hair, even his beard. It’s strange how a man so rigid, so self-contained, can also look so soft. His sweater, his hair, the shadows of his eyelashes on his cheekbones. Rook wants to curl up in his eyelashes and fall asleep again.

She must make some small noise or move a little bit, because he looks over and grins.

“You snore.”

Rook barks out a laugh and hides her face behind a throw pillow.

“Shut up!”

“Also I’m slightly offended you compared me to Lucille Bluth. I get it now, but seriously?”

“I said what I said,” she retorts, swinging her legs off his lap and leveraging herself up. “How long was I out? Is it tiramisu time yet?”

She checks her phone. 9:07 PM. She has four texts from Harding.

Harding: are you home yet?

Harding: I think I’m finally going to ask Taash out

Harding: they know I like them, right? Will you do recon?

Harding: Hi have you been american psychoed??

Rook: stayed for dinner, gonna leave soon. affirmative on the recon i love this for you!

Lucanis leads the way back to the kitchen and starts getting bowls out while Rook beelines for the fridge.

“No no no,” she says when she sees the bowls. She plunks the glass container of tiramisu down on the kitchen island. “Spoons only.”

“You want to eat directly from the container?” Lucanis asks, like she might as well have suggested eating it off the floor.

“Oh my god, live a little.”

He very reluctantly puts the bowls back and gets two spoons out of his silverware drawer. Rook leans her elbows on the counter and Lucanis leans his hip against it. He lets Rook have the first bite. Her eyes close in bliss.

“This is obscenely good,” she breathes.

When she opens her eyes, she catches his eyes darting away. He takes his own bite, and gives a satisfied nod.

“Perfect.”

“Hey, Lucanis?”

“Yes, Rook?”

“You’re a really good cook.”

He laughs. “Thank you. You’re a good sous chef.”

“Thanks.”

She remembers what he said about helping more than she knows, and about making herself at home. She thinks about all the random little happenstances that led to her being here with him on a snowy February evening eating tiramisu. She decides that, maybe, this year won’t suck quite as hard as last year.

Then she hears the unmistakable sound of a cat puking, and Lucanis drops his spoon.

“Spite, no!“

Chapter Text

“Hey, so, just curious, do you like Harding?”

“Wow. Real subtle, Rook.”

Taash doesn’t look up from the protein shake they’re pouring cold brew into, but Rook can hear their smirk. They were away on a surf trip the last couple weekends, so Rook’s had time to strategize about her recon for Harding. It wasn’t all that hard to figure out—with Taash, a direct approach is always best.

“Subtlety has never been my strong suit.”

“She’s into me, isn’t she?”

“Subtlety isn’t her strong suit, either.”

The late-morning rush has just died down, and Taash is early for their shift. They take a thoughtful sip of the brown, sludgy beverage they bring with them every Sunday.

“Can I be real with you?” they ask.

“Always.”

“I’ve liked Harding since day one.”

Shit, this was even easier than I thought it would be.

“Why are you saying that like it’s a bad thing?” Rook asks. She makes a mental note to send Harding a “mission accomplished” text later.

“Do you really think the two of us would work? She’s just so…sweet. She’s so nice!”

“She’s not that nice.”

“She called me evil,” Lucanis chimes in. “To my face.”

Lucanis is sitting at the end of the bar, drinking his second cup of coffee and reading this month’s Book Club book. His pick. It’s a historical romance about an assassin in Renaissance Florence who gets hired by a duke’s brother and, of course, ends up falling for the duke he’s supposed to kill. It’s surprisingly romantic.

“Oh yeah, that was messed up. She apologized though, right?”

“Taash, why is her being nice a potential deal breaker? You’re nice,” Rook insists.

Taash just stares at her.

“You’re not not nice!”

“You helped me move my fridge,” Lucanis says.

“Your fridge?” Rook asks.

“Spite knocked his favorite toy behind it a few days ago. I was just going to leave it there, but Taash heard me telling Emmrich about it and offered to help.”

“Yeah, but you bought me chicken wings after. That doesn’t count.”

“It was still nice,” he says mildly, looking back down at his book.

It’s funny how seamlessly Lucanis has become woven into the fabric of Rook’s days. They text all the time. He laughs, or at least “haha” reacts, at the dumb memes she sends him. He comes by the Lighthouse a few times a week after work and clearly gets along with everyone. He went to Bellara’s impromptu dinner party last weekend and brought a blood orange upside-down cake that had people fighting over the leftovers. He’s helping Rook figure out Lighthouse tax stuff today.

It’s like he’s always been here.

“Harding likes you, and you like her. You could at least try and see how it goes,” Rook reasons, taking a sip of her coffee.

“It’s that simple, huh?” Taash replies, with a pointed look at Lucanis’s downturned head.

Rook sputters into her mug and just barely manages to avoid spitting coffee all over Taash, who helpfully thwacks her on the back.

That’s a train of thought Rook has stopped herself from following multiple times recently, because there’s nothing simple about it at all.

“You two gonna do tax stuff yet?” Taash asks.

“Why did you say ‘tax stuff’ like that?” Lucanis asks, looking up from his book again.

“We are literally just doing tax stuff,” Rook says, glaring daggers at Taash.

“Sure,” Taash responds. “Lucanis, are you staying for the thing?”

“Of course.”

“What thing?” Rook asks.

“Nothing. Go do tax stuff,” Taash says, then walks away to help a customer.

“I’m ready if you are,” Lucanis says with a shrug. He dog ears his page, which Rook finds oddly endearing. She half-expected him to have a 24 karat gold bookmark or something.

Rook lets out a resigned sigh and tops off their coffees. Not even her pride in getting Taash to admit they like Harding can outweigh the utter dread she feels at the prospect of doing the Lighthouse’s taxes.

“Thank you again for helping with this. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

The Lighthouse’s unofficial accountant, Josephine, emailed Rook last week with a gentle reminder that tax season is more than halfway over. Rook thinks she kept all the statements and invoices she was supposed to keep, probably, hopefully, but her organizational skills have always left something to be desired. The military was supposed to help with that. Whoops.

Lucanis follows her down the hallway into the back room. It still smells a little bit like dog from Assan hanging out back here the last couple days.

“Our accountant told me what to look for,” she says as she rummages through the filing cabinet shoved into the far corner, “but I keep thinking I’m going to miss something or forget a form and wind up owing the IRS a million dollars and then the Lighthouse will go out of business and my friends will be out of jobs and I’ll have to go to jail for tax fraud.” That last part comes out all in one rushed breath.

“And I thought I was anxious.”

“For real, I can’t mess this up.”

“I won’t let you go to jail for tax fraud.”

“I thought you were maybe—never mind.”

“What?”

I thought you were maybe in jail for tax fraud or some other white collar crime, but it turns out you were in a psych ward, and Google is not helping me figure out which one would have been a worse experience for you.

“Nothing, let’s just get this over with.”

Rook pulls her laptop out of her bag and plunks everything down on the table. She sits, already feeling overwhelmed and doomed, even with Lucanis sitting down across from her looking smart and composed and capable.

“I’ve always been bad with money, but I’ve never been responsible for anything other than my own money before this,” Rook explains, probably unnecessarily, but it’s helping her ignore the reason why this is now her responsibility.

“Fortunately for you, I’ve always been good with money,” Lucanis says calmly. He’s already sorting through Rook’s stacks and folders of papers.

She props her chin up in her hand and watches him.

Any second now, he’s going to tell me that I’m a hopeless idiot who’s running this place into the ground.

“Is this what you do at work?” she asks.

“No, I’m an analyst, not an accountant.”

“If it’s even a little bit like this, I can see why it would be stressful.”

“I’ve been doing it for so long that I think I’ve just gotten used to it.”

Until last year.

“Is Illario still giving you a hard time about being back?”

He doesn’t slow in his sorting, but there’s a slight catch in his voice before he responds.

“A little. But outpatient therapy is going well and we’re figuring out my meds again, so he doesn’t have much room to complain.”

“Somehow I feel like he’s the type of guy who makes room to complain…” Rook says.

Lucanis just chuckles and tilts Rook’s laptop closer.

She tries not to read between the lines when Lucanis answers questions a little too perfectly like that. Tries not to work out how much is true and how much is him glossing over things he’s not comfortable talking about yet. He still hasn’t told her what happened to him last year in any sort of detail, and she doesn’t know if he ever will.

He’s not a thing for you to fix.

They work steadily for awhile. Lucanis doesn’t call her a hopeless idiot or give any indication that the Lighthouse is about to go bankrupt. It’s easy to imagine him working behind a desk for eight or ten or twelve hours a day with this sort of single-minded focus, fixing problems, making money appear, whatever it is analysts actually do. The button up shirt he’s wearing helps.

After what feels like hours of toil but is probably only forty minutes, Lucanis turns the laptop around to Rook for her to check a few things over. Rook begins painstakingly reviewing his work line by line.

God, I hate money.

“This is going to take forever,” she grumbles, mostly to herself.

“No, it’s not,” Lucanis answers her anyway. He’s stretching his arms over his head and looking around the back room like he’s just now allowing himself to notice his surroundings. “What are all—sorry.”

“All what?”

“No, I don’t want to distract you.”

“You can distract me.”

“The sooner we finish this, the sooner you can stop worrying about it.”

“I’m not worried.”

I just need a stiff drink and a blanket to hide under and maybe a hug.

Lucanis’s brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

“Ugh, fine.”

Rook goes back to reviewing spreadsheets. The only sounds are the agitated tapping of her laptop keys, the thunk of Lucanis setting his coffee mug down between sips, and distant strains of heavy metal playing from the front. Any time Rook peeks over the top of her laptop, Lucanis is reading his book or checking his phone. Drinking his coffee. Glancing up occasionally to see if Rook needs anything. It’s a minute sort of fidgetiness, mostly restrained, barely noticeable. Rook gets the feeling that he’s just as bad at being alone with his thoughts as she is.

He’s not trying to be distracting, but he is, in fact, distracting her. And his sleeves aren’t even rolled up.

“Okay, I need a break, I’m starting to go cross-eyed,” she says, pushing back from the table. “What were you saying before?”

“I was just going to ask about all those drawings,” he says, pointing to the wall next to the small bank of lockers where employees can keep their stuff. It’s covered in ripped out sketchbook pages, mostly portraits. Some are old, the paper starting to yellow compared to the newer, whiter sheets. “Are they yours?”

Rook slouches back in her chair, scrubbing her hand down her face. Her eyes literally hurt.

“They are. Good eye.”

Lucanis gets up and wanders over to the wall, holding his coffee cup in front of him, his gaze roving thoughtfully.

“There’s one of everyone. Neve, Bellara, Davrin…is that one—”

“Yeah.”

She knows which one he’s looking at.

“The previous owner, right? Were you two close?”

“Yeah.”

His eyes flicker over and then away from her and he frowns, picking up on her reticence. Silence stretches out for a moment, settling heavy on her chest. She needs to break it, before it suffocates her.

“I could draw you sometime, if you wanted.”

“Really?” he asks, turning back to her with a curious expression.

“Sure, like one of my French girls,” Rook quips, then realizes the implications of what she just said. “I mean—”

“Was that a Titanic reference?”

“It was a joke? It was a joke. I can just draw you normal. Fully clothed.”

The hallway door opens and Neve appears in her hat and coat.

Oh, thank god.

“Sorry, I forgot you were doing tax stuff today. Don’t mind me,” she says, throwing her coat over the coat rack and disappearing back out into the hallway.

Rook turns back to Lucanis and catches sight of the portrait wall again as she does. Her eyes fall back on the mountain of tax paperwork still waiting for her on the table. The familiar urge to escape comes over her. It’s like the feeling in a dream where she realizes she’s naked in front of the whole class and she needs to run to find some clothes, but a million times worse because it’s real life and she can’t run from herself. No matter how hard she tries.

“I’m getting more coffee,” she says abruptly. She heads out to the front without waiting for a response from Lucanis.

When she reaches the bar, Neve and Taash straighten up and stop talking mid-conversation, which wasn’t fun when the popular kids did it around Rook in high school and isn’t fun now. She reaches past Neve for more coffee, her eyes narrowing.

“You’re early. Why is everyone early today?”

Before either of them can answer, the front door bells jingle and Emmrich waltzes in with an armload of flowers. Strife and Manny follow closely on his heels, each holding a plastic bin.

“Oh, Rook, you’re here already! Right!” he exclaims. “In that case, I suppose we might as well start setting up for the festivities?”

Festivities?

“Over here, Professor,” Taash says quickly, herding Emmrich and his family over to the couches and offloading some of the stuff from his arms.

Rook rounds on Neve.

“Okay, what the—“ she catches herself, remembering Manny is here and you’re not supposed to curse in front of seven-year-olds, “heck is going on? First Taash is talking about a ‘thing,’ and then these three bust in here going on about ‘festivities,’ and you’re both early even though you’re never early.”

“Lucanis was supposed to distract you,” Neve says, as if that explains anything.

“He did, but I don’t think that’s what you’re talk—“

“It’s the Alternator Party!” Manny announces giddily. He lost one of his front teeth recently and is even more adorable than usual, but Rook is not in the mood for adorable right now.

“The what now?”

“I thought you said she knew? Hi, Rook,” Strife says with a nervous glance at Emmrich.

Strife is never nervous.

“Well, the cat’s out of the bag, I suppose,” Emmrich says, obliviously sorting through his flowers.

“What cat? What bag?”

Taash pulls a wheel of raffle tickets out of one of the bins Strife carried in.

“We’re all tired of your car being busted, so we’re throwing a little thing to help you pay to fix it,” they say.

“A thing.”

“A fundraiser,” Neve corrects them.

A what?!

“I don’t need—”

“You won’t accept such a large sum of money from any of us individually, so the hope is you'll be unable to refuse if many of us contribute just a little,” Emmrich says, with the mature sort of earnestness that probably makes him such a great professor and counselor. Right now it makes Rook want to dump an entire bucket of flowers on his head.

A prickling heat burns up her chest and neck, and she clenches her fists at her sides to stop herself from acting like a child in front of a literal child. “Wow, okay, I don’t know whether to be pissed or embarrassed, this is—”

“She said a swear,” Manny whispers.

“That’s why we didn’t ask you first,” Taash says. “You would’ve said no.”

“Who’s even going to come to this?” Rook asks, biting back a ruder retort, because maybe it’s not too late to call it off.

“Loads of people. Most of the Lords will be here. Isabela said we can raffle off a date with her if we need to.”

“The raffle was Lucanis’s idea. I’m contributing these floral arrangements, and—“

Lucanis.

Rook spins on her heel and stomps down the hallway into the back room again, which now smells like coffee and, faintly, Lucanis’s cologne. He’s standing where she left him, clutching his coffee mug close to his chest.

“You knew about this?” she demands, stopping a few feet away because she can’t just get up in his face like she can with Neve or Taash. It’s different.

“I thought it was a nice idea,” he says, his attempt at a smile coming off as more of a wince. “Your friends want to help you. I want—”

“I have it under control! I’m saving the money!”

“I know, but—”

“So what, now the whole neighborhood gets to be like ‘wow, look at Rook, she’s so stupid and bad with money?’ Can’t you see how humiliating that is?”

“You just told me that you’re bad with money yourself, less than an hour ago.”

“Yeah, but it’s my problem.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“Just because you—” Rook starts, pointing at him, but she doesn’t know what she’s trying to say or how to say it, only that her chest is heaving and she really wants a hole to open up directly beneath her feet right now. “I’m not—I don’t—”

In one decisive movement, Lucanis closes the distance between them and catches her hand in his. Loosely at first, just in case she swats him away. When she doesn’t, his grip settles a little more firmly, and their hands lower together, and she stills. Where she expects pity in his dark eyes, she sees only this determined exasperation.

“My entire life, everything has been very…transactional. My career, my relationships. Nothing is ever done for free. And then I met you, and you just…do what needs to be done. You just help people, with no expectations, because it’s the right thing to do.”

“But…”

“Let people help you, Rook,” he says quietly.

With the suddenly familiar weight of Lucanis’s hand in hers, Rook’s breathing starts to calm. A fresh wave of embarrassment at having what was basically a tantrum washes over her. Her face feels splotchy and her eyes are prickly, but the urge to escape doesn’t come over her. This time, she doesn’t want to run.

“Can you—can I please hug you?” The words leave her mouth before she can overthink it.

Lucanis’s mouth falls open slightly, like whatever he was expecting her to say, it wasn’t that. But, after a second, his hand leaves hers to encircle her back and gently pull her closer. He’s still holding his coffee mug, so the hug is a little one-armed and awkward, but Rook doesn’t care. She loops her arms under his and lets her head fall onto his shoulder, closing her eyes. His cheek rests lightly on her head. His embrace is warm and undemanding, and she thinks it might be nice to just stand here like this forever. Even with his hair tickling her face.

“Your shampoo smells really good,” she says into the soft fabric of his shirt after a couple seconds.

She feels him laugh. “Thanks.”

She lifts her head back up, just enough to force herself to look at the portraits over his shoulder.

I just want to make him proud.

After another couple seconds, Rook lets her hands fall, and Lucanis steps back. He clears his throat.

“We really should finish your tax preparations.”

“Seriously?!”

“I’m supposed to distract you until twelve thirty,” he says, glancing down at his watch.

The word “distraction” almost has a different weight, after their hug, but Rook immediately decides that no, it doesn’t. The distraction is taxes.

“Let’s get it over with then.”

Thirty minutes go by, punctuated by a stream of people coming and going into the back room. When Emmrich said “many of us,” he wasn’t kidding. Harding, Bellara, and Davrin all show up at some point to stow their stuff in their lockers, before rushing back out to the front mumbling about “lots to do” and “I told you, the playlist is perfect” and “we should have gotten a dunk tank.” Rook gets more and more nervous as the sound of voices and laughter in the front room gets louder. Lucanis keeps having to remind her to focus.

At one point, Harding appears with her face painted like a giant butterfly.

“Rook, are you good? You’re not going to Hulk smash all the decorations Davrin just put up, right?”

Rook sees Lucanis looking at her out of the corner of her eye. Let people help.

She sighs and tries, really tries, to swallow her pride and her shame.

“I still hate all of you a little bit, but yeah, I’m good.”

Another fifteen minutes after that, Lucanis shuts the laptop and declares tax stuff completed.

“I’d say I owe you, but after this secret fundraiser thing, I think we’re even,” Rook says.

“Fair,” he says.

“Is it twelve thirty yet?”

“Just about.”

“Lucanis, I—”

Bellara rockets through the door. Her face is painted like a robot and she’s wearing a tie-dye sweatsuit that she definitely didn’t have on when she first arrived.

“It’s time! Lucanis, can you go spot Taash? They’re setting up the patio speaker and if they fall we’re down a bartender.”

In the face of Bellara’s enthusiasm, Lucanis’s only option is to agree. He leaves with an encouraging smile over his shoulder at Rook, and Bellara takes his vacant seat, her hands clasped in excitement.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” she asks.

Rook is still trying to figure out what she wanted to say to Lucanis. Thank him, I guess? Tell him I…tell him I what?

“Oh no, you’re having second thoughts, aren’t you?”

“No! Well, yes, but I get the feeling it’s too late for that. It’s just…a lot, you know?”

“I know. I mean, I think I do. Remember when my brother died?”

Rook nods. It was a few years ago, after a long, drawn out battle with addiction. Bellara was just a regular at the Lighthouse then, not staff. She stopped showing up for her quad shot hazelnut iced americano for a couple weeks, and Rook took it upon herself to find out why. Not long after that, Bellara picked up her first shift.

“So many people brought me food, and I was so mad about it at first. Like, my fridge was overflowing with casseroles. It was too many casseroles. But then for awhile I was just like…a zombie, remember? And I don’t think I would have eaten at all if it wasn’t for those casseroles.”

“Bell, you lost me a little bit.”

“This party is people bringing you casseroles. Please don’t be mad.”

The last lingering doubts Rook had about this whole thing crumple, along with her heart, and she folds herself across the table to hug Bellara.

“I’m not mad,” she says, and means it.

“I’m sorry we didn’t tell you, but, well, you know what you’re like.”

Rook laughs and lets Bellara lead the way out of the back room.

The Lighthouse has been transformed into a cross between a street fair and a children’s birthday party. All of the doors are thrown open even though it’s still a little chilly, and there are balloons and streamers everywhere. Music is pumping over the speakers, courtesy of Davrin—Rook would recognize his “Dirrty Dance” playlist anywhere. Bellara has a tie-dye station set up on the patio. Harding commandeered one of the indoor tables with a truly ridiculous amount of face painting supplies. There’s a sign on the bar that says “Cocktail Special—The Rusty Bracket,” and Neve and Taash are already mixing drinks for the first wave of customers. All of these things—the tie-dye station, the face-painting table, the cocktail special—have a sign with a QR code that Rook soon discovers links directly to her Venmo.

When she sees Assan trot by with a paper pinned to his collar that says “Give Rook $5” with the QR code under it, she starts cackling and can’t stop.

“Hey, don’t get too comfy, missy!” Harding appears at her elbow. “You’re doing caricatures.”

She points to another table with a giant sketchpad and assortment of pencils and pastels on it.

“Do you have a job, too?” Rook asks Lucanis as he walks in from the patio.

“He’s on raffle duty. Come on!” Harding says, leading him away toward where Emmrich and Strife are putting finishing touches on a larger table that’s laden with bouquets and gift baskets.

For the next couple hours, an endless request for caricatures keeps Rook too busy to check her Venmo notifications, but her phone won’t stop buzzing in her pocket. The number of random neighborhood acquaintances who show up is overwhelming. And then there are the Lighthouse regulars, like Isabela and the Lords, Flynn, Holden and Mila, Rana, Antoine and Evka, even Irelin, who spends a significant amount of time making moon eyes at Bellara.

None of them make a big fuss over Rook, thank god. She can almost pretend they’re all just out at the Lighthouse on a random Sunday afternoon, happily paying double the usual price for food and drinks, just for the fun of it.

Rook gets a break during the last call for the raffle, and goes out to the patio for a vegan hot dog. They’re $5 more than they usually are, with a sign that says “Extra proceeds 4 Rook.” Keller gives her one for free.

She plops down across from Davrin, who’s been everywhere all afternoon—barbacking, DJing, cleaning up tie-dye spills, dancing with Antoine, teaching Manny and a few other kids how to double-dutch. His face paint is something with feathers, maybe an eagle.

“I’m shocked to see you sitting down,” Rook says.

“Just for a second,” he replies, taking a giant bite of his own hot dog. “You doing okay?”

“I think so. I still can’t believe you all did this.”

“Nah, I get it. I suck at asking for help, too.”

“Wow, Davrin.”

He shrugs. “You know it’s true.”

“Yeah. Be real with me—does everyone here think I’m a broke loser?”

“Seriously, Rook? You’ve kept this place going after everything that happened last year, and that’s what you’re worried about? People are just happy you’re still here.”

“Keep saying shit like that and people are going to realize what a big softie you are,” she teases, ignoring the sudden lump in her throat.

He chuckles, and they cheers their hot dogs before finishing up and heading back inside.

Before Rook can make it back to the caricature table, Harding waves her over and insists she get her face painted.

“How you holding up?” Harding asks, immediately getting to work on Rook’s design without bothering to ask her what she wants first.

“Good, I think.”

This close to Harding’s face, she can see when it relaxes with relief. “Good.”

“Where’d you get all this stuff anyway?”

“My ma used to run one of the face-painting booths at the state fair, and she never throws anything away. She gave me twenty bucks to give you today, I don’t think she understands how Venmo works.”

“That’s really sweet—oh! That reminds me! Taash likes you! Like, really likes you.”

Harding’s hand slips and Rook feels a line of paint slide down her cheek that’s probably not supposed to be there.

“Really?”

“Really! Go get ‘em, tiger.”

Harding almost puts the face paint down right then and there, and Rook sees the effort it takes her to stay seated and keep working.

“Stop grinning, you’re going to ruin it,” Harding scolds her, but she’s grinning even bigger herself.

Emmrich starts announcing the raffle winners just as Harding finishes up. Neve wins a couple tickets to the local movie theater and Manny wins a gift certificate to the used bookstore. The big ticket item is a prix fixe meal at a French restaurant in the Market District, which has to be worth at least $400. Rook catches Lucanis’s eye across the room when that one gets announced and points at him.

“Was that you?” she mouths.

He makes a laughably innocent “who me?” face.

Then Rook is back to caricature duty for another hour. She could kiss whoever’s idea it was to give her a task. Probably Neve. This way, it’s not like she’s just sitting around doing nothing while people throw money her way. It feels a teeny bit better for her pride.

Eventually, her hand starts to cramp and she’s about to take another break, when Lucanis sits down across from her.

“I like your face paint,” he says. He, notably, does not have any.

“It’s supposed to be a dragon but it kind of looks like a duck, doesn’t it? Don’t tell Harding I said that,” she says. “Do you really want a caricature?”

“You said you would draw me sometime, right?”

Rook’s cheeks warm a little when she remembers how the rest of that conversation went. She flexes her hand and shakes it out. One more can’t hurt.

“I did say that. Okay, do you want silly or normal?”

“I thought all caricatures were silly?” he says, and it occurs to Rook that he’s probably never had a caricature done before. A very serious, gigantic portrait in oils, sure, but a caricature?

“No, silly is like if I give you a superhero body or put you in outer space or something. Normal is just normal.”

“Normal, please.”

There’s always something intimate about life drawing, but drawing someone sitting two feet away and staring directly at their face the entire time can get really, really intimate.

“So just how involved were you in planning this whole thing?” Rook asks as she starts sketching.

“Somewhat,” he says.

She studies the curve of his cheekbones, the ridge of his nose, the arch of his eyebrows. The way his beard softens his jaw. The hair starting to recede slightly at his temples. His face is a little less gaunt now than when they first met, and there’s more life in his eyes, but he’s probably stuck with those dark circles for life. His big ears are obviously the focal point of the caricature.

“Was there a group text?”

“Maybe.”

Lucanis looks past her most of the time, avoiding eye contact, but every so often their eyes meet.

“I think—” Rook starts.

His gaze flicks up over her shoulder.

“Hey, Lucanis, I forgot to tell you,” Taash says from behind Rook. “There were people here asking about you earlier, when you were doing tax stuff.”

Lucanis’s expression immediately flattens, turning into the polar opposite of the open, smiling face Rook drew.

“What people?”

“I dunno, a guy with a fancy mustache and a lady with big curly hair? I asked if they wanted to talk to you, but they said no.”

Lucanis’s brow furrows. “Thank you, Taash.”

“Anyone you know?” Rook asks, finishing up the sketch and swallowing what she’d been about to say.

I think you’re unofficially part of the Lighthouse crew now.

“Coworkers,” he says. “Probably sniffing around for Illario.”

“You think he’s keeping tabs on you?”

“I’m sure he is.”

“Too bad they didn’t come by later, they could have gotten their faces painted,” Rook jokes, trying to cajole him back into a good mood.

Lucanis gives a halfhearted laugh.

“Teia, maybe, but I can’t imagine Viago getting—“

“Thank you to everyone who came out today!” Emmrich calls out over the remaining crowd. “Rook, where are you?”

Rook summons her game face and awkwardly waves her hand as the room’s attention falls on her.

“I’m sorry to put you on the spot, but I believe we’d all like to know—how close did we come to getting you a new alternator?”

She digs her phone out of her pocket and opens the Venmo app, then almost drops her phone in shock.

“Sorry, hold on.” She refreshes the app, certain the total she’s looking at can’t be right. But it is. Tears spring to her eyes and that lump in her throat comes back.

“Eight hundred sixty dollars,” she announces, then has to repeat herself because her voice was too scratchy the first time.

A huge cheer goes up from everyone inside the Lighthouse. Bellara tackles her with a hug from behind, and a startled laugh escapes Rook’s mouth. She can’t stop staring at the number on her phone. Neve and Davrin appear next to her a second later, clapping and hollering, and then Emmrich makes his way over to get in on the hug.

Rook still hates money, but not as much as she loves her friends.

“I’m splitting everything over six-fifty between between the crew, you assholes deserve it,” she says, then makes eye contact with Lucanis. “You, too.”

He wants to object, she can tell, but sees the look on her face and nods.

“Thirty bucks? I’ll take it.” Neve says, bumping her shoulder against Rook’s and grinning.

“Thank you all—wait, where are Harding and Taash?”

Right on cue, the two of them stumble in from the patio, flushed and holding hands. Taash is cool as a cucumber, even with most of Harding’s face paint smudged around their mouth and cheeks.

“Oh, hey, what did we miss?”

“Well that was fast,” Lucanis says.

Everyone dissolves into fits of laughter, and Rook doesn’t remember the last time her heart was this full.

She makes eye contact with Lucanis again, and he smiles, and her heart skips a beat.

What if it is that simple, after all?

Chapter Text

“If they’re not here in five more minutes, we’re doing shots.”

“You just did one.”

“Yeah, five minutes ago. It’s St. Patrick’s Day, I’m supposed to be drunk by now.”

Taash is leaning with their back against the bar, eating a vegan hot dog and glaring over the heads of the Lighthouse happy hour crowd toward the door, like they can make Davrin and Lucanis appear through sheer force of will.

“There will be plenty of booze at the Viper’s Nest.”

“But that costs money, and I drink here for free.”

Harding thrifted silly, thematically-appropriate shirts for everyone to wear, and Taash is in a muscle tee that says “Pinch Me And I’ll Punch You” with a picture of an angry leprechaun on it. It didn’t start out as a muscle tee. Taash ripped the sleeves off—literally, with their bare hands—before agreeing to put it on.

Rook is wearing a crop top with a pot of gold and “Magically Delicious” in rainbow font. Emmrich is somehow making his t-shirt with two clinking beer mugs and “Let’s Chug It Out” look dapper. Harding wouldn’t show them what Davrin and Lucanis’s shirts say, and Rook can’t wait to find out. Bellara and Neve are only spared because they’re holding down the fort at the Lighthouse while everyone else goes to the Lucky and Charmed Party at the Viper’s Nest.

“Are you two sure you don’t want me to stay?” Harding asks for the millionth time. She’s wearing her green oversized t-shirt that says “I’m Just Here to Get Lucky” like a dress, with a pair of gold bike shorts underneath. Fake strands of clover are woven through her red hair. She goes hard for St. Patrick’s Day.

“Stop, it’s fine!” Bellara insists. “I wouldn’t have agreed to back up happy hour and cover the rest of your shift if I didn’t need the money.”

“We’ve got this,” Neve agrees. “Besides, you deserve to have a little fun.”

She says that last part with a knowing wink at the back of Taash’s head. Harding’s freckled cheeks flame redder than her hair but the grin on her face is devilish.

Harding and Taash aren’t official yet or anything, but Rook is aware of at least one date and three makeout sessions so far. She bet Neve a pizza that there will be at least two more makeouts before tonight is over.

“Okay, it’s been five minutes,” Taash says, polishing off the last bite of their hot dog and reaching over the bar to pour more shots.

“It definitely has not,” Emmrich says.

Taash ignores him and sets four shot glasses down on the bar.

“Uh, how much pregaming did you do? I don’t drink, remember?” Harding says.

“Lucanis just got here, he’s been outside on his phone,” Taash says. “Hey, Lucanis.”

Rook’s head whips around to find Lucanis shutting the front door behind him with an apprehensive smile on his face. She chalks the flutter in her chest up to excitement for the night ahead.

“You made it!” Rook says.

She’s still surprised he agreed to come in the first place—a big, loud dance party with lots of cheap, shitty alcohol in what’s essentially a dive bar out at the edge of the city doesn’t exactly scream Lucanis. But when Harding asked if he wanted to take part in their annual tradition, he said yes without hesitation.

“Sorry I’m late, I got stuck at wo—“

“Cool, are you drinking tonight?” Taash interrupts.

Lucanis looks around like it’s a trick question and someone will give him the right answer. “Yes?”

Taash and Harding speak simultaneously.

“Here’s your shot.”

“Here’s your shirt!”

A shot glass of dark brown liquor and a folded up t-shirt are thrust into Lucanis’s hands, and Rook wishes she had her phone out to capture the oh no, what have I gotten myself into on his face.

“I…don’t think I’ve done a shot since college.”

“You have to, sorry, I don’t make the rules,” Harding says, shrugging with her palms up.

“Don’t make the rules? You’ve been bossing everyone around all day,” Neve butts in.

“Bottoms up?” Rook says, grabbing one of the other shots from the bar.

Lucanis reads the room, squares his shoulders, and downs his shot. Rook, Emmrich, and Taash knock theirs back half a second later, while Harding cheers.

“Ugh, Jägermeister, Taash? Really?” Emmrich asks with a grimace.

“Did you want to do Jägerbombs instead?” Taash asks earnestly, like they wish that idea had occurred to them sooner.

With the shot out of the way, Lucanis now has a free hand to examine his t-shirt. It says “Who’s Your Paddy?” on top of a four leaf clover.

“This is…” Lucanis trails off.

“Wow, Harding,” Rook says.

“We’re all wearing them, go get changed,” Harding commands.

Lucanis seems to notice for the first time that they are all, in fact, wearing stupid t-shirts. His gaze skirts over Rook’s bare midriff and the tattoo of a dagger on her lower ribs.

“Come on, you can change in the back,” Rook says, and leads him down the hallway before Harding can berate him any further.

The back room table is cluttered with the crumbs of green snacks and random green craft supplies that Harding brought in at the start of her shift. Rook had to convince her not to open the glitter. She generally tries to enforce a No Glitter At Work rule, for everyone’s benefit.

“You weren’t kidding when you said this is Harding’s favorite holiday,” Lucanis says, looking at his t-shirt with an almost comical level of resignation.

“She may not drink anymore, but that doesn’t stop her from getting super intense about her Irish heritage every March 17th,” Rook says, plucking a mint Oreo from the open bag on the table. “I tried to warn you.”

With a sigh, he goes to unbutton his own shirt, then glances over at Rook, then turns partially away, as if that will somehow make it less like he’s stripping in front of her. A warm glow has already settled into Rook’s limbs from the shot, and she realizes too late that the polite thing to do is avert her eyes.

So she doesn’t.

He’s quick about it, but there’s a two second window where Lucanis is completely shirtless, and for those two seconds, Rook’s mind is completely blank.

I forgot about the abs.

“You, uh,” she clears her throat. “You can leave your shirt here or in my car, if you don’t want to stay over at Harding’s tonight.”

The plan, as it is every St. Patrick’s Day, is to carpool to the Viper’s Nest, party as long as they can, then sleep over at Harding’s house in the suburbs and let her ma fuss over their hangovers with a giant breakfast before driving back to the Lighthouse to go their separate ways. Except for Rook, who will stay and work the opening shift tomorrow because that’s the Good Boss thing to do.

“Harding didn’t make it sound like that part was optional.”

“You know she’s a lot less pushy than she used to be? Anger management therapy has helped a lot.”

“I believe her exact words were ‘don’t bother coming if you can’t commit to the full St. Patrick’s Day experience,’“ he says, glancing down at the “Who’s Your Paddy?” on his chest again like he’s having an out of body experience. “I just have to be at work by eight tomorrow.”

In the dumb t-shirt, with his hair mussed from getting changed, Lucanis looks younger. A little less reserved. Rook’s eyes linger on the line of his neck, and she realizes she almost never sees him without a collared shirt on.

“When’s the last time you wore a t-shirt?”

“Very funny. I own t-shirts.”

“Do they all say ‘Harvard’ on them?”

He snorts. “Not all of them.”

“Mmm, I don’t believe you. Oreo?” she says, holding out the bag.

He takes one and takes a bite, while Rook shoves another two in her mouth and closes the bag. They both lean against the table, chewing in companionable silence. Rook knows as soon as they go back out there, things are going to get loud and messy and fun. It’s the calm before the shitstorm.

“Is there anything else I should be prepared for tonight?” Lucanis asks, brushing the crumbs off his fingers. Stalling a little bit, maybe. “Secret handshakes? Hazing rituals?”

“No, but those are good ideas for next year,” she says through her last mouthful of Oreo.

“As long as I’m not the one being hazed.”

“Nah, it’s already too late. You’re one of us now, Dellamorte.”

“Dellamorte, huh?” he asks dryly, but there’s a pleased little smile tucked into to the corner of his mouth.

“I thought it sounded more bad ass, like I’m inducting you into the mob. If by ‘the mob,’ you mean ‘this ragtag group of chucklefucks,’ and I do.”

Lucanis laughs. It’s gotten more natural over the last few weeks, that laugh. It comes out more often, more easily, and Rook doesn’t think he realizes how charming it is.

“One thing you actually do need to watch out for is Emmrich trying to ballroom dance with everybody when he’s drunk. Including lifts. Apparently, he and Strife took classes a few years ago.“

“Could be fun?”

“It is if he doesn’t drop you. Oh, also, Taash and Davrin both took off work tomorrow and they will absolutely try to peer pressure you into drinking more than you should. You can tap out any time, no matter what they say.”

“Say no to peer pressure, noted. Do you usually tap out before they do?” he asks.

“I want to say yes, but if past St. Patrick’s Days are anything to go by, I’ll wake up tomorrow with some regrets.”

“Regrets?” he repeats with a cocked eyebrow.

“You know, a raging hangover.” There’s something about that eyebrow that makes her add, “An ill-advised hook up.”

Lucanis’s attention drifts to her bare stomach again. Her crop top is short enough that if she raises her arms, the bottom of her neon green bra peeks out.

“We should probably…” he says, gesturing vaguely towards the door.

“Right, the chucklefucks are waiting. Do I have Oreos stuck in my teeth?” she asks with a gigantic smile.

His eyes slide back up to her face and he laughs at what are definitely a lot of Oreos stuck in her teeth.

“Yes.”

“Thank you for your honesty. Wait, you have some frosting right here.”

She points to her bottom lip, mirroring him. His gaze catches on her mouth, and he drags his thumb across his own lip then licks it off. Rook blinks, heat rushing to her cheeks.

That was…

“Better?”

“Uh huh! Come on, we should get back out there.”

Rook follows Lucanis back down the hallway, staring at the broad line of his shoulders in his t-shirt, trying to think about anything other than the pink of his tongue against his skin.

At the bar, Davrin is shirtless and whipping a tank top over his head, so that helps. There are two empty shot glasses in front of him—he’s catching up to Taash.

“There you are! One more round then let’s fucking go!” Davrin shouts, then puts on his Harding-designated tank top, which is is mostly mesh and says “Fit Shaced” between two beer barbells.

“Bourbon this time, please for the love of god,” Rook interjects before Taash can grab the Jägermeister again.

“Boooo,” Taash says, but lines up five shots of bourbon anyway.

They all cheers and toss their shots back. Rook’s warm glow intensifies and, as she looks around at everybody, she can’t stop grinning. Did she feel like garbage for two days straight after St. Patrick’s Day last year? Yes. Did she go home with Emmrich’s friend Myrna that night out of spite because Solas refused to go out? Also, yes. Is she getting too old for this shit? A million times yes. Does she care right now? Hell fucking no.

She tosses Harding her car keys.

“Have fun! Be safe!” Bellara says as they head out.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Neve calls after them, and Rook isn’t sure if those words are meant for her or Harding or both.

Rook cleared all the trash out of her car before taking it to the mechanic, which means it’s actually moderately clean by other people’s standards right now. It was old when she bought it before leaving for college, and the $650 she just paid to replace the alternator is probably more than what the entire thing is worth at this point. But it’s an SUV with three rows of seats, which makes it the only car that everybody fits in, especially when two of them are over six feet tall.

Taash always gets the front seat, and Davrin and Emmrich clamber into the back, which leaves Rook and Lucanis in the middle.

Harding wants to listen to Dropkick Murphys and Taash wants to listen to Viagra Boys, and the entire car ride to the Viper’s Nest is taken up by them fighting for control over the Spotify Jam in the cutest way possible.

In the back seat, Davrin and Emmrich start Googling dirty limericks.

“I’ve got a good one!” Emmrich says. “A woman from South Carolina/strung fiddle strings 'cross her vagina/With proper sized cocks/what was sex became Bach's/Toccata and Fugue in D Minor!”

Davrin falls over laughing in his seat.

“Surprisingly classy, for a limerick,” Lucanis observes thoughtfully.

Rook gets out her phone to text Neve and sees a message from Tarquin.

Tarquin: Are you coming tonight?

Rook: on our way! no neve or bell, but you can meet the new friend

Tarquin: A “friend” winkwinknudgenudge??

Rook: no wink no nudge just a friend

Rook: idk maybe one wink

Tarquin: I’ve been saying you need a rebound after That Prick! (That’s what we’re calling him now, right? Learned my lesson after Flora’s)

Rook: Har har

Tarquin: What’s new friend’s name?

Rook: Lucanis

Dots show up a few times, Tarquin typing and erasing something, and then vanish.

Must have gotten busy.

“Okay, okay, here’s another good one,” Davrin says, pulling himself together and reading off his phone. “There once was a vampire named Mable/whose periods were eerily stable/Thus every full moon, she'd get out a spoon/and drink herself under the table!”

“Now that’s just practical!” Harding says.

Rook texts Neve:

Rook: I need you to text me in like 1 hour and remind drunk me not to do anything stupid

Neve: You mean like Lucanis?

Rook: yes

Neve: You like him!

Rook: please just text me

Neve: Fine

The song “Kiss Me, I’m Shitfaced” comes on, and everyone starts belting along and cackling hysterically. Even Lucanis gets in on the chorus after the second time, and makes appalled faces whenever Emmrich sings along to some of the dirtier lyrics.

“We’re here!” Harding announces as the car slows. She parks, then turns around in her seat. “Okay, gang, phones out.”

They all dutifully takes out their phones.

“You know the drill—well, Lucanis, you don’t, but everyone set an alarm for ten pm. When your alarm goes off, we check in by the lounge area for a little hydration break and see how everyone’s feeling.”

“Is it bad that you remind me of my mom dropping me off before soccer practice right now and it’s kind of hot?” Taash says.

“Do we plan on getting separated?” Lucanis asks, glancing around and setting his alarm when he sees everyone else is, too.

“It’s inevitable,” Emmrich says sagely.

“Don’t worry, I won’t lose you,” Rook assures him.

They pile out of the car. The Viper’s Nest glows across the street, lit up like a beacon among all the shuttered industrial buildings around it. Seeing the tacky neon snake sign on the side of the building brings back memories, it always does, of when Rook first moved to the city without knowing anyone or anything. She briefly dated one of the Viper’s Nest’s beer distributors, Lorelei, who hooked her up with the bartending job. Ashur and Tarquin were the first people to make the city feel like home. Well, Tarquin more than Ashur. Ashur’s an asshole.

Rook recognizes the bouncer, Hector, and he lets them cut the line with a wrist stamp and a “Hey, Rook.” A techno remix of an Enya song thumps distantly when the door opens.

She hangs back for a second, grabbing Lucanis’s arm.

“Hey, if you get…if you need to get some air at any point, just let me know, okay?”

“I’ll be okay,” he says. It’s hard to read his face in the murky light of the entryway, but he sounds like he means it.

“I’m just saying.”

“Rook, I’m good.”

It briefly occurs to Rook to wonder if he told Illario he was having a panic attack at the Diamond that night back in January, and if Illario let him walk out into the cold alone anyway.

But then Harding is tugging on their sleeves to herd them all the way inside, and Davrin is leading everyone towards the bar through a crowd of bodies dancing under rainbow lights, and there’s already glitter in Rook’s hair, and techno Enya is all she can hear.

Davrin presents everybody who’s drinking with two glowing green shot glasses each, yells either "sláinte!” or “sluts yeah!” and everyone tosses back their two shots.

Rook is officially drunk.

“Minty!” Taash says.

“Let’s dance!” Emmrich says, already shaking his hips.

They all follow him back out onto the dance floor, jumping and flailing in a big silly group. Rook gives in to the music, to the sheer joy of dancing unselfconsciously with her friends. It pulses through her body, erasing all of her thoughts and blanking out every emotion other than here and now.

She loses track of time, eventually the group starts to splinter. Emmrich gets swept away by some of his former students. Harding and Taash have already started their first makeout of the night. Davrin shouts something to Rook and points and disappears off into the crowd. A minute later, Rook sees him sandwiched between Antoine and Evka, with one of Antoine’s hands up under his tank top and both of Evka’s hands on his ass.

Wait, are they a thing?

That thought doesn’t stick in Rook’s brain for long, because it’s just her and Lucanis now. He’s keeping some space between them, even with the press of bodies on all sides. She wants to be closer, but it’s fine, it’s okay. Separated like this, she gets to watch the last of his apprehension fall away as he moves to the thudding bass that matches the beat of her heart, and the sight is more intoxicating than any shot. She catches him dancing with his eyes closed a few times, his face tilted up to the lights. There’s glitter dusting his eyelashes.

He’s beautiful.

Rook feels a hand on her shoulder and she spins around.

“Tarquin!”

He gestures towards the lounge area off to the side of the dance floor, where it’s partially enclosed and slightly less loud. Rook tugs on Lucanis’s wrist and pulls him along with her as she follows Tarquin.

When they finally reach a relatively quiet corner, Rook gives Tarquin a sweaty hug. He’s wearing a green top hat, a green tailcoat, and black booty shorts, with white knee high socks and black sneakers.

“I like your outfit!” she says, poking one of his exposed pecs.

“Yours, too” he says with a cheeky smirk, poking the underside of her bra where her shirt has ridden up. She tugs her shirt back down and punches his arm.

“Where’s Ashur?”

“Working, you know him. He’ll let himself have fun in an hour or two. Who’s your friend?”

Rook almost punches him again.

“Tarquin, this is Lucanis, she says. “Lucanis, Tarquin.”

They shake hands.

“Rook and I go way back, did she tell you she used to work here?” Tarquin asks.

“Back when I was young and dumb,” Rook says.

“Oh, because you’re so old and wise now?” Tarquin teases.

“She did mention it,” Lucanis says, grinning a little at their banter.

“What about you? Lucanis Dellamorte, right? Your family runs Talon Corp?” Tarquin asks.

Lucanis’s grin falters, his expression becoming guarded. “That’s right.”

“How do you always know everybody?” Rook asks.

“I work for the city, I thought your name sounded familiar.” He turns to Rook. “I’m drowning in paperwork thanks to Talon Corp lobbying to change a few zoning regulations on behalf of—”

“I don’t have anything to do with lobbying efforts,” Lucanis cuts in.

Tarquin backpedals. “Oh sure, but the Dellamorte name carries a lot of weight, and your—”

“More drinks, let’s go!” Taash says, appearing out of nowhere. “Tarquin, why are you dressed like a slutty pilgrim?”

“I’m obviously a leprechaun?”

“Whatever, come drink with us!”

Rook follows Taash and Tarquin back to the bar, with Lucanis following behind her. She checks over her shoulder once, just to make sure she didn’t lose him, and he’s frowning into the middle distance. When he catches her looking, his expressions blanks to neutral.

“You good?” she yells back to him.

He nods.

They meet up with Harding and Emmrich at the bar. Davrin is nowhere to be seen, probably still off with Antoine and Evka somewhere.

“Did you see Davrin with—” Harding starts to say, reading Rook’s mind.

“Oh my god, yes!” Rook says.

“Are they a thing?” Taash asks.

“It’s rude to speculate,” Emmrich says, “but I believe—ooh!”

He’s interrupted by Tarquin sliding over another round of shots that have whipped cream on top.

“This tastes like pie!” Rook shouts in delight after tossing it back.

“Peach cobbler, to be exact!” Tarquin says.

“Aww, you remembered my favorite dessert!”

This entire time, Lucanis avoids looking at Tarquin, and Rook doesn’t think it’s misguided jealousy or anything that straightforward. She can’t really put the thoughts together correctly right now, but it’s like ever since Tarquin mentioned Talon Corp, Lucanis has closed back up. Like he’s shut off the part of himself that was having fun.

“Come with me a sec!” she says, after getting a bottle of water.

Rook leads the way to the hallway where the bathrooms are. The line’s not that long, thank god, and it’s quiet enough that she can actually hear herself think. Rook chugs half of the water then offers it to Lucanis. He takes it, drinking more slowly.

“For someone who hasn’t done shots since college, you’re really keeping up,” she says.

He laughs half-heartedly.

Something’s wrong.

“What was that, back there with Tarquin?” she asks.

He shakes his head, not looking at her. “Nothing, it was nothing.”

“Hey,” she says, stepping into his line of sight. “Come on, what’s up? Do you want to leave?”

“No!” he says, finally meeting her eyes. He looks exasperated, and Rook doesn’t think it’s with her. “No. This is going to sound—I don’t know how to say it.”

“Say what?”

He takes another sip of water so he can look away, up at the ceiling. His cheeks are flushed, flustered, from exertion or alcohol or embarrassment, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a second like it will block out whatever he’s feeling.

“When we were dancing, I got to…forget who I am? I just felt like me. Or who I used to be, before last year.”

“Before it all went to shit?”

“Yes,” he says with a wry twist of his mouth. “But I’m not that person anymore.”

I know exactly how you feel.

Emboldened by alcohol and adrenaline, she puts her hand on his arm, leans in closer. “I didn’t know you before, but I like who you are now.”

His dark eyes snap to hers, disbelieving and wary and so, so hopeful. “Rook…”

“Wait here,” she says, because, shit, they hit the front of the line. “Just—don’t go anywhere.”

Rook pees in record time, washes her hands, rushes through the motions so she doesn’t have time to think even a little bit. If she thinks, if her sober brain takes over, it will talk her out of this. Whatever this even is.

She catches sight of herself in the bathroom mirror, and she doesn’t notice what her hair looks like or if her makeup needs a retouch. Instead, she just sees that her eyes look brighter, more alive, than they have in a long time.

Hopeful.

Lucanis is waiting for her right where she left him, and his shoulders sag with relief at the sight of her, like he was holding his breath until she came back, like she didn’t mean what she said. Rook reaches for his hand, twining their fingers together, and he lets her pull him back out to the dance floor.

It feels different this time. Lucanis doesn’t keep his distance. Rook guides the hand she’s holding to the small of her back, pressing it in place there so she can release it and pull him in closer. She smooths one palm against his chest, over his galloping heart, curls the other hand into the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck. His fingers ghost against the bare skin at her waist, seeking, unsure. Their bodies are flush together, and it’s urgent and alive and so unlike the undemanding embrace they shared not that long ago.

Song after song, they dance together. His eyes never leave her face, roving across every inch, returning over and over to her lips. She wonders if he tastes like peach cobbler.

I want him.

I have wanted him, but I was too chickenshit to admit it.

Her mind races ahead to later tonight, to sleeping on futons in Harding’s ma’s basement, to laying next to him in the dark.

“Your pocket is vibrating!” he says suddenly, removing his hand from her hip.

“What?”

“Your pocket!”

“Oh shit!”

Rook tugs her phone out of her pocket and sees that it’s 10 PM and her alarm is going off.

Worst timing ever.

She holds it up to Lucanis, whose hand flies to his own pocket.

“We better go?” he asks reluctantly, pulling out his phone to silence his alarm. His brow furrows down at the screen for a second, but he puts it back in his pocket.

“Yeah,” she sighs, “they’ll come find us anyway if we don’t.”

Rook and Lucanis make their way through the crowd over to the lounge area, where Harding is straddling Taash’s lap and having a leisurely make out—hey, Neve owes me a pizza!—and Emmrich is downing some water from one of the bottles he’s procured for everyone. Davrin thuds down into a chair with another round of shots for when check in time is over and they’re ready to rally.

Rook is intensely aware of Lucanis at her side as they settle next to each other. He already has his phone out again, and that frown is back.

“Everyone having a good night?” Emmrich asks.

Harding just gives a thumbs up while continuing to smooch Taash.

Davrin takes a swig of his own water and grins. “I think these two are the only ones having more fun than me.”

“Yeah, sorry, are you part of a throuple now? What the hell’s going on there?” Rook asks. Now that she’s sitting, it does feel nice to be off her feet for a bit. She grabs a water.

This is why check in time is a sacred, time-honored tradition.

Taash does break away from their kiss then and looks over the top of Harding’s head at Davrin.

“I’m also curious how that happened?”

“Wait, before we get to the good stuff, everyone text proof of life to your people,” Harding says.

They all lean in so Taash can take a picture, Lucanis a second late. His posture is tense and his mind is clearly somewhere else.

Work stuff?

Taash texts the picture to everyone and Rook gets her phone so she can send it to Neve and Bellara. There’s a text from Neve waiting for her:

Neve: Hi Drunk Rook, don’t do anything stupid

Neve: Kissing Lucanis isn’t stupid btw

Rook sneaks a glance over at Lucanis, like he could even read the text from where he’s sitting, but she doesn’t need to worry because he’s busy thumbing through a long string of texts on his own phone.

“What’s up?” she asks.

“Illario’s been trying to get ahold of me,” he says, distracted. “I have six missed calls. Excuse me for a second.”

He stands and steps a couple feet away, pressing his phone up to one ear and his hand against the other to try to listen to a voicemail. His expression shifts from worry to annoyance to what looks like shock.

“Lucanis, what’s going on?” Rook calls over, sitting up straighter. Dread coils around her heart, cold and sobering.

He ignores her, tapping his phone a few times before putting it back up to his ear.

“Is it true?” he demands, his voice breaking. There’s a short pause. “I understand. I’m coming.”

He hangs up, staring at his phone in stunned silence.

“What’s happening? Are you leaving?”

He looks up. His hands are shaking.

“Caterina’s awake.”

Chapter Text

Rook is having a bad time.

Her head is full of sawdust and her mouth tastes like a dirty sock.

There’s a bruise on her ass cheek that makes sitting down hurt.

She’s wearing sunglasses at the breakfast table because everything is too bright.

“More potatoes?” Harding’s ma asks.

“Always,” Rook croaks.

It’s 6:30 AM. They have to leave for the Lighthouse in half an hour.

Harding and Taash are sharing a bench seat, leaning sleepily against one another. Emmrich’s head is propped in one hand while the other mechanically forks fruit salad into his mouth. Davrin is drinking a protein coffee, looking more alert than any of them even though Rook doesn’t think he’s actually slept yet.

Lucanis isn’t here.

He left.

He said “Caterina’s awake,” and then he left.

“Should I have offered to go with him?” Rook asks for probably the tenth time.

“No,” everyone says in unison, even Harding’s ma.

“Geez, okay.”

“We’ve all texted him and he hasn’t answered,” Harding says with a yawn. “I get why Rook’s worried.”

“It’s only been eight hours,” Davrin points out.

“Dude, he’s probably just asleep. I wish I was still asleep,” Taash mutters.

But he has insomnia.

“Soon, babe,” Harding says, patting Taash’s knee.

“Babe, huh?” Davrin says.

“Shut up.”

“Pardon my saying so, Rook, but you’re in no state to comfort anyone right now. You’re as likely to pass out on him as cheer him up,” Emmrich says bluntly.

But we almost kissed.

Rook doesn’t remember a lot about last night, but one thing she knows for certain is that she should have kissed Lucanis when she had the chance.

“You’re right, it’s fine, he’ll text when he can.”

Harding’s ma puts a comforting hand on Rook’s shoulder. “It’ll be okay, sweetheart.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Harding.”

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Debbie?”

“Yeah, ‘Mrs. Harding’ just sounds weird,” Harding agrees.

Debbie Harding has been a de facto mother to Rook for years, but Rook was raised in the South and some habits are hard to break. Especially when she’s so hungover she might actually still be drunk.

“Thanks, Debbie. Is there any more bacon?”

“You bet there is.” She hustles off to the stove and returns to the kitchen breakfast nook with a paper towel-lined plate. “Anything else fun happen last night?”

“Davrin’s hooking up with a married couple,” Taash says.

“Fuck yeah I am,” he says, holding up his hand for a high five.

“If everyone involved is happy, then I’m happy for you,” Debbie says, slapping his hand.

“Ow,” Rook says at the sound.

“Finish your water,” Debbie says to Rook, scooting the glass with Liquid IV in it closer to her.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“They played a lot of Hozier remixes I think you’d like, ma. I’ll find you a playlist,” Harding says.

“Send it to me too, if you would please?” Emmrich asks. “Thank you again for all this fresh fruit, Debbie, you’ve truly outdone yourself this year.”

“Oh, please, it’s tradition! And I had a coupon for the melon.”

“Is the coupon for Safeway or Fred Meyer?”

“Did we waltz to a Hozier/MGMT mashup at some point or did I imagine that?” Rook asks Emmrich, interrupting before he and Debbie can get into an hour long debate over the best grocery store in the city. It’s happened before.

“We did! You were very graceful.”

“He dropped you,” Taash adds.

“Well that explains my butt.”

“Apologies.”

“Do I like mashups?” Debbie asks Harding.

“I’ll put some on the playlist.”

“Okay, sun’s coming up, we better get moving,” Rook says, without moving an inch.

“Five more minutes,” Taash says, nestling closer to Harding.

“Everyone eat one more piece of toast, then I’m kicking you out,” Debbie says, sternly but fondly. “Rook, sweetheart, you go take a quick shower.”

“Do I smell?”

“Like you bathed in peach vodka, yes.”

Ugh, how many peach cobbler shots did I do after Lucanis left?

Rook sticks a piece of toast in her mouth and hauls herself up from the table. She checks her phone as she shuffles to the bathroom, just in case Lucanis has texted. He hasn’t.

When she gets out of the shower, feeling ten percent more human, she checks her phone again. Nothing.

Debbie sends them on their way with hugs and tupperware containers full of breakfast leftovers, and they stagger across the lawn into the pale grey morning like the world’s least threatening zombies.

Harding drives them out of the suburbs back into the city, the buildings getting bigger as the sky grows brighter. Rook dozes fitfully with her face smushed into the window.

“You snore,” a voice jolts her awake.

For the half second before her eyes are fully open, she thinks she’s on Lucanis’s couch with Arrested Development playing quietly in the background.

But no, it’s just Taash, and Rook is just in the middle seat of her shitty old car, parked around the corner from the Lighthouse, with Davrin not-so-gently pushing on the back of her seat so he can get out.

“Come on, Rook, I want to get a run in before I hit the hay.”

Rook stumbles out of the car and digs her knuckles into her eyes. “You’re joking, right?”

“I never joke about running. Am I gonna see you at the gym later, Taash?”

“You know it,” they say, stifling a gigantic yawn.

“Okay, everyone text when you get home,” Rook says, reaching into her butt pocket for her keys.

Maybe Lucanis just isn’t home yet.

“Good luck,” Harding says, patting Rook on the shoulder just like her ma.

They all drift off to their cars, while Rook lets herself into the Lighthouse and falls into the comfort of routine. One step at a time, the Lighthouse starts to wake up. Coffee in the moka pot for her. Music on—because, even though she has a headache, she absolutely will fall asleep if it’s too quiet. Restock beans. Brew the first pot for customers. Accept the milk delivery. Check on the cold brew and whipped cream.

The St. Patrick’s Day clutter is cleared off the back room table, but the package of mint Oreos is still there. Rook remembers Lucanis licking frosting off his thumb, all the possibility that seemed to bloom inside of her in that moment. She checks—again—for a text from him.

He said he has to be at work by eight, right? Shouldn’t he be on his phone by now?

But there’s still nothing.

The morning plods along, busy enough to keep Rook conscious but not so busy that she can avoid the temptation to look at her phone every ten minutes.

A string of other texts pops up from people arriving home, including a video of Assan on his leash running happily next to Davrin’s legs.

At 9:53 AM, the front door bells jingle and Bellara’s chipper voice rings out across the room.

“Good morning, I brought you a smoothie!”

“It looks like blood,” Rook says dubiously, as Bellara sets the drink carrier down on the counter.

“It has beets in it. If the drunk texts I got last night are anything to go by, you need to replenish some vitamins. Have you been wearing those sunglasses all morning?”

Rook completely forgot they were on her face. She drags them off and squints over at Bellara. “I hope the drunk texts weren’t too unhinged?”

“There were a lot of typos, but from what I could tell, it sounds like you and Lucanis almost kissed! But then he had to go to the hospital? Is he hurt? Did Emmrich try a lift or something?”

Rook fills her in, and Bellara’s forehead creases in concern.

“Shit, that’s...I’m sure there’s just a lot to figure out, Rook. Who knows how late he was at the hospital? He might even still be there.”

But he hates hospitals.

“I know.”

“You really like him, don’t you?”

“I really think I do.”

“I think he likes you, too,” Bellara says with an encouraging little smile.

Then why hasn’t he texted me back?

“Oh, I brought you something,” Rook says instead, reaching into her other butt pocket to pull out a glittery shamrock boob tassel she found on the floor at some point last night. “Seemed good for your junk journal. Maybe sterilize it first.”

“Aww, Rook, thank you! You can’t bribe your way out of drinking that smoothie, though.”

“Come on, really?”

“Hey, if you drink your smoothie, I’ll hold down the fort so you can nap in the back, how about that?”

Rook glowers, but the temptation of a nap is too strong and Bellara knows it, and Rook knows Bellara knows it. She takes a tentative sip.

“This tastes like dirt.”

“It’s good for you.”

“Why do you care so much about doing things that are good for me?”

“Because I care about you, dummy.”

There’s no arguing with that, so Rook chokes down the rest of her dirt smoothie then collapses onto the couch in the back room. Being horizontal feels delicious. Everything is better now. But before her eyes can drift all the way shut, she thumbs the volume up on her phone. Just in case anyone texts or calls while she’s asleep.

No one does.

Probably because all of her friends are also asleep. Including Lucanis. Right?

The rest of the afternoon passes uneventfully. Just a regular old Wednesday, and the bland normalcy of it all makes Rook’s hangover and Lucanis’s radio silence even more glaring. Neve comes in for her shift, and Rook gets her up to speed.

“So you didn’t kiss,” Neve says.

“No. But I think he wanted to.”

“And you wanted to?”

“Yes! And I think we would have gotten around to it if his stupid grandma hadn’t woken up from her stupid coma—” Rook cringes. “That was mean, I didn’t mean that. Can you please find out what’s going on?”

“I might be able to find out when she gets discharged from the hospital, but other than that…”

“That’s all?”

“I’m flattered you think I know how to do corporate espionage, but I’m just a P.I.”

“Ugh, fine.”

“Go home. Get some rest. Lucanis is fine.”

But what if he’s not?

“I know.”

At home, Rook tries to sketch. She tries to double check next week’s stock orders for the Lighthouse. She tries to read the Book Club book. She tries to watch TV. She tries cleaning, for god’s sake. She tries putting her phone in her bedroom so she’ll stop checking it constantly, but after two minutes she gets worried that’s when he’ll text or call and she’ll miss it. She can’t miss it.

She misses him.

It’s been less than a day. Get a grip, Rook.

But that worry, it gnaws at her. She may not have known Lucanis for very long, but it’s not like him to not text back, even if he’s busy with work or Illario or whatever.

Rook trudges downstairs to Pizza Stone for some dinner. Stalgard doesn’t bat an eyelash at her wrinkled shirt, giant eye bags, or unkempt hair. He’s seen her at her worst, and as bad as she looks now, her worst is worse than this.

“And can I have a piece of turkey?”

“For dumpster cat?”

“Yeah.”

“Costs extra dollar.”

“Fine.”

Rook takes her slice of pepperoni and the piece of turkey on a paper plate and heads around the side of the building to the dumpster. One of her neighbors tried to start a little container garden back here last year, and a few green shoots are popping back up in the plastic pots and between the cracks in the asphalt—spring is almost here. It’s quiet, almost peaceful, away from the noisy street. Rook can see why the feral cat likes it. She tosses the piece of turkey down and backs away a few steps to wait, biting into her pizza. It burns the roof of her mouth a little bit. It always does.

After about a minute, the rangy black cat pokes his head out from underneath the dumpster, sniffing towards the turkey. He clocks Rook, freezes for a few long seconds, and then darts out. When he finishes eating, he sits back and washes his face with one little black paw. His ears swivel constantly, always on high alert.

“He’s just like you,” she whispers.

The cat pauses mid-bath to stare at her, then disappears back under the dumpster.

Rook finishes her pizza and gets her phone out.

She texts Lucanis:

Rook: hey i hope everything’s ok

She gets in bed a few hours later with her phone next to her head, just in case, certain that if he doesn’t text tonight she’ll wake up to a text in the morning.

She doesn’t.

Rook doesn’t hear from Lucanis all day Thursday. No one does. He doesn’t come to Knitting Night.

Being surrounded by friends and conversation and laughter distracts Rook from worrying a bit, but clearly not enough because her granny squares keep coming out blobby. On top of that, she somehow ends up sandwiched between Bellara and Irelin, and it’s immediately obvious that they’re not talking again. Bellara is flustered, and keeps dropping her yarn. Every time it rolls over to Irelin—who then hands it to Rook, who then hands it to Bellara—Bellara says, “Thank you, Rook,” and Irelin makes a little “tsk” sound. After the third time this happens, Rook abandons her granny blobs and escapes to the bar. She’s already wound tight, and this added tension is going to make her snap.

Isabela is deep in conversation with Antoine and Evka, presumably because there’s nothing Isabela loves more than an open relationship and word of them and Davrin has gotten around. Probably courtesy of Davrin himself.

“Anyone need a drink?” Rook asks, scooting behind the bar to refill her soda.

“We’re good?” Evka says, eyeing the very full glasses that Harding just poured for them.

“You okay, Rook?” Antoine asks.

No, Lucanis has fallen off the face of the—fuck, nope, shut up.

“Yeah, the vibes are just a little…”

“Oh, those two,” Isabela says, peering over at Bellara and Irelin. “I’m guessing they’re in the ‘off again’ part of ‘on again off again?’”

Rook texts Bellara:

Rook: do you want me to just ask Irelin to leave or something?

Bellara picks up her phone, then glares over at the bar where Rook, Isabela, Antoine, and Evka are all obviously staring at her.

Bellara: No! Don’t make it weird

Rook: You two are the ones making it weird

Bellara: Omg stop

Rook: sorry. do you wanna talk about it

Bellara: Not right now!

Rook: ok

Bellara: You have to come back

The group text between Rook, Bellara, Harding, and Neve pops up:

Neve: Are you two texting each other?

Rook: no

Bellara: Yes

Harding: you guys have to come back over here, it’s getting weird

Bellara: That’s what I said!

Rook rolls her eyes.

“Isabela, stop distracting these two. We have things to knit,” she says, herding Antoine and Evka away from the bar. “And you have balls to fondle, or whatever you do at Bowling League.”

“You have my number,” Isabela calls after them, with a cheeky little salute.

Knitting Night doesn’t exactly go downhill from there, but it doesn’t get less weird. And every time the front door bells jingle, Rook’s head snaps up, hoping it will be Lucanis.

It never is.

She sends him another text before bed:

Rook: starting to get a little worried

Understatement of the century.

Friday night, there’s still no word from him and Rook is on her couch with Neve, sharing the pizza Neve owed her and a 6-pack, while a movie they’ve seen a million times plays in the background.

“What if he’s just decided he’s better than all of us?” she asks Neve, cracking open her second beer.

“Is that really what you’re scared of?”

“I mean, kind of?”

“You think that Lucanis going off to deal with a family emergency means he’s decided that all the time he was spending at the Lighthouse with everyone—with you—was a stupid diversion from his real life, so he’s just dropped us like a bag of dog shit?”

“Well, when you say it like that it sounds stupid.”

“Rook, I’ve seen how he looks at you when you’re not paying attention. He doesn’t think he’s better than you.”

Rook slumps down further into the couch. “What the fuck is going on then?”

“Talon Corp is a big company. Caterina’s accident made a lot of waves and they’re not just going to clear up right away.”

“It’s been three days. What if—” Rook stops herself.

She doesn’t know how much dirt Neve might have dug up about Lucanis’s mental health, but she doesn’t feel like that information is hers to share. So the words stay in her brain, repeating on a loop.

What if things got worse again? What if he’s been hospitalized again?

“Rook, you’re going to drive yourself crazy with the ‘what ifs.’ He’s okay. I have feelers out. You know I’ll let you know if I hear something.”

I don’t know anything.

“I know.”

That night before bed, after the pizza and beer and Neve are all gone, Rook calls Lucanis. Maybe if a text didn’t do it, a phone call will.

It goes to voicemail.

“Hey, it’s Rook. Please just let me know if you’re okay. I just—yeah. Just text me whenever you get a second. Please.”

She sleeps horribly, the worry shredding her heart into tatters, running her brain ragged with what ifs. The first thing she does Saturday morning is roll over in bed and check her phone, already steeled for disappointment.

There’s a text waiting for her:

Unknown Number: Rook, this is Illario Dellamorte. Please stop trying to contact Lucanis.

Chapter Text

Rook stares at the text for a solid minute.

Unknown Number: Rook, this is Illario Dellamorte. Please stop trying to contact Lucanis.

She can see her face reflected in her phone screen—brows knit together over eyes that are wild and still dazed from sleep, teeth bared in a grimace. It looks like someone just punched her. Or like she’s going to throw up.

A panicked laugh bubbles out of her, and the sound of her own voice suddenly makes all of this feel way too real.

“What the fuck?”

Rook: why? is he ok?

She sits up in bed, eyes glued to her phone. It doesn’t take long for three dots to show up.

Illario: It’s best if you give him some space right now.

The breath is knocked out of Rook’s lungs.

Rook: what does that even mean?

Illario doesn’t respond. Rook waits for some context, some justification, anything, but the minutes tick by and there’s nothing.

The what ifs take complete control of her brain.

What if Lucanis really is back in the psych ward? What if there were even worse complications with his grandma? What if Illario murdered him and is trying to cover his tracks? What if he sobered up Wednesday morning and got freaked out by how hard I was coming onto him at the Viper’s Nest and now he’s trying to ghost me?

But Lucanis wouldn’t do that. Rook can’t let herself believe that he would tell Illario to text her like that. He’s not a coward—he would do it himself. Something is wrong.

Fuck it.

Rook throws the quilt off her legs and stumbles over to her closet without a conscious thought for what she’s actually doing. She’s getting dressed and she’s going to Lucanis’s. There’s no plan for what happens after that, or if he’s not home. There’s no texting Harding or Neve or anyone because they’ll tell her this is a stupid idea. They’ll tell her she’s overreacting.

Rook knows she’s not overreacting. She knows it in her heart, in her gut—something is wrong.

The drive to Lucanis’s apartment takes ages. She hits what feels like every single red light in the city. She has to park five blocks away, because street parking in the Market District on a Saturday morning is a nightmare.

Thankfully, the same doorman she met before is working, and he recognizes her.

“Here to see Mr. Dellamorte? You just missed the other two.”

The other two?

But Rook doesn’t think too hard about it, because that means he’s here, right? He must be here. She paces in the fancy elevator going up to his floor and jogs down the fancy hallway to his door, but pulls up short right before knocking—she can hear muffled voices on the other side.

“Did she send you to check up on me?” Lucanis’s voice is rough. Bitter.

Relief washes over Rook at the sound. He’s here.

“Lucanis, I think you can understand why we’re worried about you,” a woman says, evading the question.

“This won’t be forever. Just until Caterina has matters firmly in hand,” a man says. It doesn’t sound like Illario.

“And how long will that take?” Lucanis asks. “What happened to presenting a united front?”

“This is the united front. You doing as she asks.”

“Of course I’ll do as she asks, but what about—“

“Think of it as some well-deserved time off.”

“I don’t need time off.”

“It’s a delicate situation.”

“The board is still concerned, after what happened over the holidays.”

“Say what you mean, Viago,” Lucanis replies woodenly.

There’s a harsh sigh.

“Involuntary commitment isn’t a good look. For you, or the company. We’ve kept it out of the news since December, but god forbid something like that happens again—”

Rook blinks. Involuntary commitment?

“It won’t,” Lucanis interrupts. “It hasn’t. I’m fine, I’m not working with her anymore.”

“Renata is still a client, Lucanis. You’ve stayed out of her way for the last few months, but you may not be able to avoid her forever. If Illario gets his way, you may not have a choice,” the woman says softly, sounding genuinely remorseful.

“Caterina won’t let that happen,” Lucanis says hoarsely.

“We don’t know that.”

“She won’t.”

The despair in Lucanis’s voice is too much. Rook knocks, louder than she means to, before she can think about how far in over her head she’s about to get. The voices in the foyer quiet. For a few agonizing heartbeats, Rook thinks Lucanis isn’t going to answer the door, but then it opens.

He looks tired. Exhausted. His eyes are bloodshot and the circles beneath are dark, bruised trenches. But something flickers there when he sees Rook. Surprise, yes, but something else, too. She suddenly remembers dancing with him, remembers the glitter in his eyelashes turning his dark eyes into galaxies, remembers him looking at her like she was the entire universe.

“Rook?”

She missed hearing him say her name.

“Sorry to just drop by like this.”

She’s not sorry.

The owners of the two voices stand behind Lucanis, staring with naked interest at Rook. A man with a mustache and a woman with curly hair. A memory tickles Rook’s brain. The coworkers Taash was talking about?

“Come in,” Lucanis says, falling back on decorum. His posture is rigid.

The air in the foyer is so heavy with tension that it almost has a physical weight when Rook steps inside.

“So this is Rook,” the man says, with a hint of disapproval. He’s wearing a pristine black suit on a Saturday morning, like an overdressed Seventh Day Adventist.

“That’s me,” Rook says with the fakest smile she can muster. “You two came by the Lighthouse a couple weeks ago, right? Tina and Diego?”

She knows those aren’t their names.

“Rook, this is Teia and Viago,” Lucanis corrects her mechanically. “They work with me at Talon Corp, and they were just leaving.”

The bright blue glare Rook receives from Viago makes her feel like a prey animal who’s about to get its guts ripped out. Teia, on the other hand, is eyeing Rook curiously, with a thoughtful tilt to her head.

“Nice to meet you both,” Rook says, even though it hasn’t been.

“You too, Rook,” Teia says. “Please take care of yourself, Lucanis.”

With a tight-lipped smile in his direction, she turns to go.

“Think about what we said,” Viago says to Lucanis, ignoring Rook completely, then follows Teia out.

A small, choked sound escapes from Lucanis when the door closes behind them. Rook can’t tell if it’s from anger, or frustration, or something else. He turns to her, and her desire to gather him into a hug and protect him from anyone who’s ever made him feel bad is checked by the sudden fear that he’s going to tell her to leave too.

“What are you doing here, Rook?” he asks, not meeting her eyes.

She barks out a disbelieving laugh. “Seriously? Did you not see my texts?”

“I left my phone at the hospital.”

The words “involuntary commitment” pop into her head again, and her chest feels tight. She doesn’t let herself think about what might have happened in December. One thing at a time.

“Is your grandmother okay?”

His mouth presses into a thin line. “Yes, thank you for asking. She’s being discharged today. Illario is with her.”

“Oh, speaking of that fucker,” Rook says, grabbing her phone and opening up her messages. She holds the screen up to Lucanis. “Any idea what this is about?”

Lucanis’s tired eyes scan the texts from Illario, and his brows knit together. He passes a hand over his face, rubbing his forehead.

“Fucking Illario. He had no right to do that. I’m—sorry. I’m sorry, Rook.”

“Do you want me to go?” she asks, a little more bluntly than intended.

Please don’t make me go.

“No,” he says immediately, dropping his hand, still avoiding her gaze.

“Okay.” A few seconds pass in silence, and she feels the need to clarify. “Do you want me to stay?”

She gestures vaguely, hoping to encompass the fact that they’re still just standing around in his foyer.

“Yes—no,” he closes his eyes and sighs, then finally looks at her. “What I mean to say is, would you like to go get a coffee? I need some air.”

“Are you sure coffee’s a good idea? You look like you need some sleep,” she says. He really does look like shit.

“You look like you just woke up,” he responds with a shrug.

And, you know what, fair. She did, in fact, just throw on a pair of jeans under the t-shirt she wore to bed, and she remembered to brush her teeth but she has no idea if she put on deodorant. And there’s a hint of the Lucanis she knows in those words, even if his attempt at a smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I sort of just did. So yeah, let’s get a coffee.”

“Let me get my shoes.”

Rook follows him into the living room and waits there as he disappears down the hallway. Warm morning sunlight streams through the windows, and Spite is dozing in a patch by the kitchen island. The apartment is as tidy as ever, and it’s shocking to Rook that someone going through…whatever Lucanis has been going through for the last three days…can still have the energy to clean anything. The dishwasher is running and there’s one half-empty mug of coffee on a coaster on his coffee table, that’s the only sign he’s actually been occupying this space.

She hears his footsteps coming back down the hallway and, as her attention shifts in that direction, her eyes catch on a drawing hanging on the wall that wasn’t there last time. It’s the caricature she did of him at her Alternator Party. He framed it.

Rook’s heart catches in her throat.

“Ready?” Lucanis asks. She nods, not trusting her voice right this second.

They walk down the hallway and ride the elevator in mostly comfortable silence. Rook thought that she’d be able to breathe easier now that she’s here with Lucanis, and he’s okay—she hears the words “involuntary commitment” again—but something is still off. He stands a little farther away than she would like, and she can still read the tension in the line of his shoulders.

She waits until they’re outside to ask, “So why is Illario sending me shady texts about you?”

Lucanis shoves his hands in his pockets. They stop at the street corner, waiting for the light to change.

“I’m sure he meant well. The past few days have been…I’m sorry, again, that I didn’t text you.”

“Sorry again that I showed up at your apartment out of the blue.”

“It gave me an excuse to kick Teia and Viago out, so you’re more than forgiven.”

“They sounded worried about you, too,” she says lightly.

Lucanis doesn’t respond. They walk down a couple more busy, tree-lined streets until Rook recognizes the bus stop where she got off last time she went to his place. There’s a coffee shop across the street, Cafe Pietra.

The interior is minimalist, almost ascetic. The floor is concrete. There are no couches, and the chairs all look uncomfortable. The espresso machine is enormous and chrome. There’s a lot of chrome in general. Chrome and pale wood. The coffee is probably great. Rook hates it on sight.

There’s a line, because it’s Saturday morning in the Market District, but it moves quickly. The single origin brew Rook gets is overpriced and smells incredible. She’s hungry, but everything in the pastry case is labeled in Italian and the only thing she thinks she can pronounce without butchering it is a cornetto, which just looks like an Italian croissant. Also overpriced. Lucanis pays before Rook has a chance to object.

They’re able to snag a table in the corner from a couple who’s leaving. They sit, surrounded by people in expensive athleisure who seem to care more about being seen than drinking their cortados, like they’re performing “relaxing Saturday morning,” and Rook has the uncanny feeling that she’s going to wind up in the background of multiple artfully-staged Instagram posts.

“This place…” she stops herself from saying sucks, because what if it’s Lucanis’s regular spot?

“It’s not the Lighthouse,” Lucanis says diplomatically.

“Nowhere else is.”

He nods in agreement, taking a sip of his coffee. He doesn’t put sugar in it here.

“Coffee’s good though,” she admits begrudgingly, after taking a sip of her own. Making small talk.

“Mm. So how was the rest of the party?” he asks, his expression guarded. More small talk.

I wanted to kiss you but then you left. Do you remember almost kissing? Do you remember how you looked at me?

“Well, let’s see, I drank way more than I should have. Emmrich dropped me on my ass, literally.”

“Everything you warned me about,” he notes, almost laughing, just a little.

“It was a lot better when you were there.”

She meant for it to come out light-hearted, teasing, but there’s an earnestness in her voice that takes them both by surprise.

That hint of a laugh disappears from his face. His brown eyes soften.

“I wish I could have stayed with you.”

“I’m here now.”

“Rook…”

With slow, careful deliberation, Lucanis’s hand slides across the table so his fingertips can rest on the back of Rook’s hand. Her exhale is like a fist unclenching. She flips her hand over so their palms touch, and now nothing matters more than this moment, in this stupid, pretentious cafe. It’s tender and fragile, like her heart hammering behind her ribs, like the way he says her name.

“I was really scared something bad had happened to you,” she whispers.

His mouth falls into—not a frown, exactly, but he’s not convincing when he says, “I’m fine.”

“You really forgot your phone at the hospital?” she presses. Because she doesn’t know when to let things go.

“Yes. Teia and Viago just brought it to me.”

He reaches into his pocket with his free hand and shows her a lock screen overflowing with notifications. Her texts and voicemail are presumably buried somewhere in there.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think about getting it back sooner. There was a lot happening, and by the time it was done, I just wanted to leave,” he says, exhaustion and hurt creeping back into his voice.

“You don’t need to keep apologizing,” she says, holding onto his hand a little tighter. “It’s okay. I get it. Or at least, I want to.”

Lucanis sets his phone face down on the table and stares at it for a minute.

“Did I tell you Caterina has been in the hospital for almost three months?” he asks. “A coma. The doctors weren’t sure if she was ever going to wake up.”

A memory tries to take shape in Rook’s head, of a night she went to the hospital with someone and came back alone, and she shoves it away, hard.

“But she did.”

“She did,” he confirms, and there’s a riot of conflicting emotions behind those words.

“She’s also your boss,” she ventures.

“Did Neve tell you that?” he asks, looking back up at her.

Rook nods. “Yeah, but it’s kind of public record, isn’t it? Your family has run Talon Corp for years. That sounds…complicated.”

There’s another stretch of silence, and the background chatter and bustle of Cafe Pietra gets louder to compensate. Rook almost forgot they’re in public. Her coffee is getting cold. She hasn’t had a single bite of her cornetto, her hunger forgotten.

“I’m taking a leave of absence,” Lucanis says eventually, each word falling heavily out of his mouth.

So that’s what Teia and Viago were talking to him about.

“Why?”

“It’s not my decision.”

“It’s Caterina’s?”

He gives the smallest of nods, and his face reddens, with anger or shame.

“Apparently, she’d intended for it to start as soon as I got out of the hospital in January.”

“So why didn’t it? Because of her accident?”

“The board determined it would be better to have two Dellamortes working while Caterina was gone. And now she’s back,” he says, looking so lost.

“Maybe it’s a good thing?” Rook offers.

It’s nicer than what she wants to say—I think that job is killing you—but Lucanis shakes his head sharply, and a tremor runs through his hand.

“I need to work.”

“Need to?”

Rook needs to work, or she won’t be able to put gas in her car or make rent. She doubts Lucanis has worried about paying his rent on time even once in his entire life.

He tries to laugh, either at himself or her skepticism, but it comes out strangled, his emotions leashed too tightly.

“My job is—I don’t know who I am without it.”

“You could find out?”

He shakes his head again. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. Caterina will bring me back in once everything blows over.”

“Once what blows over?” Rook asks, tightness returning to her chest.

Lucanis doesn’t look at her when he answers, “There’s been some uncertainty, with her being in the hospital.”

“And with you,” she says quietly.

He closes his eyes briefly. “And with me.”

She needs to know. “Lucanis, did you ever…did you try to hurt yourself?”

His face is stricken, like she physically slapped him, but it smooths over quickly. He grips that leash on his emotions even tighter.

“No.”

Rook waits, her heart beating in her throat.

“I didn’t,” he says firmly, practiced, like he’s been convincing himself. “I wouldn’t.”

She believes him, or at least she believes he believes it.

“I meant what I said. I like who you are now. Even the ugly stuff,” Rook says, setting down her coffee so she can take his hand in both of hers.

Lucanis’s mouth flattens into a line, and he pulls his hand away before Rook can complete the movement. He places both of his hands in his lap.

“I’m not good for anyone right now.” He attempts a self-deprecating smirk. “According to Illario, I’m a liability.”

Rook’s empty hands close into fists on the table.

“I disagree.”

“I mean it, Rook.”

He says her name again like it’s the answer to a question he can’t stop asking himself.

“Hey, sorry, are you two going to need that table for much longer?”

A woman in her early twenties is standing nervously next to their table, with a baby strapped to her chest. A little boy is holding her hand and a plate with a giant pastry on it.

Rook is caught off guard at the interruption, but the bitchy retort dies in her throat when she realizes the woman is almost definitely a nanny. She doesn’t look anything like the kids, and she’s dressed nicely but not in anything nearly as new or expensive as the kids or anyone else in the place. Rook is the only person here who sticks out more than she does.

“Can I eat my sfogliatella yet, Jenny?” the little boy asks, holding up his plate.

Yep, definitely the nanny.

“Hold on, Yves.”

“Yeah, no, you guys go ahead and sit,” Rook says, chugging the rest of her coffee. “We were just about to leave anyway.”

Lucanis catches on immediately and stands, his features settling into a pleasant mask.

“The sfogliatella is an excellent choice, Yves,” he says to the little boy, who beams up at him shyly.

They bus their dishes and head outside. The street is quiet compared to the crowded cafe, and Rook takes a steadying breath. Lucanis is looking through the window at Jenny and Yves, who’s already making a mess of his pastry, with something like sorrow behind the pleasant mask still on his face.

Rook breaks her cornetto in two and gives half to Lucanis. A peace offering.

He takes it, and they start walking back toward his apartment without speaking. The cornetto is flaky and lightly sweet on her tongue. Walking in the spring sunshine next to Lucanis, sharing a pastry on her day off, Rook should feel content. She wants to feel content. But she can’t stop thinking about how he pulled away from her at the table, or the way he puts his hands in his pockets again now, after he finishes his half of the cornetto.

But they are going back to his apartment. Where else would they be going? And once they’re there, they can finish their conversation and she can convince him that he is good for her. He’s thoughtful, and kind, and smart. He’s a surprisingly good thrift shopper, at least for mugs. He’s made her want to actually think about the future for the first time in almost a year. He bakes really good churros.

After Rook tells Lucanis all of that, she’ll make him take a nap. A proper one, on the couch, with the TV playing in the background. Maybe he’ll fall asleep with his head in her lap. Maybe she can finally run her fingers through his hair to see if it’s as soft as it looks. And then, when he wakes up, they can cook a late lunch together, and he’ll see that things can be okay. That she wants him, even the ugly stuff, and that it’s okay for him to want her too.

They can figure this shit out together.

By the time they reach the entrance to his apartment building, Rook has almost convinced herself that everything is going to work out. But Lucanis stops outside and faces her, and the regret Rook sees there is like a wave crashing over the happy little sandcastle of her fantasies.

“What?” she asks, hating how defensive she sounds.

“I need some time to think.”

She almost wants to laugh. Mostly at herself, for thinking any of this could be easy.

“Some space.”

“Yes.”

“Guess Illario called it.”

Fucking Illario.

“I think Illario knew,” he says quietly, considering. “I think he texted you because he figured out how I feel about you, even before I did.”

Rook sighs in exasperation, even as her heart gives a desperate little flutter.

“You get that I’m worried about you because I like you, right?” she asks, stubbornly clinging to the idea that the reminder might still matter at this point.

“Rook, I’m...”

“Don’t start with this ‘I’m not good for anyone’ shit again, Lucanis—”

“I don’t want to have this discussion in the middle of the street.”

Oh, because what would the neighbors think of him arguing out here with some poor idiot in a ratty Sharknado t-shirt?

Rook quells the urge to say that out loud, to pick a fight with him. That’s what she would do with Solas, towards the end. He grew distant, she called him out, it drove him away even more, she got even more upset, the cycle repeated.

And we all saw how that ended.

“I really don’t think you should be alone right now,” Rook says firmly, trying to ignore how much it feels like she’s slapping flex tape on her heart.

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” Now he sounds defensive.

"It’s okay if you’re not.”

“No, it really isn’t.”

“Why? What are you so afraid of?”

His mouth twists into a bitter smile. “Where do I even begin?”

“Here. I’m right here. Just talk to me,” she pleads, taking a step toward him.

Lucanis takes a step back, his hands coming up in front of him, palms out. It reminds Rook so much of the night they met in the alley, when he raised his hands to ward off the threat of Neve’s taser, that she immediately falters. It almost would have been better if he’d yelled or made her feel stupid, like Solas would have, but he’s not like Solas at all.

So Rook takes a deep breath and slaps on more flex tape. She retreats a couple steps, putting more distance between them.

“How much time?” she asks.

“What?”

“How much time do you need? You’ve disappeared for two weeks before, and if it’s that long, or longer, it’s fine. I just need to know.”

So I don’t lose my mind stressing out about you. And because I really want to touch your hair and eat a late lunch with you on a warm Saturday afternoon, and I can wait as long as it takes.

Lucanis lowers his hands just a fraction, his lips parting in bafflement, his eyes sad and searching.

“I don’t know. I don’t know how to do this, Rook.”

Rook swallows hard. “Okay. You know where to find me when you’re ready to figure it out.”

There are a thousand other things Rook wants to say to him, a million arguments she wants to make. Instead, she turns and starts walking to her car. Each step takes her farther from him, and when she rounds the street corner, she lets herself look back once.

He’s already gone.

Chapter Text

“This is bullshit.”

Rook is talking to herself out loud, which is never a good sign, but the Lighthouse’s dishwasher is broken and it is, in fact, bullshit.

The Monday morning commuter crowd is going to descend in half an hour, and Rook is standing in a puddle of water next to the dishwasher, debating whether or not she can open the cafe. They have a three compartment sink in the back, and Rook already texted pictures to Bellara to see if she has any ideas beyond “call a repairman,” but if it’s a bigger problem than replacing a hose or a valve or something, she’s fucked.

It’s like the universe saw how hard she’s been trying not to think about Lucanis for the last day and a half—or talk about him, because her friends must be sick of it at this point—so it gave her this whole other problem to think about. An even shittier distraction from her already shitty thoughts.

Thanks, universe.

Frustrated tears prickle at the back of Rook’s eyes, and she takes a deep breath. She didn’t cry after Lucanis said he needed space, and she didn’t cry yesterday any time one of the crew asked if she’d heard from him yet, and she’s not going to cry now.

Someone knocks on the front door as Rook is walking into the back room. She ignores it. Tries to shake off her irritation. The “closed” sign is hanging up right next to the Lighthouse’s hours. Whoever’s knocking can read the sign and go somewhere else, or wait another twenty-seven minutes for their caffeine fix.

She starts rifling through the filing cabinet in search of the old, hand-written emergency contacts list she knows is in here somewhere. The emergency contacts are all just “guys” in the “don’t call [insert relevant professional here], they’ll overcharge you, I know a guy” sense, and half the phone numbers are probably out of date at this point, but Rook is certain the name and number of the guy who fixed the dishwasher a few years ago is on the list. She just needs to find it.

There’s another knock ten seconds later. Rook grits her teeth and stomps over to the back room door.

“We’re closed!” she yells down the hallway.

She goes back to the filing cabinet, cursing herself for never getting around to saving a digital copy of the emergency contacts list. There hasn’t been an emergency she’s needed the list for in the last eight months. Almost eight months exactly. Just like the Lighthouse’s taxes, it’s another thing Rook figured she’d never need to do, or would at least have more time to learn.

There was only one phone number she’d needed in an emergency, before, and more than anything, she wishes she could call him now. She wishes she didn’t need the fucking list at all.

The knock happens again, and Rook lets out an aggravated growl.

She barges down the hallway, ready to unleash an overwhelmed, uncaffeinated torrent of expletives at someone, then pulls up so short when she sees Lucanis at the door that she almost trips over herself.

It’s raining, and he’s wearing a black trench coat with the collar turned up. His face brightens, cautiously, when he sees her see him. Rook stands there for a couple seconds, unable to make herself move forward. The relief flooding through her is visceral, almost full body pins and needles. An overload of serotonin after being in panic mode for the last ten minutes. It feels like watching the end of a horror movie after the Final Girl finally makes it out alive. Or the end of Paddington 2.

But why—why—did he have to show up out of the blue at 7:36 in the fucking morning today of all days, when she still hasn’t even found the emergency contacts list?

Worst timing ever.

Rook finally closes the rest of the distance to the front door.

“We’re closed,” she says through the rain-streaked glass.

“Can we please talk?” he asks. Rain is beading in his beard, his eyelashes.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, but—”

“You can’t tell me you need time to think and then show up at my job less than forty eight hours later.”

He gives a chastened nod at that, his shoulders drooping a little.

“It turns out I didn’t need to think that hard,” he says. A smile, half rueful, half hopeful, tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Rook can feel herself starting to smile back. Then the timer she set for the moka pot beeps, pulling her attention back toward the disaster of a day that awaits her.

“I swear I’m not trying to be an asshole, but I can’t do this right now,” she says with a sigh.

“Is something wrong?”

“I have to open in—” She checks her phone. “—twenty-one minutes, my dishwasher is leaking, I’m by myself until four pm, and I’m either going to run out of dishes, time to hand wash them, or hot water before then. I can call you la—”

“I can wash dishes,” he says immediately.

Rook blinks at him.

“I can also make coffee.”

He has a point. She’s seen him make coffee, and he’s good at it.

She opens the door.

“Why are you by yourself until four?” he asks, stepping inside.

“Harding is camping, Bellara has class, Taash and Davrin are at their other jobs, and Neve’s phone is on Do Not Disturb, which means she’s either working a case or sleeping after working a case all night.”

“Can’t you call a repairman?”

“I’m working on it.”

“What do you need me to do?”

Lucanis is already shrugging out of his coat and rolling up his sleeves. Rook’s panic recedes for the first time all morning, even as her brain struggles to accept that this is really happening.

“Put your stuff in the back. There’s coffee in the moka pot if you need some. I’ll get the three comp set up, do you think you can figure out how to start brewing one of the big pots?”

“Simple enough.”

“And put the donuts in the cake stand.”

“On it.”

“Oh, and watch out for the—”

“Giant puddle?” he asks, eyeing it as he walks past the bar. “That doesn’t look good, Rook.”

“No shit, Lucanis.”

But she’s smiling again, and he smirks at her, and she thinks she might actually survive the day.

Rook hasn’t turned any music on yet, so she can hear Lucanis puttering around in the front while she measures chemicals into the sinks and goes back to rummaging through the filing cabinet. It’s a comforting sound. It reminds her of mornings when she would be the one getting the front ready, listening to the shuffle of paperwork and a deep voice muttering to himself in the back.

A few minutes later, Lucanis appears at the door to the back room with two cups of coffee and holds one out to her. It’s the “Roses are Red, Violets Are Blue, It Don’t Always Be Like That, But Sometimes It Do” mug. A perfect choice.

“Whole milk and two sugars, right?” he asks.

“You’re observant.”

He shrugs. “You drink a lot of coffee.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

Rook gets a better look at him now that things have settled down a bit. He doesn’t look any less haggard than when she last saw him on Saturday. If anything, he looks worse. There’s something forced and fraying around the edges in how casually he stands there, sipping his coffee from the mug with a photo of a possum on it that says “I Love My Cat.” He’s wearing a grey lightweight sweater and black slacks. She wonders if he got dressed in his usual suit and tie for work this morning, before realizing that he didn’t have anywhere to go.

It takes all of her willpower not to ask him if he’s okay. She knows he’s not.

“Where’s your mop?” he asks.

“Why?”

“So we’re not working around a giant puddle all morning?”

She cocks her head. “You know how to mop?”

“Yes, I know how to mop.”

“Like your own kitchen? I just assumed you use a cleaning service or something.”

He lets out a put upon sigh. “I do, but I still know how to mop.”

A text from Bellara lights up Rook’s phone screen, and she points distractedly in the direction of the mop sink.

Bellara: Can you send me pictures of the inside of the door? It might just be the gasket

Rook: what’s a gasket

Bellara: The rubber seal thing. Just send me more pictures

Bellara: Oh, and unplug it! Did you unplug it???

Rook: yes I’m not an idiot

That was the first thing Rook did. Getting electrocuted at the Lighthouse is not how she wants to go out. In an ideal world, she’ll die doing something she loves, like choking on a piece of pizza.

By the time that text exchange is finished and Rook makes her way to the front to complete her photo assignment, Lucanis has already pulled the rubber floor mats away and begun mopping behind the bar.

A new, less insistent, knock on the front door prevents Rook from appreciating just how charmingly domestic the scene is. Her and Lucanis’s heads both snap up.

Flynn gives a polite wave from the other side of the door, then taps their watch when Rook stares at them in confusion.

She checks her phone. 8:03 AM.

“Oh, shit! Sorry, Flynn,” Rook says, after rushing over to open the door.

“Sorry to knock like that, it felt kind of rude. I’m just in bit of a rush.” they say, pushing back the hood of their rain jacket.

“Kind of rude, hmm?” Rook asks, arching a brow at Lucanis. He rolls his eyes and steers the mop bucket away into the back room.

“I get to assist on a gallbladder surgery first thing this morning and I want to make sure I’m properly caffeinated beforehand.”

Rook has never heard anyone sound so excited about a gallbladder, and that’s one of the reasons she likes Flynn so much. They have more passion about their job than Rook has had about anything in her entire life.

“Extra shot?” Rook asks.

“Make it two, please,” Flynn says. They look around the Lighthouse, a little perplexed. “Weird there’s no music on.”

“Yeah, it’s been a weird morning.”

Rook takes a second before starting on Flynn’s latte to turn on the speakers and pull up Spotify. Her go-to playlists in the morning are usually pretty mellow, to avoid scaring the customers before they’ve had a chance to fully wake up, but Lucanis coming back out front as she’s scrolling through her options gives her a better idea.

She presses play, and is rewarded by the sight of him freezing in his tracks and then slowly turning to grin at her as Avril Lavigne starts singing “Complicated.”

“Get over here so I can show you the ropes,” Rook says.

Lucanis stands dutifully beside her, his hands clasped behind his back, his presence filling in a space Rook didn’t realize was blank. She walks him through their espresso machine setup while she makes Flynn’s latte, and he nods confidently along. He pays closer attention to what she does at the register when she rings Flynn up, and asks multiple follow up questions—the man has clearly never worked retail.

“Good luck with the gallbladder stuff,” Rook says to Flynn as she sends them on their way.

“Good luck with your new hire?” they respond, with a curious smile at Lucanis.

Neither Rook or Lucanis have time to correct them, too busy moving on to the next customer. Rook manages to send more dishwasher pictures to Bellara between that customer and the next one.

Bellara: I’m back in class until 10:30 but I’ll be able to do some research after that. Are you going to be ok?

Rook: I think so. Lucanis is here

Bellara: I’M SKRRY WHAT

Bellara: SORRY

Bellara: How am I supposed to concentrate on optofluidics now I hate you

Rook doesn’t make any progress on finding the emergency contacts list. Lucanis might be a quick study, but business is steady all morning with the usual combination of work from home regulars posting up with their laptops, stay at home parents hanging out with their little kids, and students from the nearby university pretending to study, and they all make a lot of dishes.

The next few hours pass in a blur. Rook and Lucanis fall into a comfortable rhythm that feels a lot like cooking together, this time with Rook taking the lead. They trade off between manning the front and doing dishes, and he applies himself to every task with his usual quiet competence. He wipes down tables. He makes halfway decent latte art. He doesn’t bat an eyelash when Rook asks him to save coffee grounds for Harding’s community garden.

At one point, Rook is ringing up a group of students, probably freshmen, who all want slightly different variations of the same oat milk latte—one hot with a quad shot, one iced with lavender syrup, one iced with strawberry cold foam, and Lucanis has to stop her when she gives him the order.

“Cold foam?”

“Yeah, it’s in that bottle. And then sprinkle some of those freeze-dried strawberry bits on top.”

Lucanis has already made his dislike of flavored syrups known—she overheard him agreeing with two regulars earlier that ”coffee should taste like coffee”—and, judging by the look on his face, cold foam is one step too far.

“It’s good, you should try it,” she adds.

He makes a disgruntled sound that’s almost exactly like the dumpster cat’s growl.

The freshmen are watching this exchange, and the one who’s dressed all in black and ordered the hot latte is very obviously falling in love with Lucanis in real time. Rook can see the hearts forming in his eyes. And yeah, she gets it. Lucanis has his hair tied back and his sleeves rolled up and he’s being snobby about coffee. It’s objectively attractive.

It’s also the calmest Rook has seen him in days.

Her phone vibrates.

Bellara: So it’s hard to tell from pictures alone but I’m pretty sure we just need to replace the gasket, it looks cracked. I noticed there was a lot of steam coming out around the door last time I used it too. I should have said something sooner!

Rook: is that good news? you say “we” need to replace it, who is “we”

Bellara: We is me! I found instructions online

Rook: So I don’t need to keep looking for the emergency contacts list????

Bellara: Oh Harding digitized that last fall, it’s saved on your laptop in the “click in case of emergency” folder

Rook: are you fucking with me rn

Bellara: Nope! The hardware store on 82nd has the right replacement gasket, if I do a pickup order can someone go get it? That way I can start working on it as soon as I come in

Rook: yes youre a lifesaver

She turns to Lucanis.

“I need you to go to the hardware store on 82nd. Also, Taco Bell.”

“Taco Bell?”

“It’s a fast food—”

“I know what Taco Bell is, Rook,” he says, throwing his hands up. “Why am I going there?”

“Because there’s one near the hardware store on 82nd, and I really want a crunchwrap. Please?”

She gives him more relevant details about the gasket mission and her Taco Bell order and sends him on his way. It only takes about five minutes for his absence to start making her feel prickly. The fear that he’s not going to come back sneaks in. She keeps checking her phone in case he texts, then realizes she’s doing exactly what she did last week, then mentally slaps herself.

Snap out of it, Rook.

Ten or fifteen minutes into this internal dialogue, the front door bells jingle and Emmrich backs in, closing an enormous black umbrella behind him.

“Did you know the expression ‘it’s raining cats and dogs’ has been in popular usage since the 1700s, but no one really knows why cats and dogs specifically?” he says by way of greeting, then his expression turns quizzical. “You look frazzled, Rook, is everything alright?”

“Long story short: the dishwasher’s broken, Bellara might be able to fix it, and Lucanis is helping out here in the meantime,” she says, already spooning some loose leaf tea into a paper sachet for him. “Oh, he’s on a Taco Bell run right now, do you want anything?”

“I wouldn’t say no to some cinnamon twists,” Emmrich says, taking the information in stride.

Rook: hey if you haven’t made it to taco bell yet can you also get some cinnamon twists for Emmrich?

Lucanis: Yes, I’m in line at the drive-thru now. Do you need a drink?

It’s the first text Rook has gotten from him in days, and it’s just so blessedly boring and normal that her earlier fear evaporates.

Rook: a large baja blast please and ty

“He’s doing okay then?” Emmrich asks, settling down on one of the barstools while he waits for his tea to steep.

Lucanis: Baja blast is a drink?

Rook: yes

“Eh, I don’t know if I’d go that far.”

“Well, it’s a good sign that he’s here. He’s not isolating.”

Emmrich sounds confident, and Rook trusts that he knows what he’s talking about, so she nods. He pulls a binder out of his bag to start grading papers, his little Monday morning ritual.

“Manny’s handiwork? Or have you just gotten really into Legos?” she asks, pointing to the Lego stickers covering both sides of the binder.

“Strife bought me a Cricut last year when I started getting into scrapbooking, and Manny recently discovered you can make stickers with it. The novelty has yet to wear off.”

“Hey, his school play is coming up, right? Do I need to get a ticket in advance, or…?”

“I already got tickets for everyone. It’s going to be quite the event.”

Rook spends the next twenty minutes listening to Emmrich gossip about elementary schoolers—surprisingly enthralling—before the smell of Taco Bell alerts her that Lucanis is back.

“Here’s your Baja Blast. Is it supposed to be this color?” Lucanis asks, handing it off to her like it might be radioactive.

“Sure is. Do you want to try it?”

He looks like he wants to say no, but he picks it back up and takes a tentative sip. His expression starts out wary, journeys through surprised, confused, mildly disgusted, then back to confused, before settling somewhere between mildly disgusted and thoughtful.

“Good?” Rook asks.

“I think I’ll stick with coffee,” he says definitively. “Emmrich, I believe these are yours?”

Lucanis hands over the cinnamon twists, which Emmrich sets delightedly next to his tea.

“Good to see you, Lucanis.”

“You, too.”

“Did you get fire sauce?” Rook asks, peeking into the bag Lucanis set down on the bar. “Holy shit.”

“You said ‘as much fire sauce as they’ll give you,’” Lucanis reminds her nervously.

“I didn’t expect this.”

She dumps out a small mountain of fire sauce packets. Talk about above and beyond.

“It’s nothing,” he says in satisfaction, then second guesses the look of shock on her face. “Or not enough?”

“It is,” she confirms quickly. “And you are. I’m not exaggerating when I say this is the best thing that’s happened to me all day, thank you.”

Lucanis’s jaw slackens for a second, then his cheeks turn pink and his eyes crinkle up into a smile, his real, open, honest smile. Rook hasn’t seen it in almost a week, and, in that moment, she thinks she would do anything to keep it there.

“Go eat, I can take care of things up here,” he says.

Rook scoops up her treasure hoard of fire sauce, her crunchwrap, and her Baja Blast, and scampers off to the back room to eat. There’s a warm glow infusing her chest, partly from the sight of Lucanis’s smile and partly from burgeoning indigestion—as usual, she eats way too fast.

As she washes her hands and then another load of dishes, half-formed thoughts swirl in her brain about Lucanis saying he needed space and then coming to find her two days later. He didn’t text or call her, he’s here. He’d said “I don’t know how to do this.” And she believes that’s true. But he’s here. If he’s confused, she’s…beyond confused. Flummoxed? Baffled? But it feels important to let him set the pace. After all, what’s the rush?

He’s here.

She dries her hands and heads back up front so Lucanis can actually get a break. Her feet slow when she hears Lucanis and Emmrich chatting.

“…like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“With the espresso machine? Ah, you mean with Rook.”

“Here, with Rook, in life. Take your pick.”

“From everything you’ve told me before, I think it’s fair to say you do quite a bit of compartmentalization. Which is fine and can even be healthy, to a certain extent.”

“Why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming?”

“But when you’ve done it for this long, it can make it…difficult to process your emotions. Overwhelming.”

“Is this what my therapist means when he says I need to work with my emotions, not against them?” Lucanis asks with a sigh.

“Precisely. It sounds like you’re in good hands. Dr. Anders, right?”

“Yes. He’s very…”

“Unconventional? I’m surprised he’s taking private clients, he usually works within the court system.”

“Mmm.”

“Now I apologize for cutting the conversation short, but I have to get back to the university. It’s always a pleasure chatting, Lucanis. Please don’t hesitate to call me anytime.”

“Going so soon?” Rook asks, rejoining them at the bar.

“I’m afraid I must, office hours start at one. I saved you the last couple cinnamon twists, Rook.”

“Your students are lucky to have you,” Lucanis says.

“I’m lucky to have you,” Rook agrees, popping the cinnamon twists into her mouth.

Emmrich heads out with his huge umbrella and a debonair wave over his shoulder, leaving Rook and Lucanis to get back to work.

It’s usually a little slower in the early afternoon, and that’s when Lucanis’s cracks start to show. Any time he has an idle moment, she’s reminded just how bad he is at being alone with his own thoughts. He starts stocking things that are almost fully stocked already. He cleans things that Rook usually only gets around to with a weekly or monthly checklist—Davrin’s not going to have anything to do when he comes in this weekend. And any time Rook suggests that Lucanis go take a break, he looks at her like she’s speaking a foreign language.

She’s sitting at the bar working on payroll, watching Lucanis wipe down the same spot on the counter that he’s wiped down three times already, when it finally dawns on her.

“You got the Sunday scaries, didn’t you? But like the…not-working Sunday scaries.”

“I did not get the Sunday scaries,” he says, moving to wipe down a different part of the impeccably clean counter.

“Hey, no judgment. I get the Sunday scaries every Saturday.”

“Doesn’t that make them the Saturday scaries?” He arches a brow at her.

“Nope, still Sunday scaries. My version is pretty standard—I spend half the night before bed thinking about everything I need to do for the week, and then I stay up way too late adding things to a to-do list in my notes app that I usually can’t even decipher in the morning,” she throws it out there, gently, just to see if he’ll bite.

Come to think of it though, she didn’t get the Sunday scaries that night she hung out at his place making tiramisu. She slept fucking great.

Lucanis’s hand slows, still cleaning but less deliberately. His face remains expressionless when he says, “I may have had another panic attack last night when I normally would have been reviewing my calendar and catching up on emails for Monday. And I may not have been able to fall asleep afterwards. At all. And I knew the Lighthouse didn’t open until 8 AM, but I figured you would be here early.”

Rook doesn’t say see I told you so. She doesn’t take his hand or wrap her arms around him or any of the things she wants to do right now, because she gets the feeling that if she touches him, those cracks he’s been showing will break all the way through.

“The Lighthouse will always be here when you need somewhere to go,” she says.

I’ll always be here.

The front door bell jingles.

“I’m here! I’m here to save the d—what the hell are you doing back there, Lucanis?” Neve says.

“Cleaning?” he says, holding up the rag in his hand as proof.

“You didn’t have to rush over here, Neve, we’ve got things under control,” Rook says.

Neve puts her hands on her hips and gives Rook a stare so hard it almost vaporizes her.

“Oh, I’m sorry, the last text I got from you was at 7:31 AM and it said ‘why the fuck do you sleep so late’—which, first of all, 7:31 AM isn’t late, second of all I was up until 5:30 AM—’I need you to come in today please please please where the duck is the emergency contacts list.’ What did you want me to do with that information besides rush over here as soon as I woke up?”

Rook looks sheepishly down at her phone. “I, uh, I guess I forgot to text you some updates?”

“I guess! I thought the dishwasher was broken, but here you two muppets are hanging around without a care in the world.”

“The dishwasher is broken.”

“The emergency contacts list is on your laptop.”

“Okay, why does everyone know that but me?”

“You could have called Solas.”

Ouch.

“Who’s Solas?” Lucanis asks.

“Technically, he owns the property,” Rook says.

“Rook’s ex,” Neve says at the same time.

“Ah.”

“So what are we doing about the broken dishwasher?” Neve asks.

“Bellara is going to fix it, hopefully.”

“Why the hell am I even here then?”

“Because you’re a good friend?”

Neve pinches the bridge of her nose and points to the hallway. “Go take a break or something, both of you. I’ll handle things up here. I don’t want to see your faces again until I’ve had some coffee.”

Rook knows better than to mess with Neve when she’s using that tone of voice, so she hops off her barstool and scurries off to the back with Lucanis hot on her heels.

“And you got Taco Bell without me?!” Neve’s indignant voice chases them down the hallway.

Rook flops down onto the loveseat with a chuckle. Lucanis joins her, and a weary sigh escapes his mouth as soon as his body makes contact with the worn, lumpy cushions. He pulls his borrowed hair tie out of his hair and hands it back to her, then rests his head back and closes his eyes. Rook recognizes the feeling all too well—now that he’s finally sitting down, he’s realizing just how exhausted he is.

“What a weird day,” she says.

“Mmm. You do have good friends.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re your friends too at this point.”

Lucanis’s eyes pop open.

“What?” Rook asks, when he doesn’t say anything. He winces.

“It’s too embarrassing.”

“Now you have to tell me.”

“Until I met you, I think Illario was my only friend. I really don’t have a life outside of my job, do I?” he says to the ceiling, cringing a little.

The image of Teia and Viago standing in Lucanis’s foyer pops into Rook’s head. The obvious concern in their voices, the fact that they went all the way to his apartment to check on him, just like she did. But now doesn’t seem like the time to bring that up.

“No wonder you got the Sunday scaries,” she says instead. “I still can’t believe Illario texted me.”

Then again, maybe she can. Harding tried to scare Lucanis off, in the beginning. Maybe Illario really is just overprotective.

“He stands by it, he told me yesterday.”

“Asshole. Sorry, but he is.”

“He is,” Lucanis agrees matter-of-factly.

Rook shudders to think what havoc her friends would wreak if they had her phone in that situation.

“He had your phone for what, a day? Two? Do you think he messed with anyone else? Or downloaded some weird porn or gambling apps or something?”

Lucanis’s eyes widen, imagining the horrible possibilities. “He doesn’t know my password, thank god.”

“Small miracles.”

They fall silent. She keeps thinking Lucanis is going to fall asleep, but every time she glances over at him, his eyes are somehow still open.

“Thanks for all your help today. Really,” she says.

“Honestly, thank you for letting me help. I don’t know what to do with this much free time.”

He tries to keep his tone light, but his pain is raw and obvious. An open wound, still. Rook wants to make a joke, something about knitting scarves to sell on Etsy or starting a YouTube cooking channel, but for once she reads the room. Well, almost.

“Do you want to work here?”

The idea has been brewing in her mind all day, ever since Flynn called Lucanis a new hire. It just makes sense.

“Very funny,” he says quietly.

“I’m serious.”

He turns his head to search her face, looking for proof that she’s joking. When he finds none, he just squints, his brow creasing, looking harder.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Bullshit, it’s a great idea.”

“You’re serious.”

She nods. “Say yes.”

Rook would pay any amount of money to know what thoughts are running through Lucanis’s head right now, what war he’s waging with himself. The familiar self-doubt creeps up on her—she’s overstepped, she’s trying to fix him, she’s deluding herself thinking that someone whose net worth is more than all of the Lighthouse crew’s combined would ever want to work here. She braces for disappointment.

But then Lucanis’s eyes start to crinkle, as a slow smile spreads over his face.

“Yes.”

Chapter Text

Rook: you don’t need to bring lunch today

Lucanis: I don’t mind, I have enough leftover caldo gallego for at least three people

Rook: ok i googled what that is and it sounds great but save your leftovers, for TODAY IS MYSTERY SLUDGE DAY

Lucanis: It sounds like you want me to be excited about that?

Rook: YES

Lucanis: Mystery sludge

Rook: THE SLUDGE IS NIGH

Lucanis: You’re going to make me ask, aren’t you? What is mystery sludge?

Rook: YOU’LL SEE

Lucanis: Ominous

Rook: bring carrots

A couple hours later, Lucanis is standing in the back room of the Lighthouse, holding a bag of carrots—the fancy, multi-colored kind—and looking at Rook and Harding like they’re asking him to commit a war crime.

“It’s already potato leek soup,” he says. “Why add anything?”

“Because there isn’t enough for everyone. But there will be if everyone adds to it,” Harding says.

“And no one knew it was happening until this morning, so they can’t prep their ingredients too far in advance. That’s the mystery part,” Rook adds.

“And you call it sludge to make it sound…even less appetizing?”

“The sludge part is more about looks than taste.”

“I could have just shared my caldo gallego.”

“That did not look vegetarian when I googled it earlier.”

“It’s not.”

“Well, what if Emmrich wants some? He’ll probably stop by before the play tonight.”

“But…”

“After all the stupid shit we’ve roped you into, this is where you draw the line?” Harding asks, pointing to the crock pot on the table, where her ma’s leftover potato leek soup simmers away happily.

“Live a little,” Rook says.

He lets out a defeated sigh. “This is a waste of good carrots.”

“I promise you, it’s not,” Rook says.

Lucanis sighs again, for emphasis, and gets out the cutting board.

“Sludge,” he mutters to himself.

He’s been working at the Lighthouse for three weeks at this point, and it might be a stretch to say he looks happy, but he at least looks happier. The emotional wounds from his forced leave of absence seem to be slowly scabbing over. Rook does sometimes catch him reaching to loosen a tie that’s not around his neck or checking his phone for meetings that aren’t there, and he’s still not great with downtime, but he’s getting better.

If Caterina or anyone from Talon Corp has updated him on the terms of his leave, he hasn’t said anything to Rook about it.

He also hasn’t said anything about their almost-kiss last month, or made anything remotely resembling a move since then. Rook doesn’t think his feelings have changed though, and she doesn’t think she misunderstood them. It’s like he’s gone into survival mode, and he doesn’t have the bandwidth to do anything but get through the day.

Rook has been there. That hollow look that still comes over Lucanis’s face during quieter moments? She’s seen it in the mirror herself, dozens of times this past year. So she’s not going to rush him or pressure him into doing something he’s not ready to do. He’s around, and he’s happier, and that’s good enough.

After Lucanis finishes chopping his carrots, he carries them over to the crock pot and dutifully dumps them inside.

“When is it time to eat it?” he asks, looking less than thrilled about the prospect. Probably wondering if he has time to run home and get his own leftovers instead.

“More people have to bring stuff,” Harding explains like she’s talking to a five year old.

“Of course,” he says dryly. “What did you bring, Rook? Cheetos?”

Rook got Cheeto dust on his shirt a few days ago and he’s obviously still not over it.

“Good guess, but no. More potatoes.”

“More potatoes?”

“You can never have too many potatoes.”

“Potatoes are the only fresh vegetable I’ve ever seen Rook buy,” Harding says.

“I bought an onion that one time, when we tried making bloomin’ onions. It didn’t go well,” she adds for Lucanis’s benefit.

“I don’t know how either of you are still alive.”

“Dumb luck, mostly,” Harding says. “Okay, I’m heading out to the community garden, I’ll be back in a few hours. Do we still have those veggie bouillon cubes from last time or should I bring back broth?”

“How often do you do this?” Lucanis asks, like he can’t believe they’ve voluntarily subjected themselves to Mystery Sludge Day more than once.

Rook shrugs. “A couple times a year.”

“Whenever the mood strikes,” Harding agrees. “You can’t plan ahead for it, that would ruin—”

“The mystery, yes, I understand.”

“I don’t think you do yet, but you will,” Harding says over her shoulder as she leaves.

“You get that that sounds like a threat, right?” Lucanis calls after her.

“Yup!” her chipper reply comes back faintly.

“I thought we were getting along better,” he says to Rook.

“You are, that’s one of her nice threats.”

“If you say so.”

Rook and Lucanis get back to work. It’s easy, working with him. He has this way of anticipating what needs to happen next, even an hour from now, that always makes Rook’s day run smoother. And she’s always aware of him. It’s like her body is attuned to his presence whenever he’s near her. It’s comforting, in a way. Grounding. Even when he’s sulking about mystery sludge.

Over the next few hours, other people show up with their ingredients. Neve brings lemons, because if her food isn’t fried it at least needs to be acidic. Emmrich brings mushrooms—a funky look kind called maitake that Lucanis makes a big deal over—but he’s more excited about Manny’s play tonight than the mystery sludge, which is understandable.

“Oh, and he’s going by Fred now,” Emmrich says.

“Fred?” Rook asks, wrinkling her nose. “That makes him sound like an old man! Not as old as Manfred, though, so I guess that’s something.”

“His name is Manfred?” Lucanis asks, raising a brow.

“Johanna and I wanted to honor both of our fathers when we named him. It was either Manfred Rupert or Rupert Manfred.”

Emmrich’s ex-wife, Johanna, isn’t really in the picture. She’s not even in the country, usually. He doesn’t talk about her often, but Rook gets the impression that there were a lot of arguments, after Manny—Fred—was born, about who was going to put their career on the backburner to raise him, and it decidedly wasn’t Johanna.

“I don’t think Fred sounds too old. It’s just more…grown up,” Lucanis observes.

“He’s a serious actor now,” Emmrich says with a twinkle in his eye. “And we may have shown him some Fred Astaire movies in preparation for his stage debut.”

“Will there be dancing tonight then? What is this play about?” Lucanis asks.

“You’ve never seen Footloose?” Rook asks. Of all the things he hasn’t seen, somehow this one is surprising.

“With Kevin Bacon?” Emmrich says helpfully.

“The kids love to dance, but dancing is outlawed!” Rook adds.

“Who would outlaw dancing?”

Rook mentally adds it to the list of movies and TV shows she wants to show him. They’ve had a few more TV nights, mostly to finish their Netflix cult documentary show and a few more episodes of Arrested Development. The way the list keeps growing, though, they’re never going to catch up. And somehow she’s fine with that.

“This is the youth edition, so it’s only an hour long, but that’s still the gist,” Emmrich says. “Will the mystery sludge be ready by 4 P—oh, Lucanis, it’s your first Mystery Sludge Day! How thrilling!”

“Is that the word we would use?” Lucanis asks flatly.

“It’s wonderful, you’ll see,” Emmrich says.

“Everyone keeps saying that…”

Taash and Davrin stop by on their respective lunch breaks, Taash with a can of beans—they’re banned from bringing anything spicy after sneaking in two ghost peppers last time—and Davrin with some frozen peas.

“Smelling good already,” Davrin says, taking a deep breath in.

And it is. The whole Lighthouse smells like potatoes and herbs and comfort. Customers keep asking if there’s a food special on today, and Keller keeps having to explain that no, the Garden is still only serving hot dogs. Mystery Sludge Day is an employee only event. Plus Emmrich as an honorary guest who won’t sue them if for some reason the sludge gives them all food poisoning—hasn’t happened yet, knock on wood.

“See? You can’t argue with that,” Rook says to Lucanis.

“I guess not,” he mutters.

“Hey, don’t judge the sludge,” Davrin says. “I’m just glad Harding decided to do it today so I can eat all the leftovers while y’all are at the play.”

“You know I appreciate you and Taash closing up tonight, but you better leave some sludge for tomorrow.”

When Emmrich first asked everyone if they wanted to go to Manny’s play, Davrin and Taash immediately volunteered to stay behind at the Lighthouse and close, even though it’s on a weekday. Elementary school theater is not their idea of a good time.

“No promises,” Davrin says to Rook with a waggle of his eyebrows, then asks Lucanis, “We still on for tomorrow?”

“Yes, you said 5 PM?” Lucanis confirms.

“Yeah, and remember to stretch first so I don’t leave you in the dust this time. Later!”

“Bye, Davrin,” Rook calls after him, then turns back to Lucanis. “What are you two doing tomorrow?”

“We’ve been running together, at the park in the Chantry District. It’s better than running on a treadmill, but he is…competitive.”

Rook tries to temper her smile. It’s good to see Lucanis out doing things with the rest of the crew. She knows Taash invited him out with their queer birding group, and Bellara’s joined him at yoga class a couple times—he does, in fact, do yoga for stress relief, but he doesn’t go to the same studio as Irelin. Probably for the best, she and Bellara are in the stage of “on again” where they can’t stop locking lips.

Bellara is the last person to drop off her ingredients, between classes. A bundle of parsley and chives, and a plate of cookies for dessert, labeled with a bunch of question marks. To go with the mystery theme, presumably. Rook eats one immediately, and offers the plate to Lucanis.

“If you fill up on cookies, you won’t have to eat as much mystery sludge,” she reasons.

He looks tempted, but crosses his arms. “Cookies are for dessert.”

“Fine, more for me,” Rook eats another cookie with a shrug.

Harding comes back with broth, and eats a couple cookies while she empties it into the crockpot. She eyes the sludge like an artist contemplating her canvas, and gives a few deep sniffs.

“One more hour, then it should be ready,” she declares.

That hour passes quickly. Bustling around the Lighthouse, makings drinks, chatting with her regulars and friends, Rook feels a sense of peace fold over her. Like being swaddled in a warm bathrobe or a big hug. The sun is shining. The sludge is making everything smell cozy. She’s going to see some adorably terrible theater later.

Everything is just…really nice. And fuzzy. And nice.

Harding appears out of nowhere to put both hands on Rook’s cheeks and lean in close, staring with unfocused intensity.

“You feeling okay, Rook?” she asks, narrowing eyes that are a little red, their lids a little droopy.

“I feel great. Are you okay?” Rook asks. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Harding is…

“We’re stoned,” Harding says with a sigh.

Oh shit, she’s right.

“The cookies.”

“Bellara, noooo…”

Rook: did you put pot in these cookies on purpose was the ??? for the pot

Dots appear and disappear a few times as Bellara types.

Bellara: OMG

Bellara: I made two different batches I must have labeled them wrong

Bellara: Is everyone ok?? How many did you eat?

Rook: 2 i think? theyre v good

Bellara: You’re gonna be so zooted I’m so sorry

“Why did Bellara just tell me that I need to send you two to the back room and make sure you hydrate?” Lucanis asks, looking down at his phone. It buzzes with another text. “Oh, because she accidentally drugged you. Right.”

“You know what’s in the back room?” Harding asks Rook, brightening.

“Sludge!”

A few minutes later, Rook and Harding are tucked up next to each other on the loveseat with bowls of mystery sludge. Debbie Harding’s potato leek soup is amazing on its own, but this is still richer and brighter and better in every way. Starchy, but not too starchy, from the extra potatoes and beans, and the mushrooms add a subtle umami flavor—Rook picked that word up from Lucanis—and the carrots, peas, and herbs add new texture and freshness.

“This is our best sludge yet,” Rook decides.

She says that every time, but every time it’s true. Except for the time with Taash’s ghost peppers.

“One hundred percent yes,” Harding agrees. “If Lucanis doesn’t like it, I don’t think we can’t be friends anymore.”

“He’ll like it,” Rook says optimistically around another mouthful.

“You’re probably right. He’s surprised me so far.”

“Good surprised or bad surprised?”

“Good, I think.” Harding thoughtfully stirs her sludge. “I don’t know, it’s hard to trust someone with that much money. And power. It corrupts people, you know? Just look at my dad.”

Rook’s never met Harding’s dad, but she knows he’s in sales and that he left Harding’s ma when Harding was a teenager. The way Harding tells it, a lot of her anger issues started around that time.

“I don’t think Lucanis is like that.”

“Okay, then look at Solas,” Harding persists. “Sorry, are we still not talking about him? You’re not allowed to get mad at me I’m on drugs.”

Rook rolls her eyes.

“Lucanis isn’t like Solas. He cares about other people, for starters, and his head isn’t permanently lodged up his own ass. And his head has hair on it!”

“He does have nice hair.”

“I want to pet it.”

“Still no kissing?”

“Nope.”

“I love kissing Taash, they’re a really good kisser.”

Someone clears their throat, and Rook looks over to see Lucanis standing in the doorway, holding two glasses of water.

Rook’s entire body turns a deep shade of crimson. Even inside. She can feel her kidneys blushing.

“Bellara reminded me again to make sure you hydrate, she’s very insistent,” he says, walking over to hand them their waters.

“Try my sludge,” Rook says, holding up her bowl in an attempt to distract him from thinking about what she just said about kissing. And his hair. Oh god.

He takes the bowl and stares at it for a second before bringing a spoonful to his mouth. Objectively, it does look gross. It’s a mud brown color, thicker than soup but not quite a stew, and vaguely lumpy. Kind of like cat puke.

He chews for a few seconds, his face carefully blank. It’s the opposite of when he tried her Baja Blast, he’s not giving anything away this time. Rook holds her breath.

“I hate how good this is,” he eventually says, eating another spoonful.

Rook and Harding cheer, earning a laugh from Lucanis.

“Drink your water, I have to go help with Mila’s math homework,” he says, handing Rook her bowl back.

Not long after that, the rest of the crew starts trickling in to reap the rewards of Mystery Sludge Day. This is the best part, even better than eating it—sitting around with these people, this family, sharing something they made together.

Neve adds even more lemon juice to hers, Taash brings their own red pepper flakes, and Davrin is already talking about how they could get more protein into it next time. The third best thing about mystery sludge is thinking about what to put in it next time.

“The weather’s getting warmer,” Emmrich says wistfully. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this is our last Mystery Sludge Day until October or November.”

“Does anyone else ever start the mystery sludge, or is it always Harding?” Lucanis asks.

“Sometimes Bellara,” Neve says. “No one else owns a crock pot.”

“We should do a dinner party again soon though, the last one was fun,” Bellara suggests.

“I could host,” Lucanis says.

“At your place?” Rook asks. None of the other crew has been there so far aside from her. It feels like kind of a big deal, him opening up his home to everyone.

He just shrugs. “I have the space.”

Which is a fair point, their last dinner party was at Bellara’s a couple months ago, and her apartment is barely bigger than Rook’s.

“As long as Bellara’s banned from bringing dessert,” Taash jokes.

“I said I’m sorry!” Bellara exclaims. “I’ll start color coding my edibles, I promise!”

The first thing Bellara did when she got back to the Lighthouse was apologize twenty times, the second thing she did was swap the pot cookies for the other plate of untainted cookies, so everyone else can have dessert without showing up to an elementary school play high as kites.

“Oh no,” Rook says to Harding.

“Chicken butt!” Harding answers. “Wait, did you not say ‘guess what?’”

“Are we too high to go to the play?”

“Nah, it’s fine. We’ve still got a couple hours. The worst thing that happens is I laugh at all the wrong parts and you fall asleep.”

“I won’t fall asleep,” Rook objects.

She does fall asleep. In the middle of the first dance number.

Lucanis gently shakes her awake. Her head is on his shoulder, and his shirt is softer than her own pillow. She doesn’t think she was drooling, but it’s hard to tell in the dark.

Yeah, fine, too much weed makes her sleepy, Harding was right. But to be fair, it’s been a long day and she ate a lot of good soup. And it doesn’t help that the air in the packed auditorium is warm and stuffy, crowded with parents and family friends watching the play like it’s opening night on Broadway.

“Sorry,” Rook whispers to Lucanis, sitting up straight and attempting to focus again.

Fred is doing a spectacular job in his supporting role, really projecting all his lines to the back of the auditorium and dancing his little heart out. Emmrich and Strife are holding hands, beaming proudly up at the stage, and it’s almost enough to make Rook understand why people want to have children. Almost.

The enthusiastic racket of a bunch of eight year olds clomping around and singing should be enough to keep her awake, but a few minutes later Lucanis is nudging her again.

“Come on,” he whispers, taking her arm and standing up. He shoots an apologetic smile over Rook’s head, possibly at Emmrich.

Rook follows him out of the auditorium into the small lobby, where a couple bored PTA parents are sitting at a folding table selling concessions.

“What’s going on?” she asks, covertly wiping her chin because she thinks she did actually drool that time.

“You started snoring,” Lucanis says, and if he’s trying to hide his smirk he’s failing miserably.

“Fuuuu…dgesicles. I’m the worst. Did Emmrich notice? Do you think Fred did?”

“A parent across the aisle is Facetiming the whole thing to someone who won’t stop talking, and Harding keeps laughing every time the Reverend talks. I’m sure no one noticed a couple snores,” he says generously. “One second.”

Lucanis heads over to the concessions table and comes back with a bag of Cheetos and a can of Diet Coke.

“Here, maybe this will help wake you up.”

“You really trust me with Cheetos?”

“I’m willing to take the risk.”

Rook grins. “Very brave. Do you want to get some fresh air?”

“As long as we don’t miss the end. I have to find out if the Reverend sees the error of his ways,” Lucanis says gravely.

“Spoiler alert: he does.”

“Oh, thank goodness.”

He follows her out into the parking lot and they sit on the curb, shoulders close, not quite touching. The sidewalk is littered with cherry blossom petals. The crack of Rook opening her soda echoes faintly into the cool twilight.

“Want some?” she asks, after taking a sip. He shakes his head. She doesn’t bother offering him any Cheetos. Lessons were learned.

The sodium and caffeine start to perk her up, slowly but surely.

“What were you like in elementary school?” Lucanis asks.

There’s only one way to sum up Rook’s youth. “Always getting into trouble.”

She feels more than sees Lucanis smile. “Why am I not surprised?”

“What can I say? I was an only child who asked too many questions and loved pulling pranks. My parents put me in Girl Scouts and tee-ball, to try to give me some structure, I guess. Didn’t work, but I did get a couple best friends out of it. We’d ride our bikes around past curfew and catch frogs in the creek behind our subdivision and make forts and whatever. Pretty average kid stuff.” She shoots a glance over at him. “What about you?”

“I had Illario,” he says with a self-deprecating chuckle. “We went to private school—”

“Shocker,” she says with a teasing grin. He rolls his eyes.

“—and my grandmother put us in an accelerated program that didn’t leave much time for anything besides schoolwork. With private tutors on top of that, for what she saw as gaps in our education. Illario dragged me out after our curfew a few times when we were older, but Caterina always made sure it wasn’t worth it.” A pause. “It all felt very normal at the time, but looking back…”

They lapse into silence. Rook pictures Lucanis’s big, solemn eyes in the portrait she saw of him, Illario, and Caterina in his hallway, and struggles to imagine a younger Lucanis doing anything but sitting dutifully behind a desk, working on homework. Only to grow up and sit dutifully behind a desk, still working. Always working.

Her own parents might suck, but at least they let her have a childhood.

“About what you were saying to Harding earlier…” Lucanis breaks the silence.

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” Rook says, her cotton ball brain struggling to remember any conversations she had more than ten minutes ago.

He shifts awkwardly. “About not kissing.”

She almost chokes on a Cheeto.

Oh.

“Oh,” she says, when she can speak again. “It’s not—don’t worry. I mean. You don’t owe me any explanations.”

Oh, god. It’s only been a few weeks and he’s already sick of me.

Lucanis lets out a strained laugh and rubs the back of his neck, looking towards her but not quite at her.

“I should have mentioned this before, but I didn’t…” he trails off, searching for the right words. “I didn’t know if it would matter. It doesn’t usually get to the point where it matters. Then after that night at the Viper’s Nest…”

He’s letting me down gently. With Cheetos and Diet Coke to soften the blow.

“It was too much,” Rook says with a wince.

“No, that’s not it, I—”

“I just thought when you said you figured out how you felt about me, that meant—”

“I’m demi. Demisexual, I mean,” he says, almost barfing the words out.

A million puzzle pieces click together in Rook’s head.

Ohhh.

“That makes...so much sense. Shit, Lucanis, I’m sorry if I made you feel—”

“No,” he says quickly. “No, you have nothing to apologize for. Like I said, I should have mentioned it. I do like you. Very much. I’m just not used to—I don't make friends easily, so...” He trails off again. “It’s only happened one other time, and I messed that up royally.”

“Royally? That bad, huh?”

“I gave him a gift, thinking I was flirting, and he acted like it never happened.”

“But you’re great at gifts,” she says, puzzled. “Whatever it was couldn’t have been that bad.”

“It was a Montblanc pen. I thought he’d like it,” he says, cringing a little at the memory.

“I don’t know, he sounds like a dweeb.”

“You’ve met him, actually.”

Rook blanks for a second, then realizes. “Viago?”

“Mmm. In college. That’s when I finally learned about the ace spectrum. Before that, I thought I was…broken, I guess. Especially growing up with Illario. He had his first girlfriend when he was nine,” Lucanis says wryly.

“Somehow not surprising.”

The relief on Lucanis’s face as Rook takes all of this information in stride is palpable. From the way he’s sitting hunched into himself, shoulders up around his ears, braced for impact, it’s painfully obvious he expected the conversation to go poorly. It makes her wonder who else he’s told over the years, and she bristles at the idea that they might have laughed at him or told him being demi isn’t real or asked a dozen innocently cruel questions.

The vulnerability it took for him to tell her burns like a tiny, exploding star in her heart.

“Are you worried it’s a dealbreaker? Because it’s not,” Rook says firmly.

“It’s more that I don’t really know how to do this,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the two of them. “There are a lot of…things…I don’t know how to do, because I’ve never really cared about doing them.”

“It’s okay if you still don’t care about doing them,” she says. And she means it. She likes sex, but she also likes Lucanis, and she can get herself off just fine.

“That doesn’t feel unfair to you?”

“We’re both adults, and we’re just…laying all our cards out on the table, I think, right? So no, it doesn’t feel unfair,” she says, and a little grin slips out at her next thought. “And if you ever do care about doing things, you said you were a good student, right? Well, I’m a great teacher.”

Something changes in his face then, like watching a lake thaw in spring, the last thin sheet of ice cracking and melting to reveal the deep, beautiful waters right below the surface. His dark eyes are shadowed in the falling twilight, but he’s looking at her in a way no one has ever looked at her. Helplessly, hopefully.

“Rook, I don’t even know how much longer I’ll be at the Lighthouse or what’s going on at Talon Corp,” he offers one last weak protest. “My life is…”

“Messy?” she prompts.

He huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yes. And you deserve better than to deal with my mess.”

She smiles at him. “I deserve to decide that for myself.”

“Rook…”

His gaze drifts to her lips, just like it did that night at the Viper’s Nest, and this time she leans in just a little closer. Close enough that she can feel the warm exhale of his breath as his lips part. His eyes find hers again, questioning, and she gives the tiniest nod.

When they kiss, it’s softer than a paintbrush on canvas, careful as his perfectly rolled sleeves, so gentle Rook’s heart stutters and skips a beat. Her breath hitches, somewhere between a whimper and a sigh, and Lucanis chases the sound, deepening their kiss for one delicious moment before drawing back.

Her eyelids flutter open in time to see him swallow nervously, lips still parted, cheeks beautifully flushed, eyes intent on her reaction.

“Sorry our first kiss tasted like Cheetos,” she whispers, barely able to suppress a grin.

Lucanis’s snort of laughter breaks what little composure she has left, and then she’s straight up giggling—giggling—so hard she can’t stop, and then Lucanis gets caught up in it too, and god, he has such a good laugh.

“You’re sure you’re okay with taking things slow?” he asks, after they finally catch their breath. Still smiling, even though his dark eyes betray some lingering nerves.

“I can do slow,” she says.

They share a bright, blushing nod. Agreeing. They’re doing this, this is happening.

“Do you want to head back inside?” she asks.

“We probably should.”

Rook stands and holds out her hand to him, and he takes it, allowing her to pull him up.

“You might want to ask the PTA parents for a napkin, I had Cheeto dust all over my fingers, too,” she says innocently.

“Seriously, Rook?” he says, brushing his hands together to rid himself of orange crumbs.

She starts cackling again. “It’s your fault, you bought them. I should save the rest, maybe I really will add them to the mystery sludge tomorrow.”

“Wait, we’re having more mystery sludge tomorrow?”

“It’s even better the second day.”

Lucanis’s exaggerated groan of despair follows Rook back into the school. She can’t help but notice that he doesn’t bother the PTA parents for a napkin, and instead takes her hand again as they walk back into the auditorium.

Chapter Text

The laundromat two blocks over from Rook’s apartment is always dead on Monday nights, which means Rook always does her laundry on Monday nights.

Usually not this late, but she had to cover Neve’s closing shift after Neve got a last minute tip on a stakeout, and she’s dangerously low on clean underwear.

She doesn’t usually have company, either.

“These towels?” Lucanis asks.

His arm sticks out of her open bathroom door, holding two bath towels and a hand towel.

“Yep, toss ‘em in,” Rook says, emerging from her bedroom with an armload of clothes from her hamper.

They meet at the giant blue IKEA bag sitting in the middle of her living room floor and drop their stuff in.

“One more sec,” she says, disappearing back into her room for a final sweep of the clothes on her bedroom floor in case some of them don’t pass the sniff test. Speaking of which. She gives both of her armpits a whiff, then peels off the Fiona Apple shirt she wore all day at work, swapping it for an old—but clean—white t-shirt.

Lucanis waits in her living room in a way that borders on chivalrous. He hasn’t been in her bedroom yet. Which is fine, especially because if he sees the state it’s in right now—clothes spilling out of her closet, a Jenga tower of unopened mail on the bedside table, half-full water cups on every surface like she’s the little girl from Signs—she doesn’t think he’ll ever want to come back.

Then again, he could surprise her. At work earlier, he told her she had pickles in her teeth and then kissed her anyway. If that didn’t gross him out, maybe nothing will.

When Rook returns to the living room, Lucanis is leaning against her couch, glancing down at his phone. The cat is weaving between his legs.

His face lights up when he sees Rook. Just a little, like someone plugging in a night light in a dark hallway. She’s caught it happening a few times recently, the same way she catches herself looking for him whenever she enters a room now. Harding and Neve are already teasing them about it.

“Maybe I should get you one of those granny carts like old ladies use at the grocery store?” Lucanis asks, eyeing the overflowing IKEA bag.

“Are you calling me old? Because I think you’re older than me.”

“And I would proudly use a granny cart if I did laundry at a laundromat.”

“You’re on to me,” she says, with an exaggerated sigh. “The real reason I invited you to the laundromat is to get a free granny cart out of it.”

“I thought as much,” he says with a smirk. He finally gives in and bends down to pet Bianca.

The actual invitation went more like this: Rook mentioned she was doing laundry right after work as she and Lucanis were closing down the Lighthouse, Lucanis said he didn’t remember seeing a washer and dryer in her apartment, she said duh she’s going to the laundromat, he made vaguely concerned noises about whether that was safe to do alone this late at night, and Rook told him if he’s so worried he’s welcome to join her.

She didn’t bother explaining that she knows the attendant who works Monday nights and that it’s probably the least sketchy place on the block.

“You’re sure you don’t have anything better to do tonight?” she asks, hefting the IKEA bag up.

“I’m sure.”

They both know it’s just a pretense to spend more time together.

“Come on, it closes at midnight.”

The strap of the IKEA bag is already digging into Rook’s shoulder, and when Lucanis doesn’t immediately respond, she follows his gaze to the stack of canvases propped up on the dropcloth around her easel.

She’s painting again.

Not a ton, but for the first time in months, progress is happening on her work in progress. It was originally pretty dark, monochromatic, focused on creating texture and a suggestion of wings and movement that kept falling flat. But over the last few weeks, more color has found its way into the canvas. She’s playing with chiaroscuro. New ideas are taking shape.

Lucanis turns back to her but doesn’t say anything, knowing at this point that Rook will talk about her art when she wants to talk about it. He stands, and the corners of his mouth turn up in a quiet, admiring smile that brings a faint blush to her cheeks.

When she squeezes by him to lead the way out the door, he picks up her bottle of dollar store laundry detergent in one hand while his other hand grazes the small of her back to help guide her past. He’s getting more comfortable touching her. Finding reasons to. Rook is still mindful of letting him set the pace, explore his own boundaries, but she likes giving him those reasons.

It’s just starting to drizzle when they get to the laundromat. The place is completely empty, except for the attendant, Shale, hanging out at the employee desk playing on their Switch. They’re a mountain of a person, with craggy features and a buzzed head. Rook gives them a wave and they give her a nod and a “Rook,” without looking up from their game.

She opens two washer doors all the way to peer inside before loading them.

“What are you looking for?” Lucanis asks.

“Bad smells. Gum. Clothes people left behind.”

“That reminds me,” Shale says, still focused on their game, “that purple sweatshirt is still in the lost and found. If no one claims it by Thursday, it’s yours.”

“If you wanted to hide it at the bottom of the bin until then, I would consider it a personal favor,” Rook says to them, then to Lucanis, “A decent chunk of my wardrobe comes from the lost and found. It’s over there if you want to check it out.”

“I think I’m okay.”

Lucanis is finally starting to wear jeans and short sleeves regularly, and it does help him blend into the neighborhood a little better. Granted, they’re black jeans that must be either expensive or tailored or both, given how good they make his ass look, and yesterday it came out that his very normal looking t-shirt was a from luxury brand called Cucinelli and cost hundreds of dollars. Not surprising then, that him willingly shopping out of the laundromat lost and found is still a reach.

The washers look and smell normal, so Rook throws her clothes and detergent in and pays with the app on her phone. She gestures grandly to the bank of hard, plastic chairs across from the washers.

“Now we wait.”

They settle in next to each other, Rook with her laptop and Lucanis with the Book Club book for May, Bellara’s pick. Rook hasn’t started it yet but Lucanis said she can borrow his copy when he’s done. His phone must be in his back pocket—Rook can hear it buzz against the plastic chair when he gets a text. He doesn’t bother checking it.

“Do you remember if we’re low on coffee filters?” Rook asks after a few minutes of working on next week’s orders.

“Not yet, but if you order more now you definitely won’t need to get more next week. And don’t forget that they shorted you on straws.”

“Mmm, thanks.”

Lucanis keeps track of things with an ease Rook envies, considering she’s been managing the Lighthouse’s inventory for years and he’s only been working there for six or seven weeks. But it’s hard to get truly annoyed when it’s so helpful.

“I don’t mind doing orders, if you have other things to work on,” he says. “Or just want a break.”

“I’ve got it,” Rook says absently, without really considering his offer.

“I know you do. But I would love to introduce you to this thing called delegating,” he teases gently.

“Har har. Maybe next time, I’m almost done.”

They sit together quietly for a few more minutes. Usually Rook would have headphones on or be chatting with Shale, so being here with Lucanis is an unexpected, but not unwelcome, change of pace. After moving on to the next order, she lets out a huff of annoyance.

“The liquor distributor has a good deal on vodka, but we don’t have anywhere to store the amount of cases I’d need to buy,” she grumbles. “I wish the Lighthouse could just magically make new space appear when I need it.”

“What’s your lease like, maybe you could do some minor renovations? If you got rid of the couch in the back—”

“First of all, how dare you, I love that couch more than I love Harding’s ma—don’t tell her I said that. Second of all, it’s come up before, renos aren’t that easy.”

“Couldn’t you talk to…what was his name? The property owner?”

The “your ex” part goes unsaid.

“Solas.” Rook swallows a dozen meaner comments and says, “We’re not exactly on speaking terms.”

Lucanis’s eyebrows lift ever so slightly, cautiously curious. “That sounds complicated.”

“Complicated” doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Rook sighs. “He and the old owner were close friends. Solas funded the business. That’s how he and I met, actually.”

It was only a few years ago, but it feels like another lifetime.

“But he’s no longer involved?” Lucanis asks. She could be reading into it, but she thinks she hears some relief in his voice.

“He’s more of a behind the scenes guy.” Rook leans back in her seat, orders momentarily forgotten. “Lots of money, lots of big ideas about how the world should work. And, of course, his ideas are the only good ideas,” she can’t help but sound snide. “Apparently he wasn’t always like that, but I caught on a little late.”

“Is that why you don’t talk anymore?”

“That’s part of it.”

The other part looms just at the edge of Rook’s thoughts, always. Her chest tightens. The scar on her elbow twinges with phantom pain.

Lucanis doesn’t press, just rests one hand lightly on her knee.

“He sounds like people I’ve worked with,” he says after a thoughtful minute, his voice light, joking a little maybe.

With the Book Club book in his other hand, Rook is reminded of what he said at the first meeting he attended.

“An investment banking monster?”

The fingers on her knee twitch.

“Someone who can easily justify their actions, even when they hurt other people. Especially when they hurt other people.”

“Yeah, that’s Solas in a nutshell,” she says dryly. Then pauses, considering her next words carefully. “Lucanis, can I ask you a question?”

He nods, trusting, and Rook can’t help but think that just a few weeks ago, his guard would already be all the way up.

“Everything you’ve said about what you do at Talon Corp, the people you’ve worked with…it doesn’t sound like you like it very much?”

His eyes don’t leave hers, and she can see him turning the question over in his mind. Deciding how much to get into it.

“It’s never been about whether I like it,” he says finally. “Although, there are some parts I like, and there’s satisfaction in a job well done. But I always knew I would work at Talon Corp. There was never any other option.”

Rook understands, or at least thinks she understands, the implication—Caterina has run Talon Corp for decades, and she raised her grandsons to follow in her footsteps. She said jump, Lucanis asked how high?

“What if there were other options?” she asks softly.

His answer is immediate, and there’s something heartbreaking it its simplicity:

“Then what was it all for?”

The words hang in the air for a minute until Lucanis opens his book up and starts reading again.

Rook doesn’t know what he means by “it,” but she can guess. His strict childhood. His lack of a social life. His hospitalizations last year. She hasn’t heard the words “involuntary commitment” again since that day she stood outside his apartment door, but they echo in moments like this.

What happened to you?

Rook has been staring at Lucanis for what’s probably an uncomfortable length of time at this point. She needs to let it go. But there’s no way she can focus on her orders now, so she puts her laptop away and pulls a small sketchpad out of her bag.

She shifts in her seat, propping her back against Lucanis’s shoulder, and starts sketching Shale. It calms her, the scratch of pencil on paper, the whir of the spin cycle, the occasional shush of Lucanis turning a page, the drizzle pattering outside.

Lucanis’s phone buzzes in his pocket a couple more times, and he ignores it.

Inevitably, like a moth to a flame or a racoon to a dumpster, Rook turns back to Lucanis. The side of his mouth flicks up, acknowledging that she’s looking at him again, but he keeps reading. She flips to a new page in her sketchpad and starts to draw him. A realistic rendering this time, not a caricature. Something to hang up in the back room of the Lighthouse, to make his employment there official even though it’s probably only temporary.

Sometimes Rook lets herself imagine that this isn’t a holdover for Lucanis, that his real life won’t start again as soon as Caterina summons him back to Talon Corp. Because she knows he’ll go. And she doesn’t want to think about what that means for them, what will change. Or maybe nothing will.

Maybe I don’t always have to assume the worst.

The washers beep one after the other, and Rook gets up to switch her clothes into the dryer, declining Lucanis’s offer of help. She’s really been scraping the bottom of the barrel these last few days, underwear-wise, and she hasn’t decided if she’s ready for him to see all of her holey, period-stained ones yet.

Lucanis gets another text just as Rook is sitting back down, and she exhales sharply through her nose.

“You know someone’s trying to text you, right?”

“Hmm? Ah. Yes, it’s Illario.”

Shocker.

“What if it’s important?” she asks, not necessarily trying to remind him of the time she had a minor freakout after being unable to get ahold of him for days. But have some self awareness, Lucanis, come on.

Lucanis sighs and takes his phone out of his pocket, scans the texts and send a brief message back.

“He just wants me to go out with him tonight.”

“Let me guess, the Diamond?”

“Of course.”

“Did you tell him you’re busy learning how laundromats work?”

“I did. He’s persistent.”

“It’s a Monday night Illario, get a grip.”

“Well, it’s also…” Lucanis clears his throat, looking uncertain, then deciding. “It’s also my birthday.”

Rook’s jaw drops.

“Today?”

“Yes.”

“Today is your birthday?”

“Yes.”

He’s full on blushing now, all the way to the tips of his ears.

“Why didn’t you say something?” she demands.

“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

“Oh my god, it’s not a milestone one is it? You’re not turning forty, are you?”

“No, thirty-six. But now who’s calling who old?” he asks, indignant.

“I mean, you’re still older than me, but touché,” she says. “Do you usually not celebrate, or…?”

“I’m usually working, honestly,” he says, a little abashed.

“So at least today was pretty standard, okay. Shit, Lucanis, we have to do something—oh! Hang on!”

Rook hops to her feet and grabs her bag, shoving her sketchpad inside.

“Where are you going?” Lucanis asks, starting to get up after her.

“Stay here, I’ll just be a minute!”

Rook barrels out the door before he has a chance to protest, jogging down the street to the 7-11 on the corner. The drizzle is full on rain now, and she’ll probably be soaked by the time she gets back, but this is worth it.

The thought twists and curls inside her chest like Bianca weaving around Lucanis’s legs: It’s his birthday and he’s spending it at the laundromat. With me.

She makes her purchases and races back through the rain, plopping back down next to Lucanis and swiping the wet hair out of her face.

“Okay, close your eyes,” she says, slightly out of breath.

He obediently does so.

Rook takes a second to appreciate the beautiful asymmetry of his face—his wide cheekbones, slightly crooked nose, lips fighting a smile—before pulling a package of Hostess birthday cupcakes and a lighter out of her bag. She holds the cupcakes out in one hand and flicks the lighter on behind them.

“Open,” she instructs, torn between feeling giddily proud of herself and completely lame.

His brown eyes open, and his smile blossoms fully, eye crinkles and all.

“Make a wish before Shale yells at me,” Rook says.

Lucanis holds her gaze for a few long seconds, and for all the humor she can trace in the lines of his face, there’s something serious there too. Focused. He nods to himself, and then blows the lighter out. Rook beams and hands him the cupcakes so she can dig into her bag again.

“I also got Ding Dongs and Sno Balls, in case you don’t like the cupcakes. And some scratch-its, but if you win anything you have to split it with me because you’re already loaded.”

Lucanis’s eyes flick down to the bounty of convenience store snacks and lottery tickets she’s laying out between them, then his gaze slips higher, and his mouth parts.

Rook glances down.

Oh. White shirt.

The t-shirt Rook changed into back at her apartment was already pretty thin to begin with, but after a couple minutes in the rain it’s now basically transparent. The mesh bralette she’s wearing underneath leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.

“Was your wish to see my boobs? Because, uh…”

Lucanis tilts forward and captures her mouth in a kiss that’s sweet and clumsy and steals the breath from her lungs.

“It’s definitely an added bonus, but no,” he says, smiling into her lips as his kisses turn soft and light. “I wished—“

“You can’t tell me, it won’t come true!” Rook protests between kisses.

He pulls back, looks at her again.

“It already has.”

The fact that that would be a pick-up line coming from anyone else is not lost on Rook, but she doesn’t care because he very obviously means it and her heart is busy melting into a giant puddle of goo.

Lucanis lets himself glance down one more time, then very intentionally does not look at her boobs again.

Rook takes the hint and crosses her arms in front of her chest before getting up.

“Shale, I know it’s not Thursday yet, but do you think I could have that purple sweatshirt now?” she asks with her winningest smile.

Shale looks up from their Switch, looks over at the clock on the wall—11:17 PM—and then back at Rook.

“Your shirt is wet.”

“Yeah, and the purple sweatshirt would really help with that.”

“But your own clothes will be dry soon.”

Rook lets out an exasperated sigh.

“Not soon enough. Don’t make me flash you to prove my point.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Shale, come on, please?”

Shale deliberates for a long, drawn out moment, probably just to mess with her.

“Fine.”

“I owe you one,” Rook says, darting over to the lost and found.

“Did I hear you say you have Sno Balls?” they ask.

“You sure did. This is clean, right?” Rook asks, holding the purple sweatshirt up.

“Yes. Give me the Sno Balls and we’ll call it even.”

“Deal.”

“That was an impressive bit of bargaining,” Lucanis says when she rejoins him.

“Just wait, you’ve never seen me at a garage sale.”

If Rook had been on her own with just Shale, she might not have cared about having a one-woman wet t-shirt contest at the laundromat. She’s seen people hang out in their underwear while they wash the clothes they came in wearing. Shale certainly couldn’t give two shits. But with Lucanis, it feels like accidentally stepping on the gas when they’re meant to be taking things slow.

They split the rest of the snacks. The cupcakes are too sweet for Lucanis, but he’s a big fan of the Ding Dongs. Rook thinks there’s a metaphor in there somewhere. They win $10 on scratch-its by the time the dryers beep and Rook dumps all of her clean laundry back into her IKEA bag.

“You’re not going to fold it?” Lucanis asks with some very obvious side-eye.

“It’s eleven-thirty-something, Shale has to get out of here soon,” Rook says breezily.

“I get paid to stay until midnight, don’t use me as excuse for your laziness,” Shale says flatly.

“Wow, okay, harsh. You caught me. I just hate folding laundry.”

“I know. Tell Taash I’ll be at the next birding meetup.”

“Tell them yourself, Shale. Last I heard you’re on thin ice with them. Something about pigeons.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

When Rook and Lucanis get outside, the rain has stopped and there’s a faint breeze in the air that almost smells like summer. Like rooftop cookouts and warm concrete and Slurpees. It’s the perfect weather for her new purple sweatshirt.

“It’s still your birthday for twentyish more minutes. We could cash in our winnings and buy more snack cakes,” she suggests. “Or you could come back to my place? Just to watch TV. No pressure.”

Lucanis’s eyes flit to Rook’s chest and for half a second he looks tempted, but he shakes his head. “I think I better get home. Spite will tear the place apart if I don’t feed him soon.”

They walk back to her building a little slower than necessary, Rook with her bag of laundry, Lucanis with her detergent, both content to dawdle despite the threat of Spite’s furry revenge. There’s no one else out this late, and only a few cars drive past. But it’s only two blocks, and soon they’re standing under the awning of Pizza Stone, faces lit by the neon glow of the pizza sign that’s always left on in the window.

“So, how would you rate your first laundromat experience?” Rook asks, stalling.

“Ten out of ten,” Lucanis says firmly.

“You’re not just saying that because of the Ding Dongs?”

The corner of his mouth curls up. “Maybe a little. When is your birthday? I can’t believe I’ve never asked.”

“Not until the end of November. You’ve got time to stock up on more Ding Dongs and scratch-its.”

“It’s a birthday tradition then?”

“It is now,” she says, matching his smile. “How’s it feel to be one year older and wiser?”

“I don’t know about wiser…”

He takes a breath in to say something else, then catches himself. Pauses.

“Can I tell you something?” he finally asks, like he’s still not sure he wants to say it but feels compelled to. He’s looking at his feet now, his face half in shadow.

“Always.”

He nods, but then he’s still, and it’s a few more seconds before he opens his mouth again.

“My mother was thirty-five when she died.” His voice is carefully neutral, but the smile is sliding off his face. “I’m officially older than she ever will be.”

Rook pictures the woman she saw in the photo, with his dark hair and his dark eyes. She doesn’t know what to say, but she doesn’t think he needs her to say anything, so she just steps in closer and weaves her fingers around his over the handle of the laundry detergent. He exhales, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders.

She wonders if he’s been carrying that thought around all day and finally felt like he could put it down.

He looks up past her at the dark, quiet street, only the slight indent between his eyebrows hinting at whatever underlying emotions he’s feeling. Then his eyes find hers. “Is it silly that I still don’t like the idea of you out alone this late at night?”

“No, it’s not,” she says quietly, willing to give him this. “I think I’ve lived on my own for so long that I’m just used to taking…I don’t know, calculated risks? Neve does keep trying to give me a taser, though.”

He smiles, but it’s more like a flinch. “She does love her taser.”

He must be thinking about the night they met now, too. Five months. It feels like ages, and also no time at all.

She takes the laundry detergent from his hand and kisses the corner of his mouth where his smile just was, until she can feel it come back.

“Happy birthday, Lucanis.”

“I’ll text you when I get home.”

Rook heads up to her apartment with an ache in her heart. Not a bad ache, it’s just a little tender. A little fragile. Her first instinct is to do what she always does and drop the IKEA bag down in the corner of her bedroom, where she can just grab clean clothes from it as needed as the week goes on. But there’s this glimmer of…something…inside of her—energy, purpose, safety—that bleeds over from spending time with Lucanis. So instead, she changes into her pjs, puts on some Bravo, and folds her laundry.

All of it.

And then puts it away.

And then literally high fives herself so loud she startles Bianca, because wow, is this what people who have their shit together feel like all the time?

Lucanis: Home. See you tomorrow

Rook: night old-timer

She sends him five happy birthday gifs for good measure. He sends her a picture of Spite chewing on a scratch-it.

It’s late. Rook should go to bed. But then she licks her lips, and they taste faintly of Ding Dongs, and she knows there’s no way she’s going to fall asleep any time soon. So she picks up her paintbrush and gets to work.

Chapter Text

“How do you have so many matching plates?”

“I don’t know, it’s how many come in a set.”

“People really buy plates in sets?”

It’s 10 PM, and dinner party prep is in full swing at Lucanis’s apartment.

“I got my cousin a big thirty-two piece dinnerware set for her wedding,” Harding says from her perch at the kitchen island where she’s opening bottles of wine. “Lucanis, if you ever get married, make sure you leave plates off your registry.”

“Or I could fill it with just plates, and never do dishes again,” Lucanis counters. He’s chopping vegetables for paella, apron secured around his waist.

Rook will never get over how good he looks in an apron.

“Should we get engaged so we can make a registry and get thirty-two plates?” Taash asks Harding. They’re setting the table, and also wearing an apron even though they haven’t cooked a single thing.

“Maybe, but it would be sixteen plates. Eight big, eight small.”

“Who really needs sixteen plates?”

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Rook agrees.

She’s slicing cheese at the kitchen island—Manchego and Iberico from Lucanis’s fridge—to go with the roasted olives, Marcona almonds, and crusty bread she already spread out on a big tray.

“We do, tonight,” Lucanis reminds them all, a tiny bit of exasperation finally coming out. Just a teaspoon.

“Oh yeah.”

“Fair point.”

“Don’t forget about the Cabrales,” he says to Rook, peeking over her shoulder on his way to the fridge.

“What Cabrales?” Rook asks innocently.

He takes a wedge of cheese out of the fridge that was definitely twice that size when he bought it, and raises an accusatory eyebrow that says there was a lot more of this earlier today.

Okay, yes, she may have already eaten half of the wedge of Cabrales while he was prepping dessert. It’s not her fault he buys all these new and interesting cheeses.

“Shh, put that back, I was going to eat the rest of it tomorrow morning.”

She’s staying over tonight.

They still haven’t talked logistics—guest room? Same room?—but Rook is trying not to think that far ahead. Lucanis asked if she wanted to spend the night, and she obviously, immediately, said yes. She didn’t even think about changing into cuter underwear before she left for his place. She’s being totally normal about it.

Totally. Normal.

“I bought a new set of plates after my divorce, ones I picked out myself,” Emmrich says, arranging the pistachio orange stuffed dates he brought onto a small platter next to the cheese tray. “It felt symbolic.”

“Is it because your ex picked out the old plates? Did you smash ‘em?” Taash asks.

“No, I donated them.”

“That’s cool, too. Are the mozzarella sticks ready yet?”

“And where’s Bellara?” Rook adds. Neve and Davrin are coming over after their closing shift, but everyone else was supposed to be here by 9:30.

Lucanis checks his kitchen timer. “Four more minutes on the mozzarella sticks, Taash.”

Lucanis already had a detailed prep list and cooking timeline written out before Rook got there earlier this afternoon, and he adapted flawlessly when Taash showed up with a bag of frozen mozzarella sticks, Harding brought a pie from her ma, and Emmrich made an extra appetizer. He knows everyone well enough now to know that they wouldn’t show up empty-handed, even after he explicitly said they didn’t need to bring anything. Multiple times.

The oven beeps at the same time someone knocks on the door.

“I’ll get it!” Harding says, setting down the bottle of nonalcoholic wine she’d been examining.

“Shall I light these candles, Lucanis, or are they purely decorative?” Emmrich asks, gesturing to the tapers that were already on the table.

“Ooh, yeah, light the candles,” Rook says.

“Matches are in the drawer next to the fridge,” Lucanis says.

“Hi, everyone! Sorry I’m late!” Bellara bursts in after Harding opens the door, a little red-faced. “It took longer than I thought it would to bike here.”

She starts unloading stuff from a giant tote bag as she follows Harding across the living room, and only looks up to take in her surroundings after she sets down a huge tupperware container full of what looks like salad, two mason jars of homemade dressing, and a bouquet of peonies.

“Wow, Lucanis, this place is so nice!”

“Thank you. There’s a vase in the hall closet, if you’d like to put those in water,” Lucanis says, gesturing to the flowers.

“They’re from Irelin’s garden,” Bellara says as she bustles into the hallway. “As a thank you for hooking me up with that doctor.”

“What doctor?” Harding asks.

“Just a family friend who was able help get her ADHD medication refilled,” Lucanis says. “And it was no trouble at all, Bellara.”

Of course Lucanis has access to doctors who are able to get their wealthy patients whatever they need. Nationwide shortages don’t affect rich people.

“I can’t believe there’s no copay, too,” Bellara says, coming back to the kitchen with a blown-glass vase.

Rook strongly suspects that there is a copay, probably a hefty one, and Lucanis figured out a way to pay it himself.

“Does this mean you’re going to stop making pot cookies?” Harding asks with an exaggerated pout.

“Maybe for a little bit. Especially after what happened last time,” Bellara says meekly.

“Okay, snacks are ready and Neve and Davrin should be here soon, let’s dig in,” Rook announces. “And keep Spite away from the cheese.”

The cheese tray actually looks pretty nice, especially with mozzarella sticks fanned out on the side. She’s rather pleased with herself.

“I think he’s too busy investigating these,” Emmrich says with a hint of amusement, pointing to where Spite is trying to paw a long match out of the box on the table.

“Please don’t let him play with matches!” Lucanis says, looking over his shoulder towards the table.

Rook brings the box of matches and a bottle of wine over to Lucanis—the rioja he keeps buying even though he talks about switching to white wine now that it's really almost summer—and refills his glass.

“Need any help?”

There are perfect, precise piles of chopped garlic, onions, and peppers on his cutting board, oil is starting to sizzle in a big, shallow pan on the stove, and he’s cutting squid into little rings.

“The vegetarian paella is warming in the oven now that the mozzarella sticks are out, and the crema catalana has set. We’re right on schedule.”

“Need a snack?”

“I already have one,” he says roguishly, giving her a quick peck on the cheek.

“Damn, Lucanis, that was smooth,” Taash says approvingly, before shoving two mozzarella sticks in their mouth.

“I mean, you basically proposed to Harding earlier,” Rook says. But her cheeks are pink and it’s not from the wine.

“What?” Taash coughs a couple times, almost choking on fried cheese. “Oh, uh, I guess I did.”

“Don’t start shit, Rook,” Harding warns. “Taash, I didn’t take it seriously, don’t worry.”

“Oh. Good…”

There’s another knock at the door, and Emmrich lets Neve, Davrin, and Assan in.

“We brought wine!”

They have two bottles each. Combined with the open bottles on the kitchen island, that’s officially more than one bottle of wine per person.

“Great digs, Lucanis,” Neve says, looking around appreciatively.

Davrin is busy holding Assan back from bounding after Spite, who took one look at the dog and fled under the couch.

“You sure it’s okay he’s here?” Davrin calls over to Lucanis.

“This is Spite playing. Just wait, he’ll hide under the couch until he thinks everyone has forgotten about him, then pop out just in time to trip someone or steal their food. Assan is fine.”

Davrin looks skeptical, but he bends down to unclip Assan’s leash. “Be good, okay boy?”

Assan immediately pads over to circle the couch, nosing around for Spite. Davrin heads straight for the kitchen and pours himself a big glass of wine, chugs half of it, then refills it.

“Rough day?” Rook asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Something like that,” Davrin says, reaching over for some cheese and bread. “Paella’s smelling good.”

The vegetables are cooking with some tomato sauce and a bunch of other stuff that Lucanis definitely explained but Rook cannot for the life of her remember now that she’s on her third glass of wine.

“Mise en place? Very Top Chef of you,” Neve says, watching Lucanis stir a pre-measured amount of rice into the pan as she checks out the wine selection.

“Is everyone’s cooking experience here limited to watching Top Chef?” Lucanis asks.

“You say ‘limited,’ that show has taught me lots,” Neve says. “I just choose not to do anything with that knowledge.”

“My ma cooks more than enough for the both of us. And bakes. Oh, she wanted me to make sure everyone knows the rhubarb in the pie I brought is from our garden,” Harding says.

“That reminds me!” Rook says, covering her mouth as she speaks around a mouthful of olives. “Did you hear about the vegan bakery in the Chantry District? They’re closing down next month.”

“Where are we going to get donuts?” Bellara asks, so shocked she accidentally pours wine onto the counter instead of into her glass. Lucanis wipes up the spill with a dish towel and turns back to the stove before anyone else can even register it was there.

“Do you know why?” Harding asks.

“The owner said her rent got jacked way up,” Rook says. “Out of nowhere, apparently, despite being a perfect tenant for almost fifteen years.”

“Word is her lease got bought out by a real estate firm that wants to turn a bunch of buildings there into luxury condos,” Neve says grimly. “They’re driving everyone out.”

“Fuck,” Davrin says.

“Strife takes Fred there every Sunday. Between his allergies and his safe foods, it’s one of the only bakeries in the city that has anything he likes,” Emmrich says glumly.

“Is Strife still out of town?” Bellara asks.

“Until next Tuesday,” Emmrich confirms. “Fred is at a sleepover tonight.”

Rook’s eyes slide over to Lucanis at the word “sleepover.” He’s already looking at her. Her cheeks get pinker.

“Wasn’t Strife just gone a couple weeks ago?” Taash asks, polishing off the last of the mozzarella sticks.

“Seems like he’s been traveling a lot recently,” Harding agrees.

“It’s conference season,” Bellara says, as if that explains everything.

“Still sucks for you, though,” Davrin mutters, already refilling his glass again.

“Guess I’m DD tonight,” Neve says mildly, one perfect brow arched in his direction.

Before Davrin can respond, there’s another knock at the door.

They all look around at each other, counting. They’re all here.

Assan lets out an excited yip and trots over to the foyer.

“Did we invite someone else and forget…?” Rook asks.

“No,” Lucanis says with a frown as he follows Assan. “Will you watch the paella, Rook? Just turn the heat down if it’s simmering too much.”

“Sure,” Rook says with zero confidence.

The knock comes again, just as Lucanis disappears into his foyer.

“Evening, cousin.”

Illario’s silky-smooth voice floats across the room, and Rook’s eyebrows shoot up. The hell is he doing here?

“It’s a little late for a visit, don’t you think?” Lucanis says.

“I was on my way home from a date—”

“Alone?”

“It didn’t go well. So I thought I’d stop by. Did you get a dog?”

“I have company.”

“Did Rook get a dog?”

Rook starts a little, hearing Illario say her name, even though she knows he knows who she is. She met him that one time. He has her phone number. But she realizes in this moment that she doesn’t know how much Lucanis has told any of his family about what he’s been up to during his leave of absence. Enough for Illario to assume that if Lucanis has company, it’s her, apparently.

“You’re not going to leave, are you,” Lucanis says with a resigned sigh.

“Come on, I never see you anymore.”

There’s the sound of a door closing, then Lucanis reappears with Illario following just a few steps behind him. If Illario is shocked to see an entire group of people in Lucanis’s apartment, he doesn’t show it. He just saunters over to the kitchen island where everyone else is gathered and helps himself to a couple of almonds.

Assan gives him a wide berth and pads over to Davrin’s side.

“Everyone, this is my cousin, Illario,” Lucanis says, rejoining Rook at the stove to check on the paella. “Illario, this is everyone from the Lighthouse.”

They all introduce themselves, with mixed levels of curiosity. Neve, for one, is making that extra-casual face she makes when she doesn’t want someone to think she’s paying that much attention to them. It could be fooling Illario, but it’s definitely not fooling Rook.

“Will you be joining us for dinner?” Emmrich asks politely.

“There aren’t enough plates,” Taash points out.

“I’ll only stay a few minutes,” Illario says, pouring himself a glass of wine.

Lucanis grabs the bowl of cleaned shrimp and mussels from the fridge and adds them to the pan, then lowers the heat.

“Paella, hmm? Is it Costanzo’s recipe?” Illario asks.

“No, the chef before him, Martil,” Lucanis says.

“You’re all in for a real treat, hers was exceptional,” Illario says, grinning with all his white teeth. “She was Caterina’s private chef when we were…what, eight or nine?”

“Good memory,” Lucanis says with a quick smile in Illario’s direction.

“How many private chefs did you have growing up?” Neve asks with a smirk.

“Eleven,” Lucanis answers immediately. “Caterina had very…exacting standards.”

“Real Emily Gilmore energy,” Harding says under her breath.

“And you say my memory is good,” Illario teases. “Lucanis remembers everything—weird things, too, even from when we were kids. A few months ago, I was telling a client about this big old hemlock tree at Caterina’s summer house on the coast, and I said it was fifty feet tall, and Lucanis butted in and said no, it was seventy. I called the groundskeeper later, he was right.”

“You pushed me off one of the lower branches and I broke two ribs, of course I remembered.”

“You pushed him?” Rook asks sharply.

“He slipped,” Illario says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “And Caterina doted on you all summer because of it, didn’t she?”

“She did.”

“See? Anyway, that great memory is what made him the best of the best at Talon Corp. A real head for numbers, this one.”

Lucanis’s expression cools just a hair. No doubt catching the way Illario said “made,” not “makes.” Putting Lucanis’s employment there in the past tense.

“So why’d your date suck?” Rook asks. Now that she’s thinking about it, she still hasn’t totally forgiven Illario for sending her cryptic texts about leaving Lucanis alone back in March.

Illario turns his smile on Rook, unbothered. “She had a husband to get home to.”

“Awkward,” Taash mutters.

“Oh, I already knew she was married,” Illario says. “But apparently it would have been more fun for her if I didn’t.”

Davrin shifts in his seat. “Don’t you think that’s a little messed up?”

“What about it?” Illario drawls.

“Oh, I don’t know, that she wanted to cheat on her partner and you were happy to help her cheat?” Davrin says with surprising intensity.

“Not everyone can be like you and the Ivos,” Bellara says.

Illario gives Davrin an appraising look. “You have a similar arrangement, it would seem?”

“It’s not similar,” Davrin retorts, then looks down into his empty wine glass. “And not anymore.”

“Ah,” Neve says lightly.

“What do you mean, what happened?” Taash asks.

“I don’t want to get into it.”

“Those things never last,” Illario says with a smirk.

“Illario,” Lucanis warns. He’s focused completely on his cousin now, arms crossed, his back to the stove.

“Nah, I mean he’s right, isn’t he?” Davrin says bitterly. “Besides, it’s not like anyone else here is doing that much better. You’ve barely seen Strife all month, Emmrich. Taash wants to define the relationship but they’re worried Harding isn’t ready—”

“Hey!” Taash says.

“Is that true?” Harding asks, turning to Taash.

“—and Neve is going through such a bad dry spell than she’s hooking up with Elek again,” Davrin continues.

“Elek Tavor?” Rook exclaims to Neve. Elek runs a handful of pawn shops around the city that Neve has rescued valuables from for clients over the years. There was a stretch awhile back where Neve said they were ‘acquaintances with benefits,’ while Rook has always said he’s ‘a giant piece of shit.’

“I honestly can’t keep track of where you and Irelin are at these days,” Davrin carries on, pointing to Bellara before finally swiveling to Rook and Lucanis. Rook starts looking around for something to throw at him in case whatever he’s about to say could remotely embarrass Lucanis, but he just ends with, “And you two haven’t even been on a real date yet.”

What?

“Yes we have,” Rook sputters, then turns to Lucanis. “Haven’t we?”

“We…” Lucanis furrows his brow, trying to think.

“Shit, we haven’t,” Rook realizes.

“You can’t say you don’t want to talk about whatever’s going on with your relationship and then shit all over everyone else’s relationships, Davrin,” Harding says, snatching Davrin’s wine glass away.

“You two are dating?” Illario asks in the ensuing silence, looking at Lucanis and Rook.

Rook and Lucanis are still looking at each other. They haven’t actually, officially defined the relationship either. But they both start to nod at the same time.

“We are,” Lucanis says.

“Why don’t you take her out to the Diamond?” Illario asks, his eyes glittering.

“The Cantori Diamond?” Emmrich asks skeptically, looking sideways at Rook.

Yeah, Emmrich, I know.

“We could make it a double date,” Illario continues.

Rook and Lucanis share another look. She wishes she knew what he was thinking. Or that he could read her mind. Because I really do not want to go to the Diamond but I know your family is important to you, so I’ll go to the Diamond if you can’t say no to your dickhead cousin.

Lucanis raises one eyebrow.

“We could…?” Rook interprets.

“Did Rook just agree to go to the Diamond? Am I having a stroke?” Harding says.

“Do you smell burning? Is that a sign of a stroke? Because I smell burning. Are collective strokes a thing?” Bellara says.

“Shit!”

Lucanis whirls around and uses the corner of his apron to move the now smoking pan of paella off the heat and put a lid over it. Rook gets the fan in the range hood going and waves a dish towel over the pan. It’s a miracle the smoke detector doesn’t go off and kill the vibe even more.

“Looks like the soccarat’s a touch overdone,” Illario says mildly.

Lucanis wasn’t tense preparing dinner for eight people, but he’s tense now. Rook can feel it, standing shoulder to shoulder with him. His jaw is tight, and he’s looking down at the paella without really looking at it.

“Hey, at least we’re not having a collective stroke…” Neve says dryly.

“I think this is my cue to leave,” Illario says, hiding his expression in his wine glass as he downs the remaining contents, still only looking at Lucanis.

“Great to see you again,” Rook says flatly.

“And you, Rook. I look forward to our double date.”

Why did I agree to that? Are we sure collective strokes aren’t a thing?

Illario rounds the kitchen island to give Lucanis a quick embrace.

“It’s good you’re building a life outside of Talon Corp,” Illario says quietly, close to Lucanis’s ear. Rook only hears it because she’s standing right there. And she agrees with the words, but there’s something about the way he says them…

“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” Lucanis answers through his teeth.

“Don’t be like that, Lucanis. Caterina’s still schmoozing the board, but they’re stubborn. Her accident shook their confidence—she’s not getting any younger. It could be awhile before she can call you back in. If it’s still her call to make.”

If Illario gets his way, you might not have a choice.

Teia’s words pop into Rook’s head, but she has no context for them. Is Illario angling for Caterina’s position as CEO? Is he really that opportunistic?

Lucanis’s face is stone, except for his dark eyes flickering back and forth between Illario’s.

“Goodnight, cousin,” he says stiffly.

Illario finally makes his exit, clapping Davrin on the back on his way out. Davrin just holds Assan’s scruff and frowns down at the floor.

“Fucking—” Rook starts.

“Maybe dinner’s not that burnt?” Bellara says optimistically.

Lucanis peels his eyes away from the foyer and lifts the lid off the paella. The top looks fine, but when he takes a spatula to it, everything under the surface is charred black.

“The vegetarian one should still be good, though, right?” Rook says.

They take it out of the oven, where it’s been warming on the lowest setting, and—thank fucking god—it looks perfect.

“With Bellara’s salad, that’s still plenty of food,” Emmrich says, rallying.

“And we have two desserts,” Harding adds.

“I did kind of fill up on mozzarella sticks anyway,” Taash says.

“Sorry, guys,” Davrin mutters.

A chorus of ‘hey, no, it’s fine, are you okay’s erupts, with everyone crossing over to his end of the kitchen island to console him. Assan pops up to rest his paws on Davrin’s thigh and look up at him adoringly.

“Whenever you want to talk about it, we’re here,” Neve says gently.

Lucanis sighs. “I’m sorry about Illario, he—”

“Sucks?” Taash suggests.

Everyone laughs, and the tension starts to dissipate along with the smoke in the air.

Davrin nods, and attempts a smile. “Can I have more wine now?”

“You get a whole bottle,” Neve says, sliding it over to him with a grin.

Dinner is still a little subdued, or maybe it’s just that Lucanis is subdued and Rook is intensely aware of it. He’s participating in conversation, he’s making sure everyone has what they need, he’s hosting, but the sparkle of contentment she saw in his eyes earlier is gone.

When it’s time for dessert, close to midnight, Rook follows him to the fridge.

“You okay? We can skip dessert if you want to call it a night,” she murmurs under her breath. “We can say the crema catalana spoiled. I can ‘accidentally’ drop Harding’s pie on the floor for Assan.”

This earns her a small huff of amusement. “I don’t think dogs are supposed to eat rhubarb.”

“Okay, but you get what I’m saying.”

“I’m fine, Rook. Just a little tired.”

Everyone is, at this point. And varying stages of drunk, except for Harding and Neve. But there’s this quiet stubbornness in Lucanis’s voice that makes Rook think that, maybe, if they don’t eat dessert, it’s like letting Illario win. Like he got to ruin the whole dinner party, instead of just one course. So she just places her hand over Lucanis’s on the fridge door handle and gives it a brief squeeze.

“I’ll make coffee. I’m scared to do the blowtorch part anyway,” Rook says.

“Did you say blowtorch?” Taash calls over.

Under Lucanis’s close supervision—despite Taash insisting multiple times that they “surf on volcanoes, y’all, I can use this puny little blowtorch”—Taash caramelizes the tops of the little ramekins of crema catalana.

The smell of warm sugar and fresh coffee fills the room, replacing any lingering scent of smoke.

“Thank you for this lovely dessert, Lucanis,” Emmrich says when they’re all back around the table. The tapers have burned low and the table is littered with crumbs, wrinkled napkins, and empty wine bottles. “And for cooking such a wonderful meal. To Lucanis!”

They all raise their glasses to him. Lucanis leans back in his chair with a faintly surprised smile, like he’s physically taken aback by the force of their affection. Rook catches his hand under the table, and reminds herself to give Emmrich an extra big hug later for being so effortlessly kind.

“To Lucanis!” They cheers.

“Thank you for being a vegetarian, otherwise we would have had to order pizza,” Lucanis says, raising his own glass to Emmrich. “And Rook hates all the pizza options in the Market District.”

“I don’t hate them, I just think good pizza doesn’t need figs and truffles and whatever on it,” Rook corrects him, then raises her glass next to Lucanis’s. “To vegetarians!”

“To vegetarians!” They cheers again.

“And this pie is amazing, tell your ma thanks,” Davrin says to Harding. Rook wasn’t counting, but she thinks he’s on his third piece.

“To pie!”

“Hey, Spite finally decided to come out,” Harding says.

“To Spite!”

Everyone follows her gaze, and sure enough, there’s Spite, stalking across the floor like a little black shadow towards where Assan is dozing peacefully.

“Spite, no,” Lucanis warns, standing up.

The movement startles Assan awake just as Spite pounces, and both animals tear across the living room and down the hallway.

“Okay, time to head out,” Davrin declares, wobbling up to his feet. “Here, boy!”

He and Neve are the first to leave, and they convince Bellara that she and her bike will also fit in Davrin’s Jeep. Emmrich Ubers home after clearing the table. Harding and Taash stay a little later, determined to help wash at least a few of the sixteen plates they all used over the course of the night, in addition to the pots, pans, glasses, and platters. Rook privately thinks they’re putting off an awkward conversation for as long as possible, and makes a mental note to text Harding about it tomorrow morning.

And then, finally, it’s just Rook and Lucanis.

“Well that went well,” Rook says.

“We don’t have to go to the Diamond,” Lucanis says at the same time.

Rook’s laugh turns into a broad yawn. “Let’s talk it out tomorrow, I’m beat.”

Lucanis gives her a long, inscrutable look as he dries his hands on a dish towel, but he seems hesitant to say whatever it is he’s thinking.

“You sure you want me to stay?” she prods.

“Yes,” he says immediately. “Only if you still want to, I mean.”

“I want to. And I’m fine in the guest room, if—”

“You—we could just sleep? Together. In my room. Only if you want to,” he says. His voice is even but he’s gripping the dish towel in both hands like he’s barely managing to not wring it nervously.

Rook’s pulse quickens, and she’s unable to stop the corner of her mouth from sneaking up. They’ve fallen asleep on their respective couches together plenty of times by now—well, Rook has, Lucanis wasn’t kidding about his insomnia—but they’ve definitely never shared a bed.

She’s definitely thought about it. A lot.

“I’d love to just sleep with you,” she says, taking the dish towel from his hands and stepping in closer to give him a gentle kiss. He exhales shakily into her mouth, and she reminds herself for the five hundredth time that they are taking it slow.

Slow, Rook.

She steps back and holds her palm to his bearded cheek. “You sure?”

He nods. “I’m sure.”

Rook has been in Lucanis’s bedroom a handful of times. She’s chased Spite in here after he stole food off her plate, grabbed a book Lucanis left on his nightstand, looked in his closet for proof after he claimed he owned more than ten different plain black shirts.

Now, past midnight, knowing that she’s staying over, being in here feels different.

Like the rest of his apartment, it’s a comfortable room, tidy and lived in. There’s an en suite bathroom that Rook changes in, after deciding that stripping in front of Lucanis might send the wrong message about how seriously she’s taking his request to just sleep.

She’s never been in this bathroom before, and has to resist the urge to poke through all of his lotions and beard oils and other grooming products. None of it has labels she recognizes—no drug store brands in sight. She finds his toothpaste on a shelf in his medicine cabinet, next to some sunscreen and two orange prescription bottles. His meds, presumably. A normal part of his life for twenty years, until something changed.

She’s brushing her teeth when he knocks on the bathroom door.

“Come in,” she says around a mouthful of toothpaste.

He’s wearing sweatpants and a Harvard t-shirt.

“Twinsies!” she says, pointing to herself. She’s wearing sweatpants and a She-Ra t-shirt.

He chuckles and gets his own toothbrush, and then they stand next to each other, brushing their teeth, catching each other’s eyes in the mirror. Rook’s always known he was slim. Lean, despite his broad shoulders. But it’s more obvious in these clothes. It makes him look younger. Sweeter.

It hits her then, that the last time she brushed her teeth with someone else before bed was with Solas.

She spits.

That memory doesn’t belong here but it still chases her out of the bathroom, even as she tells herself she’s just giving Lucanis time to finish getting ready for bed.

Which leaves her with the option of getting into bed first or waiting for him.

You’re overthinking this. It’s normal. Totally. Normal.

Rook climbs into his bed, and tucks herself under his blankets.

A minute later, Lucanis stands frozen in the bathroom doorway, gazing across the room at her.

“Is this okay?” she asks.

He nods slowly. “Just admiring the view.”

He says it with such quiet sincerity that any of Rook’s lingering nerves melt away. She nestles down into the pillow a little more, letting him look. Letting herself be admired.

His bed is even more comfortable than his couch, which is really fucking saying something, and exhaustion is catching up with her fast. Not that she wouldn’t rally in a heartbeat. But she’s content with this moment exactly as it is.

“Okay, but I really am like two seconds away from falling asleep,” she says after beat, stifling another yawn.

“Two seconds?” Lucanis asks with a quirk of his lips.

Possessed by some overtired, giddy impulse, Rook counts to two in her head, then flops over dramatically and starts fake snoring. Real good honk shoos and everything.

Lucanis lets out a burst of laughter, and her eyes are closed so she can’t tell, but it sounds like he’s moved closer.

The room gets darker. The bed dips under his weight and the blankets rustle. Everything smells like him—his soft, white sheets, his pillows, his body less than a foot away. Rook’s pulse jumps again.

“Don’t fall asleep yet,” he whispers. “Talk to me.”

She cracks one eye open. “I talk all the time.”

“I know, it’s one of my favorite things about you.”

“Well, that’s a relief. It would really suck for you if it wasn’t,” she says, unable to hide a grin.

He laughs again, a warm rumble close to her ear.

“What should we talk about?” she asks, finally rolling onto her side to face him. “You don’t have a favorite side of the bed, do you? I like the side farthest from the door, but I can switch.”

He mirrors her pose, his face bathed in dim, golden light from the lamp on the nightstand.

“A favorite side?” he repeats. She can smell the toothpaste on his breath. It smells like her breath. “I usually just sleep in the middle.”

“That feels like a bold stance, somehow.”

He shrugs a little awkwardly. “I’ve slept in the same bed with other people before, just not often enough to…pick a side, I guess.” His expression shifts somewhere between laughing and cringing. “Illario made it his mission our freshman year of college to get me laid. His words. And I went along with it, at least partially, for awhile. It was easier.”

“But you never wanted to do anything?”

Lucanis shakes his head. “It didn’t stop Illario from trying.”

No wonder he felt broken.

“You don’t have anything to prove. With me, I mean.”

His brows knit together. “What?”

It’s getting harder to keep her eyes open. Rook tries to gather her thoughts.

“I’m just a little surprised that you didn’t want to be alone, after Illario showed up and pissed all over our dinner party. Metaphorically. I heard what he said to you.”

“You thought I’d want to brood alone instead of be here with you?” he asks, avoiding her actual point, just a little.

She presses a fingertip into the furrow between his eyebrows. “You are very good at it.”

He takes her hand and brings her fingertip to his lips to kiss it, softly. His gaze holds hers, all dark pupils and heavy eyelids.

For a second, Rook thinks he might want to do more. But she yawns again, and the moment passes.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice hushed.

He doesn’t let go of her hand, just pulls it closer to his chest. To his heart.

“For what?” she murmurs.

She’s just drifting off when he answers.

“Everything.”

Chapter Text

“If he doesn’t want to fuck you in that dress, you’re never going to fuck.”

“Neve!”

“What?”

“You know it’s not like that.”

“I know, but I’d be a bad friend if I didn’t point out that this is objectively the hottest you’ve ever looked.”

Rook turns and checks out her ass in the mirror.

Yeah, I do look really fucking good.

“Is it Cantori Diamond hot, though?”

“It’s as close as I can get you.”

It’s closer than anything in Rook’s closet can get her, that’s for sure.

Rook’s double date with Lucanis, Illario, and…whoever Illario brings…is in half an hour. Neve brought over her best whiskey and her tiniest dresses, and they’re doing their darndest to make Rook look like someone who will fit in at the Diamond. The black minidress they ultimately decided on ends a couple inches below her butt and has an open back. There’s a hint of side boob peeking out. It’s more skin than Rook is used to showing outside of a trip to the beach, but Neve assured her repeatedly that half the women at the Diamond will be wearing basically the exact same thing.

The dress is where Rook’s ability to disguise herself as a hot influencer begins and ends. There’s not much they can do to style her short, freshly bleached hair, almost all of her tattoos are on display, and she’s wearing her lug-soled boots because she doesn’t have any other shoes that go with the dress.

“My feet are going to get so sweaty. It’s like ninety degrees out,” Rook says. She has all of her windows open and three fans going, so her apartment is only marginally cooler.

“It’ll be freezing inside the Diamond.”

“I think I’m just nervous sweating,” she realizes, fanning her armpits. “Why am I nervous? This is so stupid.”

“It’s your first date, of course you’re nervous.”

“I guess.”

“Maybe…” Neve starts to say something, then purses her lips.

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe just keep an eye on Illario. I have a bad feeling about him.”

Rook rolls her eyes as she heads into her bathroom to finish her makeup. “Yeah, same, he sucks. But he’s important to Lucanis. They’re family. I can’t just tell him to not spend time with his family.”

And I can’t just “accidentally” hit Illario with my car.

“You and I both know that family doesn’t always have your best interests at heart.”

Rook snorts. “True.”

“You two are good though, otherwise?” Neve asks gently.

“Yeah,” Rook smiles into the mirror, pausing mid-lipstick application. “We’re really good. And I really don’t mind taking things slow. Solas was always so hot and cold, and—ughh, why do I keep comparing him to Solas? He’s good. For me, I mean. Lucanis is good for me.”

Neve takes in all her babbling with an affectionate smirk.

“Solas was definitively not good for you, so that’s good to hear,” Neve says, then her tone shifts cautiously. “It’s just over a month until August, do you think—”

“What about you and Elek?” Rook cuts her off before she can finish that sentence because nope.

She’s been building a wall around her memories of last August, brick by fucking brick, for almost an entire year, and she’s not about to knock it down now. Her medical bills are set up on automatic payments for exactly this reason.

“What about me and Elek?” Neve says nonchalantly, taking a sip of her whiskey, but Rook doesn’t miss the way her expression gets a little disappointed in the change of subject.

“You still hooking up?”

“It’s completely casual.”

Neve turns her back to Rook as she says this, wandering away to get a better look at the canvas that Rook turned upside down on her easel when she needed a perspective shift.

“Uh huh.”

“What? You don’t think I can do casual?”

“I think you only do casual,” Rook counters. “He’s just such a butthole, Neve—”

“A charming butthole.”

“Yeah, if you say so. Why can’t you do casual with someone like…I don’t know, Davrin?”

“Davrin?” she says with a bark of laughter, but Rook knows her tells and she’s overplaying her hand.

“Yeah, Davrin. Seems like you’ve been spending a lot more time together ever since his thing with Antoine and Evka blew up.”

“So you want me to be his rebound,” Neve says dryly, finally turning around to shoot a flat stare at Rook.

“Could be fun?”

“I don’t think Davrin knows how to have a casual relationship. He fell a lot harder for Antoine than any of them were prepared for.”

“Would it be the worst thing ever if he fell for you?”

“It’s not going to happen, Rook.”

“Fine, but you can’t blame me for fantasizing about going on a double date with you and Davrin and Lucanis right now.”

Right on cue, there’s a knock on her door.

“He’s early,” Neve says, leaving the easel to pad over to the door.

“He’s always early,” Rook says, putting the final touches on her makeup.

“Hey, Lucanis. She’s almost ready,” Rook hears Neve say.

“Hi, Neve,” he sounds distracted. “Rook, I need to—”

“I’m ready, let’s go,” Rook says, stepping out of her bathroom.

Whatever Lucanis was going to say dies on his lips at the sight of her. His eyes roam over every inch of exposed skin, but they keep finding their way back to her lips. She’s very intentionally wearing the same lipstick she wore that night he showed up at First Friday to give her a thrift store mug. He very obviously noticed.

“Hot, right?” Rook says with a cocky grin.

“Mmhm—” Lucanis clears his throat. “Yes.”

“Annnnd I’ll see myself out,” Neve says, tossing back the last sip of whiskey from her sweating glass. “Good luck, you two.”

Rook thinks she says bye, but she’s honestly not sure because she’s too busy blushing under the heat of Lucanis’s gaze. And adjusting to the sight of him in a suit, for the first time in…she doesn’t remember how long.

“You look pretty damn good yourself,” she observes.

His black suit and light grey shirt are sharply tailored, and his hair is slicked back to show off the perfect angles of his face. It’s only been a week since Rook woke up curled around him in his bed, her nose tucked into the tousled hair at the nape of his neck, her hand splayed against his chest. When she’d stirred against his back and lifted her head, the only part of his face she could see was the curve of his cheekbone inching up into a smile, just like it is now.

She still doesn’t know if he woke up before her, how long he might have been lying there while she slept. He wouldn’t say.

“What did you need?” Rook asks.

“What?” Lucanis asks, looking a little dazed.

“When you came in, you said you need something?”

He blinks, his expression sobering slightly. “Oh, no. It’s nothing.”

Rook’s nerves start creeping back in. She drinks the rest of her whiskey down in one gulp, winces at the burn in her throat, and grabs the tiny black bag Neve loaned her.

“Okay, let’s go before I chicken out.”

She has a bubblegrunge playlist queued up and ready to go when they get into his car. It’s a short drive through the sweltering, twilit city, the sun just setting, the night opening up with possibility. They talk about the Lighthouse, about yesterday’s open mic night, about anything other than where they’re going, right up until they get there.

“Don’t let me drink too much, okay? No shots,” Rook says when they park.

“Are you nervous?” he asks, brows raising slightly.

“Yes, duh, of course I’m nervous. I don’t want to embarrass myself in there.”

Or you.

“It’s not too late to back out.” He says it like he’s looking for any excuse to do exactly that.

“Illario would give you shit about it for days.”

“Weeks,” he agrees with a resigned sigh.

Rook’s liquid courage from Neve’s whiskey is as buzzed as she wants to get tonight, and it’s probably what loosens her tongue enough to say, “Has he always been such a dickhead?”

Lucanis chuckles and lifts his eyes to the ceiling. “Yes and no.”

“He pushed you out of a tree,” she points out, because that fact isn’t leaving her brain any time soon. Two broken ribs.

“We were eleven.”

“Still.”

“He picked me up and carried me all the way back to the house afterwards.” As if that makes it okay. “He’s all I’ve had, for a long time.”

“So you’re saying I have to play nice with him tonight.”

“I’m saying that I appreciate you going on this date,” he amends. “And that I owe you a real first date. A better one.”

“Oh good, I already have some ideas.”

“Let me guess—pizza?”

“How did you know?” Rook looks out the window, suddenly, violently wishing they were outside Pizza Stone instead of the Cantori fucking Diamond. “Should we have a code word?”

“If one of us wants to leave early?” Lucanis immediately gets it. “What about ‘tiramisu?’”

“Too obvious. What about ‘three shots?’”

“As in, ‘do you want three shots?’” The corner of Lucanis’s mouth twitches up. “That works.”

He follows her gaze toward the entrance to the Diamond, where the line to get in is already stretching to the end of the block. Despite his smile and reassurances, there’s something tight around his eyes and the set of his mouth. It hits her—with his hair and his suit, he looks like he did the first few times they met, before she really knew him. Almost like a stranger, or a ghost of himself.

“Hey.” Rook grabs his hand, pulling his attention back to her. “I’m just happy to be here with you, okay?”

“I feel like ‘happy’ is a stretch.”

“It’s not. Not with you.”

That gets his smile to soften. “That was incredibly cheesy.”

“I know. And if it sucks in there, we’ll do ‘three shots’ and go back to my place and eat some pizza. Also cheesy.”

He nods and takes a steadying breath. Then his eyes pass down the expanse of her thighs, and his breath catches again. When he leans across the seat to press his lips to hers, there’s a desperation to the kiss that Rook hasn’t felt from him before.

“I should be the one reassuring you. This is my world. Illario is my cousin, for better or worse,” he says.

“Worse, I think,” Rook cracks with a smirk.

They cut the line, the bouncer lifting a literal velvet rope with a respectful “Mr. Dellamorte.”

Rook raises an eyebrow at Lucanis, but her snarky comment is cut off by the feeling of his hand on the bare skin of her back, guiding her through the crowd. Neve was wrong about the Diamond being freezing, it’s barely cooler than her apartment in here, but a shiver races up Rook’s spine.

She hoped, naively, the Diamond would feel like being at the Viper’s Nest, in a squint and turn your head kind of way. There’s music thumping and people dancing and shouting and holy shit are there sparklers in that bottle of champagne? But the energy here is aggressive, the smiles too bright, the laughter too sharp. It’s hard to see faces that clearly in the dark with lights strobing, but Rook notices a few raised eyebrows and heads swiveling to gossip. She realizes people are clocking her with Lucanis. Mr. Dellamorte.

At the Viper’s Nest she feels like a person, and here, in this dress, she feels like an accessory.

It quickly becomes obvious that Lucanis is leading them to the VIP section. Rook has never been a VIP of anything, unless you count the Sephora rewards program during the year she spent way too much money hoping that the perfect skincare routine would fix her entire life.

Another velvet rope is lifted for Lucanis. It’s at least a little quieter here, with sectionals clustered into little groups looking out over the sea of people on the dance floor. There’s one particular cluster that’s conspicuously empty, with no sign reserving it like some of the others, and this is where Lucanis stops. The Dellamortes have a standing VIP reservation, apparently.

“It doesn’t look like Illario is here yet. Probably just running late,” Lucanis says, close to her ear.

“Do you want to dance?” Rook asks. Maybe dancing will help her loosen up. The way she’s hyperaware of his hand on her back right now, it will at least be a good distraction.

It’s just a club, it’s just Lucanis, it’s just one night. She repeats it like a mantra.

“Lucanis?” someone says.

They both spin to see a woman approaching with a surprised smile. Teia. Her massive curls are pinned back and she’s in a slinky midi dress that somehow still looks just as classy as the buttoned up outfit Rook saw her in the first and only time they met. She kisses Lucanis’s cheek in a very effortless, European sort of way that Rook has never actually seen anyone do in real life.

“Teia,” Lucanis says, and he doesn’t seem surprised to see her at all. “You remember Rook?”

“Of course,” Teia says, and Rook doesn’t know if it’s an act, but there’s obvious warmth in her voice and she kisses Rook’s cheek, too.

She smells like a literal goddess.

“It’s good to see you. Both of you.” Teia flicks three fingers up at a passing server. “How’s your night? Is there anything you need?”

“We just got here. Teia owns the Diamond,” Lucanis says that last part to Rook with a slightly pointed look.

Yeah okay, last time I met Teia I was kind of an asshole. Be nice, got it.

“It’s an impressive place,” Rook offers.

“And yet Lucanis so rarely stops by to enjoy it,” she teases. “I’m guessing I have you to thank for dragging him out of the house tonight?”

The server reappears with a tray of three shots before Rook can answer, and Teia hands one to each of them before taking the last for herself. “Cheers.”

So much for no shots. At least whatever it is goes down a lot smoother than Neve’s whiskey.

“Will we be seeing more of you now, Lucanis?” Teia asks, that sparkling smile still on her face. “After next weekend—”

“Excuse us,” Lucanis interrupts her, shrugging out of his suit jacket and tossing it onto the couch. “Rook wants to dance.”

Before Rook can ask what Teia means by “next weekend”—maybe Lucanis told her about their Fourth of July plans?—Lucanis’s hand is gripping hers and pulling her away towards the dance floor. Rook glances over her shoulder once, and sees that Teia’s smile has vanished, replaced by a thoughtful frown.

But then Rook is thrust into the jostling, writhing crowd, and she forgets all about Teia and weekends. The dance floor is massive, bigger than the entire Viper’s Nest probably, and it’s hot and humid and loud. So loud she can barely hear her own thoughts. And maybe that’s a good thing, because, with his jacket off and his hair starting to fall forward in the heat, Lucanis looks more like her Lucanis. Like the man who makes coffee in the moka pot better than anyone else at the Lighthouse, who always asks Emmrich how Strife is doing, who helps Mila with her homework, who’s already knitting scarves to give everyone for Christmas.

Who’s looking at her now like she’s the only person in the entire room.

His hands find her waist, fingertips pressing into the small of her back, and Rook’s arms are already looping around his neck. She cards her fingers through his hair, mussing it further until he laughs and shakes his head and lets the strands fall loose around his face. His hands travel higher, skimming up her ribs, thumbs slipping under the fabric just below her breasts.

The tiniest gasp escapes Rook’s lips, she can’t help herself, and Lucanis’s dark eyes lock onto hers. Realizing he made that gasp happen.

Two can play that game.

Rook tugs his head closer for a kiss. When she slips her tongue into his mouth, she feels more than hears the sound he makes. A moan, a hum of desire. That desperation is there again, a fierce, sudden need Rook can see in the black of his pupils when she pulls back to catch her breath.

“You—”

Something cold and wet splashes down Rook’s back and she lets out a shocked yelp.

“Are you okay?” Lucanis shouts over the music.

“Someone spilled their drink on me,” she shouts back. Whatever it is smells fruity and is already seeping into the fabric of Neve’s dress. “Where are the bathrooms?”

He takes her hand again and leads the way back through the VIP section and into the the swankiest bathroom Rook has ever been in. It’s unisex, with a few floor-to-ceiling stalls and a long bay of sinks. There are no paper towels, just real, actual washcloths rolled up and arranged in a big bowl. She wets one under the faucet and holds it out to Lucanis.

“Can you…?” Rook asks.

Someone flushes and exits one of the stalls, a woman in a sparkly disco ball of a dress who’s wobbling tipsily in her heels. She ignores Rook and Lucanis completely and starts touching up her makeup.

Lucanis takes the washcloth from Rook’s hand and slowly, silently brushes it down her back. That shiver thrills up her spine again.

“I think it’s apple martini,” he says.

“At least it’s not trash juice.”

He laughs, the sound close behind her.

“You have a tattoo behind your ear,” he notices. “That must have hurt.”

It’s the constellation Cassiopeia, so tiny it could almost be mistaken for freckles.

“Yeah.” She got it there because she wanted it to hurt.

The woman finishes doing her makeup and wordlessly hands Rook a Shout stain wipe on her way out.

“Thank y—oh.”

Her words are cut short by Lucanis pressing a light kiss to the sensitive spot behind her ear, just over her tattoo. His breath stirs the short hair at the back of her neck, and he pauses. Waits.

“You could do that again, if you wanted to,” she murmurs, blinking against the sudden heat flushing through her chest.

He does, and then trails kisses down down her neck to the tattoos on her collarbone, her shoulder. A line of poetry, a Russian nesting doll.

“You’re beautiful,” he says into the candlestick on her shoulder blade.

“I just had to put on a skimpy dress, huh?” she teases, but her voice is as wobbly as that woman’s heels.

“It’s not the skimpy dress, it’s you in the skimpy dress. It’s you, Rook.”

The flush turns into something deeper, something that leaves her heart heavy and aching. She leans back against him. Finds his hand with hers and tangles their fingers together. It’s you, he said. It’s you. He kisses into the crook of her neck just as she lifts his hand to cup one of her breasts through the thin fabric of her dress, and she feels his mouth stutter with a heavier exhale.

Rook’s heart is a drumbeat and her body is on fire. After months of slow, this almost too much.

The bathroom door opens and Lucanis steps back reflexively. Two men walk past with knowing smirks, before disappearing into a stall together.

Rook catches sight of Lucanis in the mirror, his mouth kiss-swollen, hair disheveled, color high on his cheeks. She can’t help but turn to kiss him again, soft this time, then swipe her thumb across his lips with a ragged grin. “My lipstick looks good on you.”

His eyes close briefly and he swallows.

“We should probably…” he says, gesturing vaguely towards the door.

There are soft grunts coming from the bathroom stall now, but Rook doesn’t think that’s why Lucanis wants to leave.

“Cool off a little maybe?”

He nods and holds up his thumb and forefinger. Just a bit.

“Probably a good idea. But if you wanted to kiss that one spot on my neck later, when we’re alone again…” she trails off, pointing to the crook of her neck.

“Not helping, Rook,” he says with a shaky smile, eyes wandering to her lips again. “You…god, you’re…”

“Sweaty? A little tipsy? Reeking of apple martini?”

Lucanis laughs, taking a breath. He looks up at the ceiling for a beat, like he can’t collect himself if he’s still looking at her.

Rook bites her lip against the urge to kiss him again. She follows him out of the bathroom, her hand twining through his. She doesn’t think she could bear to stop touching him right now, despite what they said about cooling off.

She can see the edge of their little seating cluster just ahead over Lucanis’s shoulder when he stops and spins around so abruptly that she slams into his chest. A noise claws its way out of his throat, low and frightened like a wounded animal.

“Three shots,” he rasps out.

Rook’s heart stutters to a stop.

“Now?”

What? Why?

“Now.”

He’s already turning to find the exit, and Rook can see panic in the whites of his eyes.

“Do you want to get your jacket?”

“No, I—“

“Lucanis!” Illario’s voice cuts across the crowd.

He waves a lazy hand from their sectional, where he’s seated next to Lucanis’s jacket with a stunning, dark-haired woman.

Lucanis freezes.

“What’s going on?” Rook hisses.

He just shakes his head and sets his jaw. “I’m fine.”

“You’re fucking not.”

But he starts walking towards Illario again, smoothing his hair back into place, and Rook has no choice but to follow.

“Sorry we’re late,” Illario says, gliding to his feet to embrace Lucanis. He winks at Rook over Lucanis’s shoulder. “Zara here needed extra time to get ready.”

The woman, Zara, remains seated, and her full lips stretch into a smile. She’s even more gorgeous up close, but there’s something uncanny about her beauty. Nothing as obvious as Instagram face, but her features are too perfect to be real. She could be anywhere from twenty-five to forty.

“You can’t rush perfection,” she says, eyes glittering at Lucanis, whose face is now stony and impassive. Betraying none of the panic from just seconds ago.

Rook feels like she missed a step. A whole staircase.

“And who would dare?” Illario says to her with an indulgent smile. “Zara, this is Rook. Lucanis’s girlfriend.”

The corner of Zara’s mouth twitches just the tiniest bit as she gives Rook the once over. If Rook felt like a prey animal when Viago glared at her, the look Zara gives her makes her feel like an ant.

What in the ever-loving fuck is going on?

“Sit,” Zara commands.

Lucanis does, so Rook does. She glances over at him, but he’s giving her absolutely nothing. He’s statue-still. He might as well not be breathing. A server appears with a bottle of something, champagne maybe. Illario refills his and Zara’s glasses and pours two new ones for Lucanis and Rook. Lucanis doesn’t touch his.

“It looks like you two managed to entertain yourselves before we got here,” Illario says with a smirk. There’s still a trace of lipstick coloring Lucanis’s lower lip.

“You could say that,” Rook says.

“Is it your first time at the Diamond, Rook?” Zara asks.

“Sure is,” Rook answers. Looking at Zara for too long is like staring into the sun. “I’m guessing you’re here all the time, if you two are…dating?”

Illario and Zara both laugh, a rich, too-loud sound, and share a knowing glance.

“No, no, we’re not together. Not really,” Zara says.

“Business partners with benefits?” Illario suggests with a toothy grin. Zara just gives him a playful swat.

“Oh, do you work at Talon Corp?” Rook asks, sneaking another look at Lucanis. He’s staring at a fixed point between Illario and Zara’s heads, not actually looking at either of them.

“Please, I haven’t had anything so pedestrian as a job in years,” Zara says with a laugh, like Rook is in on the joke even though she has to know Rook is broke as hell. “I’m a client of Talon Corp’s. I used to work with Lucanis here, in fact.”

She nudges Lucanis’s shin with the pointy toe of her stiletto, and the way he doesn’t react scares Rook more than anything else that’s just happened. She takes a gulp of her champagne.

“You’ve been keeping well, I hope?” Zara presses.

“I have.” It’s like he doesn’t want to answer, but he’s compelled to. He’s looking at Illario when he speaks though, with something like betrayal on his face.

“How long have you two lovebirds been dating?”

“A couple months,” Rook says eventually, when Lucanis remains silent.

“What a change of pace for you, Lucanis, replacing business with pleasure.”

“Not for too much longer though, hmm?” Illario says. “I’m impressed you managed to negotiate an extra week, cousin. Fourth of July plans, right?”

“Illario,” Lucanis says, a warning in his voice.

“We’re going camping…” Rook says. What is he talking about?

Zara laughs again, a bright, tinkling sound. “Camping. How sweet.”

“And then it’s back to office,” Illario says, eyes narrowing at Lucanis, challenging.

“What?” The word escapes Rook’s mouth before she can stop it.

“Illario,” Lucanis bites out.

“He didn’t tell you? Caterina’s ended his banishment. He’ll be resuming his duties at Talon Corp right after Fourth of July.”

Next weekend. Is that what Teia was talking about?

Lucanis’s eyes cut over to Rook’s, brimming with apology, silently pleading. Her heart plummets, crash landing somewhere in her stomach. He’s leaving and he didn’t say anything?

“Is it almost Fourth of July already? Time flies,” Rook says, forcing herself to keep looking at Lucanis, trying to cover for him or herself, she doesn’t know at this point. “Do you want three shots?”

“Y—”

“Oh, Lucanis, be careful now,” Zara interrupts with a weirdly sympathetic frown. “You know it’s dangerous to mix too much alcohol with the medication you’re on.”

Lucanis stands abruptly.

“You’re right,” he says, his voice eerily distant. “I’m not feeling well, actually. Sorry to cut the evening short.”

Rook gets to her feet.

“Night, Illario. Zara.”

Zara ignores her and holds up Lucanis’s suit jacket. “Don’t forget this.”

He holds his hand out, and it’s shaking just the tiniest bit, but Zara doesn’t give him the jacket. She forces him to reach over into her space and take it. Rook thinks she says something in his ear, but she can’t hear what. Illario catches Rook’s eye and smiles, looking perversely pleased with himself.

Rook grabs Lucanis’s hand and tugs him away. His grip is slack. His other fist is balled around his jacket, but he doesn’t put it on. Like he can’t stand to wear it now that Zara’s touched it.

They finally get outside into the warm night air, but Lucanis doesn’t stop moving until they’re in his car. He locks the doors after Rook gets inside.

“You’re leaving?”

It feels like betrayal, but the horrible, staticky fear she feels for him after that interaction with Zara feels worse.

He closes his eyes. His hands are balled into fists in his lap.

“I was going to tell you—“

“When?”

“When I picked you up.”

“How long have you known?”

“Caterina called me this morning.”

Rook knew he would go back to Talon Corp eventually, she knew, so why does it hurt so much? She reaches out to put her hand on his and he flinches away. Her hand springs back.

“Sorry,” he exhales.

“What’s—who was that woman? Zara?”

He shakes his head, a twitching motion that’s more of a reflex than a conscious decision.

“We worked together last year.”

“Yeah, I got that. Lucanis, you’re freaking me out.”

“She was—I think—“ he takes a breath. “Remember when I told you that work got worse last year?”

Rook nods, even though he can’t see it.

His eyes are still closed when he says, “She’s why. I’m used to demanding clients, but she was ruthless. She made my life hell for months. I wasn’t sleeping, and I started…that’s why I was in the hospital the first time. Voluntarily. When I got out, she was working with Illario instead, but she requested me as a consult all the time. He knows what she did. What she was like. And he’s—“

Lucanis breaks off.

“How can you go back there?” Rook whispers, horrified.

“What other choice do I have? My life is there.”

Not at the Lighthouse. Not with me.

His eyes fly open at her silence, he sees her face and cringes. “I didn’t—Rook, I’m sorry.”

Her lipstick is still smudged on his lower lip, but that moment in the bathroom with him feels like it happened to a completely different person. Tears hit the backs of Rook’s eyes, and she takes a deep breath.

“No, I know. I think I just…” What? Secretly hoped he would change his mind? Upend his entire life, just for her? Stupid. “Maybe we should just go home. Are you okay to drive?”

He uncurls his fists. His hands are still shaking, but he nods.

Rook can’t help but remember the last time she got into a car with a man she loved who was this upset. Lucanis isn’t drunk or in a rage, but…

Her brain slows and backtracks to the thought she just had. Lets herself fully process it. Tries to reject it, as the car starts and they drive away from the Diamond.

She can't love him.

She can’t.

He’s leaving.

Chapter Text

When Rook’s eyes are open, it’s easy to pretend everything is fine.

More than fine. This campsite is like a guided meditation come to life. The sky is perfectly blue, dotted with fat, puffy clouds. The sun is warm on her face and her fingertips are trailing in cool lake water. Leaves are rustling in a gentle breeze, birds are chirping and flitting around like little Disney cartoons, and there’s a campfire crackling on the shore where Harding and Bellara are chattering about s’mores.

Lucanis’s chest is warm against her back, reclining behind her on a raft, his legs bracketing hers. He’s holding a book in one hand, his other arm draped across her chest to idly turn pages. Every so often, she feels him chuckle at a funny part in his book.

When Rook’s eyes are closed, everything that happened last Friday at the Diamond replays on a loop behind her eyelids.

They barely spoke on the car ride back to her apartment. But he went upstairs with her, and she curled around him on her small, lumpy mattress, and she stayed awake for hours in the dark until she finally felt him fall asleep. And in the morning, they woke up and pretended everything was fine. Kept pretending, all week.

“I’m going to have a weird tan line,” she says, butting her chin down against his arm.

“Do you want me to move?” he asks, the vibrations from his voice tickling her spine.

“No.”

Rook tries not to close her eyes.

A bark breaks the silence, followed closely by a small splash and then a much larger splash that sends water spraying across their raft. Rook props herself up with one hand on Lucanis’s thigh, squinting in the late afternoon sunshine, to see Assan paddle happily by with a giant stick in his mouth.

“Dude, come on!”

“What? He loves fetch.”

Davrin is standing on the shore with his hands on his hips and a shit-eating grin on his face.

“I guess I’m done reading,” Lucanis says, shaking out the water-logged pages of his book.

“It’s almost chow time anyway,” Davrin says, pointing over to Harding stirring something in a pot that smells sort of like feet but also like mustard.

Rook lays back down, sprawling bonelessly across Lucanis. “We should head in.”

“We should,” Lucanis says, without moving.

“I don’t want to.”

His arm hugs tighter across her chest and kisses the top of her head. “Me neither.”

If Rook was worried about him pulling away after the Diamond, she didn’t need to be. Whenever they’re together now, they’re touching. It’s conscious, on her part, and she thinks on his too. Like if they glue themselves together now, whatever next week brings won’t be able to break them apart. Because why would it? He’s just going back to work, like they always knew he would.

Nothing to worry about.

After a few more seconds, Lucanis adds, “I do think you’re starting to get sunburned though.”

“Yeah, I know.” She felt it creeping in half an hour ago, but she couldn’t make herself care. “And I do kind of have to pee.”

“And I am getting hungry enough to eat…whatever Harding’s cooking.”

It takes five more minutes for either of them to even think about moving.

Davrin tosses them towels after they finally wade back to shore, then tosses Assan’s stick back out into the lake with a whoop.

The sight of Lucanis in swim trunks has been slowly breaking Rook’s brain all day. She maybe has five brain cells left at this point and they’re all yelling “awooga.” Where Rook’s skin burns, his bronzes. Water is beading in the dark hair on his chest, his arms, his thighs. His thighs. His grey swim trunks stop halfway down the slope of his quads, and if Rook was distracted by his forearms once upon a time, she’s now tormented by his thighs.

“You’re drooling,” Davrin stage-whispers from behind her.

“Shut up.”

“I’m going to miss having you around the Lighthouse, man,” Davrin says louder, to Lucanis.

“I’d say I’ll miss you too, but we both know I really mean Assan,” Lucanis jokes, only a little forced. “And I’ll still be there all the time.”

Rook has to believe that will be true. She’s holding onto those words like a lifeline.

Caterina wanted Lucanis to come back to Talon Corp immediately, but he convinced her to give him a week. She wouldn’t agree to more. Profits were down last quarter and the board is displeased. She demands his presence, his support. Rook would love to take Caterina’s demands and shove them up her wrinkly old ass.

Because Looking at Lucanis now, standing in dappled sunlight, toweling off his hair, the worry Rook feels for him breaks through her calm for just a second, just a flash. And anger, if she lets herself admit it.

Caterina is saying “jump,” and he’s asking “how high.”

But then he catches her eye, and smiles at her as he slides a shirt on over his head, and Rook’s anger wilts like a weed in the July heat. Her emotions have fought this battle all week. There are no winning sides.

“Dinner’s ready!” Harding calls over.

Dinner is franks and beans, because that’s what they get for leaving Harding in charge as the resident camping expert.

“How did the mystery sludge turn out so well, and then…this?” Lucanis asks, poking at the contents of his plate.

“Mystery sludge is a group project, not a Harding original,” Bellara explains.

“Hey! This is the perfect Fourth of July meal.” Harding protests.

“It’s not that it’s bad,” Rook offers around a mushy mouthful. “It’s just also not good at all.”

“At least there’s beer,” Davrin says, clinking his can against Rook’s.

“And pie!” Bellara says.

Peach cobbler. That Lucanis made from scratch, with fresh, local peaches, because he remembered that it’s Rook’s favorite dessert.

“You’re sure there won’t be any fireworks tonight?” Davrin asks Harding for the second or third time.

“There shouldn’t be, we’re in a National Park. And this spot is extra secluded.”

It’s true, it really feels like there’s no one around for miles. Makes it easier to ignore the fact that, when they get back to the real world, it will be Lucanis’s last day at the Lighthouse. That’s a problem for Tomorrow Rook. Today, now, she gets to lean her head on his shoulder and breathe in the sun-warmed scent of him.

“You got lucky scoring such a good campsite,” Bellara says, tossing a piece of hot dog in the air for Assan to catch.

“Luck has nothing to do with it, I reserved this spot almost a year in advance,” Harding corrects her. “I just thought camping would be a good option, after Davrin mentioned he didn’t like fireworks at last year’s party.”

Last year’s party. On a rooftop closer to downtown with a great view of the fireworks display the city puts on over the waterfront. Rook’s throat gets tight and she takes a breath through her nose. She very deliberately does not think about who threw that party. Or that it was the last one. Before.

Stop.

A tremor runs through her, a chill that has nothing to do with the breeze or her sunburn. She finds Lucanis’s hand and holds it in both of hers, and she forces herself to be here.

“Damn, Harding, that’s really thoughtful of you. Thank you,” Davrin says with a smile.

“Shame Neve couldn’t come,” Rook says, glancing sideways at him.

“Who knew July 4th was such a big day for investigating shady shit?” he says, not biting.

“Half the businesses in the city are closed, perfect time for snooping, I guess?” Bellara says.

The Lighthouse is one of those businesses. Fourth of July is always dead. Neve is working a case, Taash is surfing, and Emmrich and his family are staying at the coast for the weekend. The rest of them took Harding up on her invitation to go camping out in Arlathan mostly for lack of anything better to do.

And Harding is right, they don’t hear any fireworks, even after the sky gets fully dark. Just crickets and frogs and all sorts of nature sounds that Rook hasn’t heard since she was a kid.

“I forgot how dark it is outside of the city,” she says through a mouthful of pie. Even with the campfire blazing and hundreds of stars winking into view overhead. “Like, dark dark.”

“It is a bit…oppressive,” Lucanis agrees, looking around.

“You dorks never go outside, do you?” Harding says with a laugh.

“Does walking from the Lighthouse to Flora’s count?” Lucanis asks.

“Don’t worry, if you trip and fall in the dark, I think everyone here knows some sort of first aid. Well, except Rook,” Bellara says.

“I don’t need to know any, I’m always with one of you,” Rook says.

“Not always,” Harding says quietly.

She doesn’t think about how Harding and Neve both signed up for an EMR training course last September.

“Time to call it a night,” Rook says, grabbing a flashlight and standing up.

“Already?” Davrin protests. “Harding hasn’t even made a peach pie s’more yet.”

“I’ll save you a bite for breakfast,” Harding says with a little wink at Rook.

“We’re tired,” Rook says, extending a hand down to Lucanis. He uses it to pull himself to his feet.

“All that sun,” he agrees.

“Uh huh,” Davrin says, smirking again.

It feels selfish, kind of, taking Lucanis away from everyone else. They’re his friends, too. But anytime Rook lets her guard slip—thinks about tonight ending, the weekend ending, the month ending, next month—this restless energy starts crawling beneath her skin that makes her want to hold on to him even harder.

He shadows her across the dark campsite, pausing behind her when she unzips the flap of their tent. The fire is a good distance away, but a faint bit of conversation drifts over as he zips the tent flap back up behind them.

“They’re totally going to bone, aren’t they?”

“Bellara, shh!”

Rook stifles a laugh. “Wow.”

Lucanis gives her a nervous grin. “Did Bellara really just say ‘bone?’”

The words “tent sex” did come up on the car ride here, but in a mostly joking way that Rook left open with the suggestion that there are a lot of things people can do in a tent that aren’t sex. Between that and the way they they’ve been ogling each other all day—she didn’t miss his reaction to her in a bathing suit—it feels like something is simmering. An urge to make tonight count. She flicks off the flashlight and turns on the small camping lantern they left inside, casting their kneeling shadows onto the walls of the tent.

“Would it shock you to learn that I’ve never actually been camping before?” Lucanis asks, looking around at their sleeping bags a little dubiously.

“You?” Rook replies, combing out the tangles in her hair. “I’m honestly more surprised you didn’t show up with an air mattress and four hundred thread count sheets.”

“Six hundred, at least. And I would have, if I didn’t think Harding would laugh me out of the park.”

“Yeah, you’d never live it down.”

Rook reaches for the duffel bag with her pajamas in it, then stops with her hand on the zipper, an idea forming. Lucanis is watching her intently.

“I need to change out of my bathing suit,” she says, holding his gaze. Giving him plenty of time to turn around if he wants to.

He doesn’t look away when she pulls her t-shirt over her head. Or when she slides the straps of her one-piece off her arms and rolls it down to her waist. His eyebrows raise. Because my tits are just that amazing.

“Your sunburn is really bad,” he says with a crooked smile.

Or that.

Rook cocks an eyebrow at him in silent invitation.

Lucanis starts to shift towards her. Stops himself. Rook slowly closes the distance between them, crawling her hands up his thighs, for a kiss that tastes like peach cobbler. She licks deeper into his mouth, then yelps as he tugs her into his lap.

“Was that okay?” he asks, a breaking away to check. She presses closer in response, stealing another kiss, her breasts brushing against the soft fabric of his shirt.

“It is a little unfair that I’m the only one with my shirt off…” she mumbles into his mouth.

Lucanis leans back and lets her lift his shirt over his head. His hair falls around his face, wavy from drying in the sun, messier than she’s ever seen it.

“Better?”

“Much.”

His hands drift up her torso, blessedly cool against her sunburnt skin. Rook arches into them until he’s palming her breasts, running a tentative thumb over one nipple. “That’s good, more of that,” she urges, then gasps as he tweaks her nipple again and places a hot kiss into the crook of her neck at the same time.

The sound of her gasp turns him on, Rook can feel it, half-straddling his lap like this. She rocks her hips, just a little, just to see what happens, and Lucanis’s hand clenches down on her nipple reflexively.

“Ah, too hard, ow,” she says, then their noses bump together when he rushes to fix where he went wrong.

Rook laughs and braces her hands on his chest, over his racing heart. “Hold on for a second.”

He nods, dips his head, cheeks flushing. Rook kisses him again, sweetly.

Then she finishes shimmying out of her bathing suit. He glances away, his throat bobbing, but looks back after she’s wriggled the suit over her ass and off her legs. Takes in the sight of her lying naked on a sleeping bag with hooded, blinking eyes.

“Rook.”

“Hold on.”

She throws her t-shirt back on, along with some underwear. He looks disappointed, but only briefly, because then she says, “Lie down.”

He does, and Rook stretches out next to him. “Look at me,” she whispers, and then they’re on their sides facing each other. She places a palm against his ribs, leans in to kiss him again, and lets her hand wander lower, following his happy trail, stopping at the waistband of his shorts.

“Is this okay?” she asks, eyes searching his.

He nods, makes the tiniest grunt of affirmation in the back of his throat, then his eyes squeeze shut and it’s his turn to gasp as she slips under his waistband to take him in her hand. The sight of his face scrunched in pleasure, lips parted, is the most beautiful thing Rook has ever seen.

Rook strokes a few times, slowly, and Lucanis’s forehead falls against hers. His eyes open, inches away. Their breath mingles. She picks up the pace, letting the sounds of his increasingly ragged breath guide her, and closes her mouth over his when he’s close. He comes with Rook’s name on his lips, and she swallows the sound, kissing him softly through it.

“I take back what I said about sleeping on the ground,” he murmurs a few minutes later, after they’ve cleaned up and curled back together. Rook’s arm is loose around him and he’s holding her hand, placing the occasional kiss to her knuckles.

“Just wait until we can do this in a bed,” Rook agrees, and feels him laugh. He has such a good laugh.

Lucanis falls asleep shortly after that. Rook should be right behind him—she spent all day lazing in the sun and drinking light beer, and the air in their tent is stuffy and warm. But it’s so quiet. The frogs and crickets and distant sounds of her friends laughing and chatting around the fire are nothing compared to the background noise she’s used to in the city. Nowhere near loud enough to block out the thoughts creeping back into her brain about tomorrow, and next week, and next month.

Not loud enough at all to stop her from thinking about the heavy, fragile feeling that came over her in the car after the Diamond. The one she feels again now, that she refuses to call love.

The drive back to the city the next morning is quiet, the sky overcast and humid. Death Cab For Cutie is playing on the radio. They’re just hitting the suburbs when Lucanis gets a call.

“Viago, it’s Sunday,” Lucanis says, turning away from Rook to look out the window. There’s a long pause. “No, I understand. I’ll see you later.”

He hangs up and turns back to her, brow creased, and Rook already knows what he’s going to say.

“I have to go into the office. There’s too much happening this week to catch me up tomorrow morning.”

The rest of the drive is utterly silent. Back in the city, they go their separate ways, and it’s mid-afternoon before she hears from him again.

Lucanis: I’ll be done by six, we can still get dinner.

Rook: takeout? i’m feeling thai food

Lucanis: And the new cult show with the bunker people

Lucanis: Sorry, running late. I’ll be there by seven.

Rook: sounds good. i got you khao man gai

Lucanis: Perfect, thank you

Lucanis: One more thing to take care of. Eight thirty at the latest.

He doesn’t get to her place until nine.

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” he says beside her on her couch, tucking into his food. He didn’t change into a suit—“it’s Sunday”—but his button-up and slacks are still such a far cry from the swim trunks and unkempt hair Rook woke up to this morning that it throws her.

“Please, I already ate all of the spring rolls,” she manages to joke.

He chuckles, and she reaches out to brush a thumb across his cheekbone and down his jaw, suddenly unable to bear the thought of not touching him. He leans into her palm.

“How was it today?” she asks.

“Fine. Really, fine,” he insists when she narrows her eyes at him. “Most of my old accounts were still there waiting for me. It’s almost like I never left.”

Rook can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“And I won’t be seeing much of Zara,” he adds quietly. “Viago assured me of it. He spoke with Illario.”

It’s that easy, huh?

“That’s something,” she says instead. “Lucanis…what happened with her? What did she do?”

He turns away from her palm. “Nothing I’d like to think about right now.”

She nods, tries to hide the disappointed twist of her mouth by taking a bite of her larb, and turns on the TV.

They fall asleep on her couch with their limbs tangled together and the cult show playing in the background. The familiar noise of the city drifting through her window—cars passing, dogs barking, music playing—should be soothing, but a nightmare punctures Rook’s sleep. She’s searching for Lucanis in an endless bunker below the earth, knowing it’s going to collapse before she can find him.

They eat Rook’s stale cereal for breakfast in drowsy 5:30 AM light, sitting cross-legged on her couch and stealing kisses between bites.

“Don’t forget someone’s dropping off new kegs from Docktown Brewing this morning,” he reminds her.

“I know,” she says. “I promise I won’t let the Lighthouse fall apart without you. It’s almost like I managed run it by myself for a year already.”

A year. Already.

Stop.

“Sorry, I know.”

“See you tonight?”

“Probably tomorrow. Today is bound to be busy.”

And that’s how it goes all week. Lucanis is kept busy at Talon Corp and Rook is busy readjusting to doing all the things she got used to him doing at the Lighthouse. They get a few nights together, but they’re both too tired to do much of anything except sleep. The warm solidity of his body is like a weighted blanket, calming even in the summer heat.

That weekend, Davrin gets food poisoning and Rook has to cover for him, which means she only gets to half participate in Book Club.

“Okay, I picked a monster fucker book because I thought it would be fun, did anyone actually like it?” Neve demands, after conversation peters out for the third time.

“I liked it!” Bellara insists. “I just didn’t have time to finish it.”

“I had to hide it from Mila, so I could only read it when I was at the shop,” Holden says.

“The cover is…a lot,” Flynn says.

“I did get some pretty crazy looks reading it on the bus,” Rook chimes in from behind the bar.

Her car is broken again. Well, someone broke into it. And stole her spark plugs, because that’s just her fucking luck. At least Bellara can replace them, once she wraps up her summer intensive and has a tiny bit of free time again.

“Have none of you ever heard of ebooks?” Harding asks with a tsk.

“I, for one, thought it was a lovely allegory for the isolation inherent in life under late-stage capitalism,” Emmrich offers.

Lucanis is there, sitting on the couch, drinking coffee out of his “Life is Relentless” mug. Maybe it’s just the sunlight casting weird shadows through the stained glass in the windows, but the circles under his eyes look darker again. He hasn’t said anything so far.

“Thank you, Emmrich. Please give these assholes something to talk about while I go get another paloma,” Neve says.

She sidles up to Rook, reaching around her for the tequila. The Lighthouse’s air conditioner is working overtime today, just like Rook, and she would love nothing more than to be sipping a nice cold glass of rosé over on the couches instead of sweating through her tank top behind the bar.

“You doing okay over here?” Neve asks.

“Yeah, great.” Rook pours some cold brew with perhaps a splash more aggression than necessary.

“You’ve been listening to a lot of Mannequin Pussy this week.”

“And?”

“And how are you really?”

“I’m fine, Neve.”

“I wouldn’t be fine, if it were me.”

After days of pointlessly googling different versions of “Zara Talon Corp” and scrolling through Illario’s Instagram got Rook exactly nowhere, she finally caved and asked Neve for help. A few hours later, Neve sent back a text that said “Is her name Zara Renata?” and it all clicked.

Zara is the client Teia and Viago were talking about when Lucanis’s involuntary commitment came up, it’s obvious now. She made a fortune as an investment banker, then made some lucky investments of her own that paid off enough for her to start playing around in corporate real estate. She wasn’t lying when she said she doesn’t work anymore. She pays other people—Talon Corp, mostly—to turn her money into more money, while she goes to charity galas and spends half the year in Europe.

She’s also powerfully connected with the worst kind of people—one of the first things Neve found was that Zara donated thousands to Aelia Vint’s campaign. As if Rook needed another reason to hate her.

“He’s been okay so far. He’ll tell me, if he’s not okay,” Rook says, sighing through her nose. Trying to make herself believe it.

“You’re allowed to be worried about this, Rook. You don’t exactly need more on your plate, emotionally, right now.”

“Neve.”

“Okay,” Neve says, backing off with her fresh paloma in hand.

“Hey, is there supposed to be this much foam coming out of the tap?” Taash says over their shoulder from the other side of the bar, giving Rook the perfect distraction.

She’s pulled in a million different directions for the next couple hours, and Book Club wraps up without her getting to join in at all.

Holden is the first to head for the door. “Are we doing anything special next month, in honor of—”

“We’ll talk about it later,” Harding says, with a quick glance at Rook.

Rook pretends she doesn’t hear him. Doesn’t think about how there’s no way she’s attending Book Club next month. She still overpours the beer in her hand—stupid fucking taps—and all the deep breathing in the world doesn’t help ease the tightness in her chest.

It finally loosens its grip when she’s laying in Lucanis’s bed later that night, freshly showered, smelling like his shampoo, eyes closed under an onslaught of kisses. Replaying the question he just asked her in her mind.

“Did you get this idea from the monster fucker book?”

“No,” he says. “Maybe.”

There was an admittedly very hot scene in the book where the main character had to rub one out—Neve’s words—in front of her alien-lizard-beast-whatever-it-was lover, for very important plot reasons, probably. Rook stopped trying to follow the plot after two chapters, so who knows.

“I want to know what you like. I want it to be good for you, when…” he explains, leaning back on his elbow with a gravely serious look on his face.

“When you do it yourself the first time?” she finishes, enjoying the blush creeping up his neck.

Rook doesn’t actually need convincing. Heat flared low and urgent in her belly as soon as the question left his mouth. She’s a big fan of asking for what she wants in bed and learning what her partners like, but with Lucanis it’s almost all trial and error. He’s read a lot of books, but he’s still figuring out what works for him. It’s frustratingly, tantalizingly fitting that he’s figuring it out in the middle of the most stressful month of their relationship.

“After what we’ve done so far, it only seems right for me to return the favor,” he reasons.

“Like the sex equivalent of baking me churros after I gave you a donut.”

“Rook!” he huffs, laughing a little. “If you don’t want to—”

“No I very, very much do. And I want you to ask for what you want.”

“I want…I want so much,” he says with a sigh, kissing her again. “I thought we’d have more time.”

“We have time,” she chides. “No one is dying, Lucanis, we’re just working different jobs again.”

If she says it enough, that will make it feel true. Like all those affirmations Harding loves.

“I know.” His kisses turn slow and soft and his hand wanders up her shirt. That heat in Rook’s belly spreads, her breath getting shallower. His eyelashes tickle her cheek.

“You have really nice eyelashes, do you know that?” she murmurs.

“Thank you.”

“And hair. And shoulders. Mmm and your tongue is nice, whatever that was just then was very nice. And hands—ooh, nope, haha! Ticklish there, sorry.”

“Are you sure you want to—“

“Yes, okay, stop distracting me.”

After one final kiss to her jaw, he leans back, giving her some space. Rook slips her shorts and underwear off and sinks back into his bed. She’s done this with other partners before, but with Lucanis, it feels brand new, somehow. The weight in his gaze, dark eyes getting darker with desire as he watches her, has her flushed and aching and she hasn’t even touched herself yet.

She forces herself to relax, then lets one hand drift between her thighs while the other kneads one of her breasts through her t-shirt. She takes her time, easing into it, attuned not just to her own body but Lucanis’s reactions to it. The little sound he makes when she starts circling her finger more rapidly, the way he swallows the first time a breathy gasp escapes her lips, how his hands twitch toward her when her back arches and she says she’s close.

Soon heat explodes through her, and her cry of pleasure is echoed by Lucanis’s ragged exhale.

“Fuck, that was…a really good idea…” Rook pants, riding out the shockwaves, body going limp. “Thanks, monster fuckers.”

“It was beautiful,” he groans, leaning down to kiss her. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Even Winnie-the-Pooh-ing it?” she asks.

He laughs, warm and delighted, and Rook can almost forget that he has to spend another Sunday at the office tomorrow. Almost.

It’s the last night they spend together for a week.

Lucanis: Staying late again. Wishing I was with you instead.

Rook: want me to doordash you some coffee or anything? did you eat dinner?

Lucanis: Thanks, it’s okay. I’ll have dinner when I get home

Rook: i’ll be up late, text me when you get there

Most of their texts start to look like that. Brief check-ins. Little tidbits about funny shit happening at the Lighthouse, some out of pocket thing Taash said, what he missed at Knitting Night. Reminders of how much they miss each other. Lucanis apologizing, over and over, for being so busy, and Rook responding that it’s okay, because what else can it be?

Rook wishes he would just talk to her—he was working at Talon Corp when they first met, and he had a relatively normal amount of free time then. Way more than he does now. The only difference is Caterina. And Zara.

“She made an appearance at Talon Corp today,” Lucanis mentions one day towards the middle of the month, his voice carefully devoid of emotion.

“What, why?” Rook demands.

“Business with Illario.”

“And Illario couldn’t meet her literally anywhere else? He’s such a—”

“Rook, it’s fine, we only saw each other in passing,” he says, but it’s not convincing. He sounds so tired.

“I thought you said Viago talked to him,” Rook presses.

“Illario has a short memory, and Viago’s hands are full with the board. Zara is very rich and very influential. Some of the board would rather not lose her as a client.”

It seems like a pretty convenient excuse to Rook, but she chokes back the rest of her argument. There’s no point. The next time Zara shows up, Lucanis doesn’t mention it, but Rook can tell. He looks noticeably more haggard. Drawn, distant, detached, take your pick.

In Rook’s nightmares, Zara turns into a werewolf and devours Lucanis while Illario watches and picks his teeth with a bone.

One Wednesday late in the month, when she already knows Lucanis is working late, Rook hunkers down at the Lighthouse after closing to take advantage of the admittedly shitty air conditioning and catch up on orders. There are at least three she’s forgotten to do, because Lucanis usually did them.

So much for delegating.

Her phone buzzes, and a sharp little stab of hope pierces her heart that it’s Lucanis saying he’s free after all.

Solas: Can we talk?

Rook must make some indignant noise, because Harding’s passing by on her way out, takes one look over Rook’s shoulder, and tries to slap the phone out of Rook’s hand.

“I thought you blocked him!”

“I did.” But she unblocked him at some point last year to pick a fight, and must have forgotten to block him again. And he’d left her alone, until now.

The rage Rook was expecting to feel doesn’t come. The sight of Solas’s text just leaves her numb, and her ears start buzzing. She can’t stop staring at the text above it, from months and months ago, Solas saying “This isn’t what he would want.”

She doesn’t think about the conversation that led up to that. Or how he can’t want anything, anymore.

Stop.

“It fucking figures he’d pop back up now,” Harding mutters. “What are you waiting for, just block him again.”

Rook does, mechanically, and shows Harding the proof, unruffling her feathers a bit.

“How are you doing?” Harding asks, her brow creasing with concern at Rook’s lack of a reaction.

“I wish everyone would stop asking me that.”

“You’re not really giving us a reason to. You look like shit, babe.”

“Wow, thank you.”

“I mean it. With Lucanis gone and August right around the corner, you can’t blame people for being worried.” Rook starts to protest, but Harding holds a hand up. “I know you, Rook. I know what it looks like when you’re starting to spiral.”

“What, are the eyebags and dark roots and excessive drinking giving me away?”

“That and the 2 AM texts that are all just videos of unlikely animal friends and crying emojis.”

“Yeah, fair. Speaking of not talking about things, don’t think I haven’t noticed you and Taash are cooling off.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“And?”

Harding sighs. “We’re figuring it out.”

Rook waits.

“They’re young. Younger, anyway. And they say they’re all in but I don’t know if it’s what they really want. I don’t think they know what they want.”

“You have to trust them.”

“Is that what you’re doing with Lucanis?”

“I’m sure as shit trying.”

A few nights later, Rook wakes up crying. She’s not sure where she is for a second, then remembers that it’s Saturday, and she’s sleeping over at Lucanis’s. She takes in a shaky lungful of air that sounds overly loud in his dark bedroom, and Lucanis rolls over to face her. He’s already awake, or still awake, even though his bedside clock says it’s after 3 AM.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, brushing a finger across her cheek.

Rook can’t put the nightmare into words, doesn’t want to. Broken glass everywhere, the feeling of being trapped, unable to move, bright lights cutting through the dark.

“Just a bad dream.”

He nods, his eyes hollow. Like he’s been fighting off bad dreams of his own.

“Remember our dinner party?” she whispers.

He nods again, the corner of his mouth nudging up just the tiniest bit. Lying in the dark, cheeks wet with tears, Rook can admit to herself that nothing has felt normal since then. She would give anything to go back.

She gets up and pads into his bathroom. Sits on the lid of the toilet and takes out her phone. Goes to her voicemail.

There are two new ones from Solas.

“Rook, there’s something I need to talk to you about. And I thought the timing…it’s healthy to grieve with other people, or so I hear. I’m hoping we can put the past behind us. I never wanted…well. I’ve said all of this already. You know. Please call me back.”

The second one is from a few days later.

“Rook. I know you don’t want to talk to me, but this is childish. You can’t ignore me forever. It’s important. Call me.”

Rook hugs her knees to her chest, digging them in hard to try to offset the tight, horrible pain growing there. She tries to breathe. Feels her teeth chattering. It’s just a panic attack. She knows it is. But the hurt is rooted so deep inside her chest that it’s going to suffocate her. She could call out to Lucanis, but what if he’s already fallen back asleep? He needs sleep. She presses her lips together, presses her hand over them, choking back the sob that wants to tear from her lungs.

She closes her eyes.

Chapter Text

Rook is having a bad time.

Her eyes are crusty with dried tears, so puffy they only open into slits.

There’s a sour, nauseous tide rolling in her stomach.

She can smell sweat in the hair plastered to the side of her face.

It takes her a full five minutes to figure out where she is. Face down in her own bed. Alone. Well, not completely alone, there’s a half empty bottle of vodka next to her pillow.

Good. Great.

The fan next to her bed is too loud, but it’s also not actually cooling her off. It’s just blowing stale, muggy air around.

She should find her phone. Probably it’s also in her bed. Probably next to the vodka. She musters up the energy to reach for it and sends it flying onto the floor. Her stomach heaves. That’s okay, that’s fine. She doesn’t need to check her phone anyway, she knows what day it is.

August 3rd.

When she’d let herself think about this day, slantwise, just out of the corner of her brain, in the weeks leading up to it, she’d originally planned on staying home and being drunk all day. Seemed like a solid move. But then August finally rolled around and she decided that she would just go to work because why not, why can’t the 3rd be just the same as any other day? If she treats it like that, it will be that. If you build it, they will come. Hakuna matata.

She now, just a bit, has some regrets about that decision.

Her phone vibrates once against the floor, and she slowly inches her way towards the edge of the bed to peer down at it. Thank fucking god it landed face up.

Harding: you want anything from Krispy Kreme? I’ll be there in 20 min

Rook lets out a pitiful groan. Twenty minutes to haul herself out of bed, take a shower, maybe puke in the shower, and put herself together enough that she doesn’t look like death warmed over?

Sure. She’s done it in less time.

Harding is picking her up because her car is broken again. Bellara got the wrong spark plugs. It’s fine.

Rook: 2 choc iced pls

The shower helps. Rook turns the tap as cold as it will go and stands under the spray, shivering too much to even think about puking. She’s out of soap. Shampoo is basically soap, that works. Getting dressed is easy—all of her clothes are on the floor, so it doesn’t really matter what she grabs. None of them are clean right now anyway. Shale probably thinks she’s dropped dead.

Nope, not me. Still kicking.

“Two chocolate iced in there for you, as promised,” Harding says, handing over a box of donuts after Rook drops into her passenger seat.

“Bless.”

Rook sags against the window, taking slow, steady bites of her first donut and letting the sugar finish the work her cold shower started.

I’m getting too old for this shit.

“I also got you a coconut water, just on a hunch.”

“Good hunch. I didn’t even drunk text you last night.”

“I know, that’s what tipped me off.”

The important thing is that Rook didn’t have any nightmares last night, at least that she remembers. That was the point of all the vodka. Healthy? No. Effective? Yes. The hangover itself is also intentional. It’s hard to feel other emotions when your primary one is hungover.

The rest of the drive is quiet. They don’t ask each other how they’re doing. They don’t talk about what’s on the radio—Pink Floyd—or the weather—hazy, overcast, sweltering.

Isabela is outside the Lighthouse when they pull up, leaning against one of the little tables out front and smoking a cigarette. Rook’s first impulse is to be surprised, but she’s not, not really. Of course Isabela is here today.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Rook asks anyway, holding out the box of donuts and flipping up the lid.

“Took the day off,” Isabela says, picking out a Boston cream.

Harding holds the door open behind her. “Don’t let Neve see you smoking out here.”

“Who do you think gave it to me?” Isabela says with a cocked eyebrow, stubbing the cigarette out under the toe of her sandal and following them inside.

“You smoking again?” Rook asks Neve when she joins her behind the bar.

“Just for today,” Neve answers, her voice flat. She smells like she chain-smoked half a pack already.

The rest of the morning is slow. Slow enough for it to really sink in that Rook is going to spend the entire day doing nothing but counting down the hours and minutes until it’s over and she can stop thinking about it again. Until next year.

That’s the thing about anniversaries.

The four of them finish the donuts. Isabela lounges on one of the couches, getting steadily day drunk and practicing card tricks. Harding waters the plants and stares into space. Neve is glued to her phone. Rook works on payroll and alternates between coffee and coconut water. They don’t actually talk to each other that much. Rook doesn’t even know what she’d say.

Customers come and go as usual. Like it’s a normal day.

Sometime around 1 PM, Rook’s hangover starts to wear off. She can tell because her brain starts working again just enough to go places she doesn’t want it to go. It starts remembering shit. Like someone else playing cards with Isabela on the couches, and talking to Harding about the plants, and comparing Wordle scores with Neve. The empty space where he used to be starts to feel bigger.

Getting day drunk with Isabela would solve that. Rook doesn’t drink at work, as a rule, but if there was any day to give a big old middle finger to the rules, today would be it.

The front door bells jingle, and Lucanis, of all people, walks in.

“I brought lunch,” he says, crossing over to the bar with a big paper bag from Flora’s. “Sorry, Isabela, I didn’t know you would be here.”

“I’m on a liquid diet today,” Isabela says, taking a swallow from her pint glass.

Rook didn’t tell Lucanis what today is. Someone else must have. Harding or Neve. Because he obviously knows. He’s barely had time to eat dinner with her lately, let alone leave work for lunch. The sight of him here, in his suit, passing out sandwiches, throws her in a way Isabela’s presence didn’t.

“Flora made you a ham and jam slam, Harding. Neve, you have a tuna melt—”

“Extra pickles?” Neve asks.

“—with extra pickles. And a Dragon’s Bounty for you.”

Rook takes her paper-wrapped sandwich silently, and the weight in her hand feels like a weight on her heart. Lucanis’s expression is muted, reserved, and his dark eyes watch hers a bit more carefully than usual. He doesn’t reach for her or try to hug her, and thank god for that because if he did, Rook knows without a doubt that she would fall apart.

“Nothing for yourself?” she asks.

“I’m fine.”

He was starting to fill out over the course of the spring, thanks to all that yoga and running and baking, and now he’s getting thinner again. Just a little, barely enough to be noticeable. But looking at him is one of Rook’s favorite hobbies. She notices.

“We can split mine.”

“You two go eat in the back,” Harding says.

Lucanis leads the way down the hallway to the back room, and Rook stares at the back of his head, the broad line of his shoulders. Him being here cements that today is real, somehow. Rook only knew him after everything that happened. He wasn’t there before, not like Harding and Neve and Isabela. Her heart starts to twist up like a pretzel but weird-shaped, kind of wrong, a homemade pretzel from someone who’s never made pretzels before.

Fuck.

“Please don’t be too nice to me today, okay?” she asks, not knowing how else to say it, sitting down at the table with her back to the wall of portraits.

That little indent pops up between his brows and disappears just as quickly, and he nods. Cracks a smile.

“Want me to take the sandwich back?”

“Don’t you dare,” she says, but she still slides half over to him. “How’s work?”

He sighs. “Tense. There’s a board meeting later today.”

“How’d you manage to get away for lunch?”

“I took the rest of the day off.” He says it as he removes his suit jacket and starts to roll up his sleeves.

Her eyes widen and she stops chewing. “The whole day?”

He nods. “Too nice?”

Her throat gets tight. She has to force herself to swallow. “Maybe. But I’m glad you’re here.”

Rook eats her sandwich without really tasting it. It’s good, probably, Flora’s never lets her down. But it sits heavily in her stomach as she realizes that yes, Lucanis taking half the day off is too nice. It had to cost him. Someone’s bound to be mad at him. Multiple someones, probably. And he did it anyway, for her.

“What do you want to do tonight?” she asks around the lump forming in her throat.

“Pizza and a movie?” he suggests immediately, in a way that lets Rook know that he’s already thought about it. So she wouldn’t have to. “You’ve been talking about Bill and Ted a lot.”

“We’d have to watch all three movies. It’s a commitment.”

“I’m committed.”

Lucanis doesn’t mention that she’s closing tonight, and that there’s no way they’re going to stay up through one movie, let alone three. That’s not the point. The point is that he’ll be there, and she won’t have to spend the night listening to sad music and crying until she passes out again.

They finish eating in mostly comfortable silence. Lucanis doesn’t demand anything from her, even conversation. He just sits and exists with her. The lump in her throat is still there, too, but it doesn’t get bigger. It’s quiet enough that Rook can hear his phone buzz a couple times in his pocket. He doesn’t look at it.

“Since you’re here and all, do you mind finishing the milk order?” she quips eventually, wiping her hands on a napkin, only half-joking.

“I thought you’d never ask.” He leans back with a small grin. “Have you che—”

Raised voices from the front interrupt him.

“Are you fucking serious?”

Harding.

“You can’t be here.”

Neve.

“I need to speak with her.”

Solas.

For a second, the sound of his voice paralyzes Rook. It’s like being back under her ice cold shower. Something must show on her face because Lucanis says her name, but she barely hears him over the thudding of her heart in her ears. Then the anger she’s been missing these last few weeks crashes through her, white hot and vicious, and Rook is on her feet and through the door so fast she almost knocks the table over.

“You need to get the fuck out of here.”

And she’s glad she gets the words out before reaching the front, because the sight of Solas inside of the Lighthouse feels like a punch to the throat. Hands clasped behind his back. Impassive expression. Stupid bald head. He looks the same as he did the last time she saw him. At the funeral.

Rook stumbles back a step into Lucanis, who she didn’t even realize followed her out of the back room. But he’s right behind her, his hand steadying her elbow.

“Rook.”

Solas says her name like she’s a dog who just shat on his carpet. His eyes flick to the hand on her elbow and then back to her face.

“What do you want, Solas?” Her voice comes out in a hoarse growl.

“As I said, to talk,” he says evenly.

“I’m not selling the Lighthouse. It didn’t happen last year, and it’s—“

“It didn’t happen last year because Varric was a fool.“

“Varric is dead,” Rook spits back.

For a year, she hasn’t let herself say that name. Even think it. If she thinks about Varric for longer than half a second, she remembers watching him bleed out in the middle of the street, and that the last thing he ever said was her name.

“Rook—”

“Varric is dead, and it’s your fault,” she continues, chest heaving, “so don’t come in here—”

“Today of all fucking days,” Harding bites out.

“—thinking anyone wants to hear anything you have to say.”

“My fault?” he says quietly, after a long pause.

Fuck you, she thinks, but that lump in her throat is suddenly gigantic enough to force all the air from her lungs. Those two words from him are a sledgehammer to the walls she’s been building so carefully all year.

“I haven’t tased anyone yet this month, Solas,” Neve says, leaning over the bar with a joyless smile on her face. “If you can hang on a second, I’ll run and get it from my bag.”

Solas holds up a hand. “I’m sorry, Rook. I came to see how you’ve been doing, that’s all.”

“Oh, that’s all?” Isabela drawls from over on the couches.

“Varric wouldn’t want us to be enemies,” Solas continues.

“Varric wouldn’t want to sell the Lighthouse,” Harding retorts.

“Varric didn’t want to sell because he knew this place means everything to you, Rook,” Solas says, ignoring everyone else. “But I ran the numbers. The Lighthouse is barely staying afloat.”

Why does everyone have to keep saying his name?

“It may not exactly be profitable, but it’s not in the red. It’s very much afloat,” Lucanis counters. Still right behind her, right in her peripheral vision.

Solas spares Lucanis a single glance.

“Be that as it may, Rook, can we speak privately?”

“Like hell you can,” Harding snaps.

“It’s fine.”

Rook doesn’t know why she says it. Maybe if she talks to Solas now, he’ll shut up about selling the Lighthouse and leave her alone. Maybe now that her rage has boiled over, she can see things more clearly. He meant something to her, once. And to Varric.

Maybe she just wants to let him make her feel bad, because he spoke the words that have been etched on her heart for a year. My fault.

Rook avoids looking at anyone else and heads towards the back. She can feel Solas following at a respectful distance. They’ve made this walk hundreds of times together over the years, often mid-argument, and the familiarity is oddly comforting.

“How are you, really?” Solas asks, shutting the door behind him.

She hugs her arms across her chest. “How do you think?”

He looks at her then, really looks at her, and it surprises her how many little details about him she remembers. The small scar on his forehead. The blue of his eyes. The cleft in his chin. His height, and the way her head fit against his chest when he held her. It’s a familiar feeling, that he knows her so well and doesn’t know her at all.

“It’s good you have support today.”

“Yeah.”

“Lucanis Dellamorte isn’t someone I ever would have expected to see here.”

Rook raises an eyebrow. “Do you know him?”

“I know of him. He has quite the reputation in certain circles, with certain people.”

And you’ve been keeping an eye on things. You ran the numbers, you probably saw him on the payroll.

“Rich people. You can just say it, Solas, you are one.”

“I do not hoard my wealth. Unlike the Dellamortes and their clients.”

“Is that why you want to sell? Are you broke now?”

He sniffs. “The Lighthouse was a worthwhile endeavor that’s ultimately served its purpose. The money I’ll make from selling it will do far more good than keeping the place open.”

“And fuck you to everyone who works here and comes in every day, I guess?”

“There are other places they can go.” He brushes off the concern like it’s a piece of lint on his sleeve. “I have multiple offers. Good ones. Sold to the right developer, the profit from this building could provide aid for so many more people. It could do so much good for the city at large.”

And there’s the Solas she broke up with. Willing to play with people’s lives like they’re all little chess pieces on an imaginary board, just because he can.

“You realize how insane you sound, right? You know these people. You know me.”

He gives her a half smile. “You’d land on your feet, Rook. You always do.”

“God, you’re an asshole.”

Anger flashes across his eyes, just for a second. “I’m trying to work with you, out of respect for what we had and for Varric, but I don’t have to. I could sell it anyway.”

That shuts her right back up. Technically, he could. He owns the building, Rook’s name is just on the lease. He could sell the property to whoever he wants, and they’d be under no obligation to renew her lease at all. From everything Varric said over the years, it would be way more profitable for any new owner to just gut the whole place and build new. That’s why he fought Solas so hard on selling.

But Varric is dead.

“I am sorry for what happened, Rook. Selling this place could be a way to let go. Move on.”

Rook’s hands ball into fists.

“Have you? Moved on?”

“I’ve forgiven myself. You could, too.”

She doesn’t know if he means she could forgive him or herself, but either way it doesn’t matter.

“No, I can’t.”

He frowns and moves to take a step towards her.

“Rook.”

She steps back.

“You should go.”

Solas holds her gaze for a long moment, then nods and disappears back down the hallway. Leaving Rook alone. Her eyes drift to the portrait wall, to the sketch of Varric in profile, smiling over his shoulder, probably at some goofy thing she’d said. She doesn’t even remember drawing it at this point, it’s been there so long. And some day down the line, fewer and fewer people who work here will remember him. He’ll just be a yellowing picture on the wall.

The Lighthouse might not even exist at all, by then.

Harding and Neve appear a minute later to guide Rook over to the couch and sit her down, one of them on either side. She slumps forward, head in her hands. Not crying, not yet.

“I really will go tase him, it’s not too late,” Neve says.

A weak laugh shudders through her.

“What did he even want?” Harding asks.

“What else? He wants to sell. I really think he might do it, too.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“Varric isn’t here anymore to stop him, and he sure as hell isn’t going to listen to me.”

“If anyone can get through to him, you can.”

Rook just shakes her head, and the tears finally start to fall. Because no, she can’t. Solas made that abundantly clear already. He’ll sell, and all of her friends will be let down, and it will be her fault. Everything Varric built, gone. My fault.

“I miss him so much.”

And then she’s crying in earnest, deep, horrible, heaving sobs. Loud, like a little kid who fell on the playground or got lost at the mall. Keeled forward, head to her knees, tears running down her shins. Harding and Neve rub her back, shush her, tell her to let it out. She cries until she’s empty.

Eventually, she feels Neve get up, and then someone sits back down next to her but the weight is different, and then Harding gets up, too.

Rook smells Lucanis’s cologne, would know the touch of his hand on her shoulder from anyone’s. He pulls her up and into his chest and wraps his arms around her.

“You’re going to be all right,” Lucanis says softly.

Rook opens her eyes, and a few more fat tears slide down her cheeks. Not empty after all. “What if I’m not? What if I never am?”

He doesn’t say anything. He just pulls her in closer and stretches out as much as anyone can stretch out on the little break room couch, holding her tight against him, until they’re both laying down. Her face is tucked into his neck, and she can feel his heartbeat under her cheek and the steady rise and fall of his breath flush against her own chest.

“I’m getting snot on your shirt,” she sniffles after a few seconds.

“That’s okay.”

He strokes her hair with his fingertips, unconcerned.

“Thank you for being here,” she whispers.

He kisses the top of her head.

“Get some rest.”

Like it’s the permission her wrung out body was waiting for, Rook falls asleep within minutes. Her dreams smell like burnt rubber and smoke and blood. She sees Varric lying in the street, and Varric turns into Lucanis, and Lucanis is trying to tell her something but she can't hear him. He sounds so far away.

The vibrations of Lucanis quietly talking wakes her up before she actually registers the sound of his voice. When he mutters something about reports, Rook groggily realizes that he’s on the phone. Between the faint, angry voice she can hear on the other end and the way he tenses when he notices she's awake, she has a good idea who it is. He says a quick goodbye. They lay in silence for another minute before Rook can muster up the energy to ruin the moment.

“You have to go, don’t you?” she asks into his shirt collar. Her voice sounds like she swallowed glass.

His sigh blows through her hair. “Caterina needs me. The board is going to call for a vote of no confidence.”

“What does that mean?” She can guess.

Lucanis’s pulse is leaping, but he sounds exhausted when he says, “It means Illario thinks he’s bribed enough shareholders to secure the votes he needs. He’s finally making his move.”

“He had to pick today of all days?”

He hugs her closer, and she feels his attempt at a laugh. It’s a silent, unhappy thing.

“Is that why Caterina brought you back? She thought you’d stop it?”

“There is no stopping it. She’s going to put me forward as another option.”

That gets Rook to sit up, awkwardly leaning against the back of the couch, staring down at him.

“For CEO? Even after everything that’s happened?”

He blinks, closing his eyes for a beat longer than necessary. Avoiding her gaze. “I’ve made the company a lot of money. She made sure the board was reminded of that this past month.”

Rook hates that she hears Solas saying Lucanis has a “quite the reputation” in this moment. She’s googled enough about hedge funds, and Talon Corp specifically, to know that they don’t make the world a better place, they make money. He just said it himself.

They make millions for people like Zara Renata, who use that money to help elect people like Aelia Vint, who want to drive everyone who’s not rich, straight, and white out of the city, so that people like Zara Renata can swoop in to buy up their homes and businesses and get even richer. And Rook would be lying to herself if she said she hasn’t been intentionally ignoring that piece of Lucanis’s puzzle. Telling herself it’s just a job, he’s just an analyst.

“Do you even want to be CEO?” she asks.

“No. I never have,” he answers with a bone-deep weariness.

But it isn’t about what he wants. When is it ever? Rook sits back farther, untangling his legs from her lap.

“Where do you draw the line, Lucanis? When has Caterina asked enough from you?”

He sits up, reaching for her, but she pulls away. She needs to focus or she won’t be able to get the words out, and she’s tired of choking them back.

“Rook—“

“No, you’ve been miserable all month. Tell me I’m wrong.” He opens his mouth to speak, but she’s not done. “This job is going to kill you.”

“Being miserable is not the same as being dead.”

“Oh yeah? What happened in December?”

Rook regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth. Lucanis’s expression shutters, and his lips close into a bloodless line.

“I’m sorry,” she utters.

“I have to go.”

He stands, rolling his sleeves down and buttoning the cuffs with deliberate overattention. Grabs his suit jacket from the chair by the table.

“I’ll come back as soon as I’m done,” he says, pausing in front of the couch again. There’s something fractured in the way he looks at her, like he’s trying to put his polite Dellamorte mask on but can’t quite get it to fit. His jaw slackens, but instead of saying anything else, he just leans down to kiss her on the temple.

Rook stares blankly at the door after it closes behind him.

Why am I like this?

The echoing silence of the back room doesn’t offer her any answers.

Her phone says it’s just after 5:30. Lucanis will come back in a few hours, and she’ll fix it. She’ll figure out what to say, and she’ll say it, and she’ll fix it. The urge to text Varric is suddenly overwhelming. Varric would know exactly what do do. He’d at least have a better idea than “lay back down on the couch and sleep for the rest of the summer,” which is all Rook’s got so far.

“Lucanis left?” Harding asks when Rook reappears out front.

The clouds have darkened into blue-grey bruises and it’s raining, one of those straight up and down summer downpours. There’s an unexpected rush—customers stuck inside waiting out the rain, probably—and Harding is by herself behind the bar.

“Work thing. Where’s everybody else?”

“Neve took Isabela home, I told them both to call it a day.”

“Thanks for holding things down,” Rook says, stepping in to help the next customer. Her face is probably covered in dried snot and mascara—why did I wear mascara today, what was I thinking?—but she can’t bring herself to care at this point.

Harding just gives her a nod and a sidelong glance, and the brittleness of the gesture brings Rook up short.

Oh. Harding is tired.

Her normally sparkling eyes are dull, her braid is coming loose, and her shirt is splashed with water from loading and unloading the dishwasher. Who knows how long ago the others left, how long she’s been handling things out here on her own while Rook was busy being mildly catatonic? She lost Varric, too. She's been grieving, too. And Rook left her alone.

One more fuck up to add to today’s list.

“Hey, why don’t you go home?” Rook suggests. “Or go to Taash’s?”

Harding just keeps mixing the gin and tonic in her hands. “Yeah and if I do that, how are you going to get home?”

“Lucanis is coming back later, it’s fine.”

Part of her doesn’t believe it, even though he said he would, but that’s not Harding’s problem.

“Are you sure?” Harding asks, slowly putting down the glass she’d picked up to start the next drink.

“It’s fine.” Rook picks the glass up. “Text me when you get there.”

Some of the tension finally bleeds out of Rook’s body after Harding leaves. She can breathe easier, and she feels selfish for it. But at least now, alone with just her customers and her thoughts, there’s no one to remind her how completely and utterly shitty today has been. There’s no risk of blurting out something else stupid or mean to someone she cares about.

Yeah. This is better.

She’ll stay busy. Distracted. It’s only a few hours until closing, and she can close a Monday night blindfolded with her hands tied behind her back.

And Lucanis will come back. She texts him:

Rook: Harding had to go, closing solo

He doesn’t respond.

Which is fine. She doesn’t know what she’s going to say to fix it yet.

An hour later, she googles “how long do board meetings take?”

An hour after that, business slows to the usual Monday night trickle. Rook eats a vegan hot dog and chugs some water, but she still feels like a taxidermied version of herself. Emptied out, hollow. It’s been the longest day of her life and it’s still not over. Solas was here. That was today.

He still wants to sell the Lighthouse.

Rook abruptly deletes the two voicemails from him, like maybe that will erase the whole problem. Then she lets herself scroll down. The last voicemail she ever got from Varric is still there, from August 2nd of last year. Her finger hovers over the play button for a second, before she chickens out and reads the transcription instead:

Hey kid, don’t worry about what Chuckles said earlier, this is between me and him. Don’t punch me for saying this, but you deserve better than him. Hell, you deserve better than both of us. See you tomorrow.

Rook did see him tomorrow. But not any day after that.

She texts Lucanis again:

Rook: hope you’re okay

She spends a solid stretch of time staring at that text message, willing three dots to appear. Trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach that, despite what he said about coming back, she really, really messed up this time.

Fifteen minutes before closing, when the Lighthouse is empty, the front door bells jingle.

It’s fucking Solas.

Rook doesn’t acknowledge him. She barely looks up from the dishwasher she’s emptying, even when he comes to stand right across from her on the other side of the bar.

“I wanted to apologize for how I acted earlier.”

“You could’ve just texted me.”

“I’m fairly certain you’ve blocked my number.”

“I don’t…care, Solas,” she says with a sigh, wiping hair out of her face with the back of her wet hand. “I don’t care if you apologize. I don’t think it changes anything.”

He gives her a thoughtful nod. “You’ve changed. Matured.”

Rook smirks, she can’t help herself. “You wouldn’t say that if you saw the bottle of vodka in my bed right now.”

Solas smirks back. “Even so.”

There’s a long pause while he considers his next words and Rook finishes wiping down the bar.

“Do you think we’ll ever be friends again?”

“No,” she answers immediately with a snort. “I don’t know. Do you even want to be?”

“Yes,” he says, his expression softening. “Some day, if you’ll allow it. You were one of the most important people in my life, Rook. I loved you.”

Loved, past tense. Just like she loved him, once.

She texts Lucanis:

Rook: just about done closing up, think you’ll be here soon?

“That’s a big ask, Solas. And if you say any bullshit about how it’s what Varric would want, I will slap you.”

Solas smiles a little at that. “I think Varric would want us both to be happy.”

And that gets Rook’s heart hurting again because yeah, he would. That’s exactly what he would want. She goes to flip the sign on the door to closed, and to put some distance between her and Solas for a second. It’s still raining, not as much of a downpour as before but enough that walking home would absolutely suck. The punishment she deserves, maybe. She checks her phone again, and there’s still no response from Lucanis.

Fuck it.

“Could you drive me home? My car’s busted.”

It’s always been hard to surprise Solas enough for him to show it. The man prides himself on his stoic facade. So seeing him blink and raise his eyebrows at her question is a little rewarding, Rook has to admit.

“Of course.”

“This doesn’t mean we’re friends.”

“I wouldn’t dare to hope.”

Rook: getting another ride home, meet you there

Just like walking into the back room with him, walking out to Solas’s car feels like slipping into her old life. Yes, Rook’s anxiety is spiking and her heart is jackrabbiting behind her ribs, but maybe this is her way forward. Maybe she can talk some sense into him. Maybe someday she won’t want to push him into an active volcano every time she thinks about him.

It helps that he has a different car now.

The drive is quiet, aside from the rain plunking down. Solas has NPR on the radio, because of course he does. Rook leans her head against the window. She survived the day. Ten more minutes, then she’ll be home and, hopefully, Lucanis will be there soon.

Oh shit, I have to get the pizz—

In a flash of headlights, the car swerves, Solas shouts, “Rook!” and her world goes grey.

Chapter Text

When Rook doesn’t text to say she’s home, Lucanis knows something is wrong.

Her casual insistence that people text each other when they get home is one of the first real things he ever learned about her. If he were to catalog those things in order: she makes a perfect cup of coffee, she’s a talented artist, she knows how to navigate a panic attack, she will always text you when she gets home.

Other things, less quantifiable but just as important: her laugh is his favorite sound, her tattoo of a smiley face is over a very ticklish spot on her ribs, she has a faint Southern accent that only comes out after she’s been drinking, she buys her cat better food than she buys herself, she loves music but can’t sing. She pretends not to be sad.

Lucanis has never been good at pretending. Avoiding, deflecting, ignoring, yes. But not pretending.

He hasn’t stopped thinking about the look on her tear-streaked face when he left the Lighthouse. He can’t stop hearing her say, “This job is going to kill you.” He almost told her that she was right, but that would have required admitting it to himself first.

Focusing during the board meeting was next to impossible. He should have left his phone in his office. Knowing that Rook must have been texting him, and that Caterina would kill him if he took his phone out of his pocket to check, was a new, unexpected form of torture. Caterina might kill him anyway, at this point, and Illario.

Fucking Illario.

Now, standing under the awning outside of Pizza Stone, Lucanis reads Rook’s texts again. For the dozenth time since Caterina finally cut him loose.

Rook: Harding had to go, closing solo

Rook: hope you’re okay

Rook: just about done closing up, think you’ll be here soon?

Rook: getting another ride home, meet you there

Lucanis: I just got done, sorry it’s so late. I’ll be there in 20 minutes. Do you still want pizza?

Lucanis: I’m here

He steps back into the rain to look up at her windows. Still dark. She could be asleep.

She could be ignoring him.

Something is wrong.

Lucanis: Are you home?

The red neon of the pizza sign reflects off the screen of his phone as he stares down at it. It’s almost 11 PM, too late to buzz one of her neighbors to let him up. He doesn’t have a key to her apartment. He never thought about needing one. How would he even have asked? When does that become the natural next step in a relationship?

She’s probably just asleep. It was a long day, after a month of long days.

Lucanis forces himself to walk back to his car.

Something is wrong.

The feeling is physical, like the onset of pins and needles, or nausea, or a headache. An uncomfortable precursor to even greater discomfort.

He finds himself driving toward the Lighthouse instead of his own apartment, hands gripping the steering wheel too tightly, just in case Rook is still there. He does have a key to the Lighthouse.

The lights are off in the front. Lucanis knows better than to hope that she’s just working in the back. He knows better, but he’s still disappointed when the door opens into more darkness. He flips the light switch on anyway. The back room is empty. The mop sink is almost dry.

He can still smell a faint hint of the sandwich they shared for lunch, beneath the sharp tang of floor cleaner. He can still feel the way his heart stopped when Rook’s broken sobs carried down the hallway, and how it only started again when Neve came to get him.

Something is wrong.

On his way out, Lucanis’s eyes catch on the portrait wall, and the drawing of the previous owner. Varric. Neve said he was more of a parent to Rook than her actual parents, and from everything Rook has told him, that would be a low bar to clear. Still, it shows. A drawing is subjective, but there’s real affection in the expression she captured on Varric’s face. An exasperated, unwavering love.

The drawing she did of Lucanis on his birthday is tacked up close to Varric’s, the paper much brighter. Reading his book at the laundromat, eyes downcast, a faint line between his brows, a slight smile tugging at his cheek. Rendered with such tenderness that it makes him think he doesn’t know what his own face looks like. It’s astonishing, wondering if this is how she sees him.

He wonders, constantly, if she would still see him this way if she knew everything that happened last year.

Lucanis sits in his car, adrift, watching the street appear and disappear with each pass of the windshield wipers. He should go home. He doesn’t want to go home without Rook.

His phone rings, and Harding’s name pops up on the display.

Something is wrong.

“Are you okay?” Harding‘s frantic voice echoes into his car before Lucanis can even say hello. “What happened?”

“What do you mean? With the board meeting?”

“Are you already here? Is she okay?”

“Where? Harding, where’s Rook?”

“You’re not with her?”

“No, what—”

“Rook was in an accident.”

There’s a sensation in his stomach like falling out of a tree. A jolt to his veins like receiving an electric shock.

“Lucanis? Are you there?”

“Is she hurt?” His own voice is light years away.

“I don’t know.” Harding sounds close to tears. “I just got to the hospital, I’m her emergency contact.”

“Which hospital?”

The drive there takes an eternity and passes in a blink. Lucanis’s pulse is hammering in his ears and he can’t feel his fingers on the steering wheel. He parks, he gets out of his car, he makes himself put one foot in front of the other.

It’s not the same hospital where he was held, but it takes effort to cross the threshold.

It’s not that Lucanis hates hospitals, he just has to remind himself that he’ll be able to leave.

In the ER waiting area, Harding sees him first.

“You were supposed to be with her!” she shouts, shooting up from her chair. Taash gets up behind her. “She said you were coming back!”

She’s in his face in an instant, glaring up at him. Dimly, distantly, he feels her poke him in the chest.

“I know. My meeting ran late.”

The excuse sounds pathetic. Even to his own ears, even knowing everything that was at stake.

“Your meeting?”

“Is she okay?”

“She’s conscious,” Taash says quickly, one hand on Harding’s arm. “They’re doing x-rays. The front desk will tell us when we can go see her.”

“Okay,” Lucanis breathes. Okay.

She’s conscious. We can go see her.

Taash leads them back over to their chairs and the three of them sit in silence. Harding is leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, scowling into the middle distance, pointedly ignoring him. Taash’s arm is slung across the back of Harding’s chair, and they almost seem relaxed except for the constant jiggling of their leg.

Lucanis’s hands are in his lap, still numb. He watches the minute hand circle the clock above the front desk to avoid watching the ER security staff. There are two of them. They look tired and bored, already back at ease after Harding’s outburst. But they have tasers in their belts, and pepper spray. So Lucanis is still. He breathes shallow breaths, and he watches the clock, and he does not draw any more of their attention.

After forty-seven minutes, the person at the front desk tells Harding they can go see Rook.

It’s not the same hospital where Caterina lay in a coma for months, but it’s similar enough.

The room they’re led to doesn’t remotely resemble Caterina’s private room, or an actual room at all—its walls are fabric partitions, offering the barest semblance of privacy from the makeshift rooms surrounding it—but Lucanis is still terrified of what they’ll find.

Fear has always come easily to him.

For a long time, after his parents and aunt and uncle died, he was scared of fire. He snuffed out candles when he found them lit. He refused to enter any room with a fireplace burning. He checked and rechecked the ovens every night before bed, until eventually their chef started teaching him to find comfort in cooking.

As a teenager, he was scared of being left behind. Over the span of a few summers, all of his peers were suddenly giving into urges that he didn’t feel or understand. He was already quiet, reserved, a dark shadow to Illario’s bright gleam. He used his studies as an excuse, a shield. It mostly worked. When it didn’t, he tried, badly, to pretend.

Adulthood was easier, more was within his control. Until it wasn’t. Until last year, when nothing was.

And then, Rook was there.

And now, the orderly pulls one of the fabric partitions aside, and Rook is here.

Sitting propped up in bed, in a hospital gown, under starched hospital blankets. Awake. Alive.

A splint on her wrist. A split in her lip. Bruises mottling her nose and cheekbone, scrapes across her face and arms.

Lucanis takes in a trembling lungful of air, the biggest breath he’s allowed himself in forty-seven minutes. He feels tears sting the backs of his eyes. He feels gutted.

“I’m okay,” Rook says hoarsely, with a wincing smile.

He realizes in that moment he was bracing himself to never hear her voice again, despite what the front desk said.

She’s looking at Harding, spares a glance for Taash. Does not look at him.

Harding falls forward, wrapping her arms carefully around Rook, who gives a little grimace anyway and awkwardly pats Harding’s back.

“I’m okay,” she repeats. “Just a broken wrist and a concussion. I’ll be out of here in a few hours, tops.”

“I can’t believe this happened today of all fucking days,” Harding says, finally pulling back and wiping her nose. “You get how crazy that is, right?”

“Oh, I get it,” Rook says with a crooked grin. Still not looking at Lucanis.

“You’re not allowed out of the house for the whole first week of August next year.”

“Yeah, fair.”

“So what the hell happened?” Taash asks.

“Solas came back, and—”

“What?” Harding exclaims.

“—and I needed a ride home.” Rook looks down, away, everywhere but at him. “A cat ran out in the road and the car coming the other way swerved into us.”

“Is the cat okay?” Taash asks.

Rook laughs again, winces again.

“Everyone’s okay. Solas is okay. I think he might already be gone.”

“I couldn’t give two shits about Solas.”

“I’m okay,” Rook repeats.

“Do you want us to stay with you?”

“You two go,” she says, then finally, finally drags her gaze up to Lucanis. There are tears in her eyes, and his heart shatters, fully, into pieces, when she whispers, “You stay.”

“You sure?” Harding asks. He hears the anger and skepticism in her voice. He understands it. He feels the same. Neither of them will be forgiving him any time soon.

Rook nods.

“I’ll text you when I get home.”

When Rook and Lucanis are finally alone, he stands frozen, unable to stop his eyes from roaming across the extent of her injuries.

“It looks worse than it is, promise,” she whispers.

Rook has promised him so many little things in the time he’s known her, but he can’t let himself believe this one. He’s moving towards her before he even realizes it, wanting to touch her, to never be apart from her again. He pulls the single chair up to the side of her hospital bed, drops into it, and grasps her hand. The one that’s not in a splint. She lets him.

“I should have been there. I’m so sorry.”

He bends over her hand, placing a kiss to her scraped knuckles, and tears finally spill over.

Her voice sounds so small when she says, “I thought…I thought you were mad at me about what I said.”

He shakes his head, forehead against the back of her hand. You were right, you were right, you were right. His mouth won’t form the words.

“I never should have left you, Rook. This is my fault.”

A truth Lucanis hasn’t been able to face head on is suddenly too large for him to ignore. Something starts to shift inside of him, painfully. Catastrophically. Rook was hurt, because of him. Because he answered Caterina’s call, and for what? Proof of how far Illario will go to realize his ambitions? He already had it. To save his family’s crumbling empire? He doesn’t want it.

“It’s not your fault,” Rook whispers.

Lucanis looks up and finds tears trailing down her bruised cheeks. He wants to wipe them away, but he’s scared of hurting her more.

“Neve told you what today is, didn’t she?”

He nods, not trusting his voice to speak. A week ago, after he heard Rook crying in the middle of the night, he asked Neve if something was wrong. If he’d done something wrong. He won’t ever forget the withering stare she gave him. Aside from letting your shit-ass job take over your life again? No. Her best friend died last year and she’s so deep in denial at this point that joking about rivers in Egypt feels like punching down.

“Varric died in a car accident,” Rook says after a deep breath.

Don’t ask her to talk about it, Lucanis. We’ve all tried. She’ll get there when she’s ready.

Lucanis thinks, now, that he should have asked anyway.

“Solas and I were fighting in the back room of the Lighthouse that night, about a fight he’d had with Varric the day before. It was so stupid. He was drunk, I was upset. So stupid. Varric came back to tell us to shut up and stop scaring the customers. I said fine, we would go. Varric took Solas’s keys from me. Said he would take me home, and then Solas, so everyone could cool off and talk again the next day like civilized people. He was just being a good friend.” She swallows thickly, the tears falling faster. She stammers over the next part. “Someone ran a red light. They plowed straight into the driver’s side. The car rolled. I was in the back seat, and my door got crumpled in.” Her eyes squeeze shut. “I couldn’t get to Varric. I watched him die. I couldn’t get to him. They tried to resuscitate him at the hospital, but he died.”

The thought that the same thing could have happened to her tonight wants to take hold in Lucanis’s mind, but he refuses it. He won’t allow it. He will never let anything bad happen to her.

“Rook…that wasn’t your fault. You know that, right?” he asks softly. He remembers Solas implying that it was, and his jaw tightens.

Her eyes open, red and overflowing with tears. “If I’d driven instead—”

“Then you would be—”

“No, we would have gone to Solas’s house.” She shakes her head in vehement misery. “It’s in the opposite direction. We never would’ve gone down 27th, never hit the light at Ritual. None of it would have happened. If Solas hadn’t been drinking in the first place, picking fights, talking about the Lighthouse like it was already gone, none of it would have happened. Varric would still be here.”

“You can’t think that way, Rook.”

“I can’t help it. I’m…Lucanis, I’m so tired of feeling bad. I’m fucking tired.”

It feels like someone is standing on his chest and pressing all the air out of his lungs. A long, low sigh escapes him. “I know.”

I know.

With a grunt of effort, Rook scoots over in her hospital bed, and pulls him towards her.

“I don’t think there’s room,” he says, rising anyway.

“I don’t care.” She tugs his hand again.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

She says it with such certainty.

It’s not the same as the last hospital bed Lucanis was in, there are no restraints.

There’s no tube down his throat, no one is telling him to calm down and hold still, Zara isn’t standing nearby explaining to a doctor that no, I don’t know what he took and yes, he is a danger to himself.

There’s Rook. Only Rook.

Carefully, so careful not to jostle her injuries or take up too much space, Lucanis stretches out next to her in the hospital bed and holds her close. It’s less comfortable than the break room couch, but he doesn’t care. He’ll lay here for hours, just like he did on that couch, until his arm falls asleep and his neck cricks, if it gives Rook even a moment of peace.

He buries his nose in her hair, and the pressure in his chest finally eases as he breathes in the scent of her cheap shampoo, mingled with sweat and hospital astringent.

“You’re wearing a different shirt,” she says after a few minutes.

“Caterina made me change. Your snot was all over my other one.”

He feels her chuckle weakly.

“Are you a CEO now?”

Memories of the endless board meeting flood back in. The tiny, almost imperceptible tic in Caterina’s cheek as she fought to maintain her impassive glare. Her silence as Illario presented his case to the other board members. Illario’s earnest frown, overselling it as he expounded on Caterina’s accident, her failing health, her insistence on doing things the old way.

The words he chose to use when speaking about Lucanis, strung precisely together to maximize doubt and damage. Some were words Lucanis himself had shared with Illario over the last year, mistakenly in confidence, now turned back against him.

Then the spreadsheets, the charts, the promise of new business, greater investments. Zara’s hand was obvious there. Zara’s deep pockets and political connections are what paved the way for all of Illario’s bribes. And the shareholders were happy to be bought, and the board was happy to be swayed.

“No. lllario had the votes.”

It was barely close. Teia and Viago voted for Lucanis, and one other member. He couldn’t help feeling relieved. He can’t help dreading what tomorrow will bring.

“Now what?”

“I don’t know.”

They lapse into silence, punctuated by the beeping of machinery.

In the past, the warm weight of someone else’s body against his wasn’t something Lucanis often craved, outside of the abstract. Physical touch so rarely corresponded to intimacy. Rook, in the most concrete way, reminds him that he has a body. His entire life, his therapists have told him to get out of his head by connecting to his body, so he runs, and does yoga, and knits, and it does help. Being with Rook helps more.

Rook drifts off, or at least he thinks she does when her thumb stops rubbing gentle circles on his arm. Including the hour or so on the break room couch, Lucanis has slept for less than ten hours in the past three days. But he can’t let himself sleep, not here. So holds onto Rook, and he waits.

Rook is discharged at 2:18 AM.

The warm, humid summer night they step out into is a shocking contrast to the recycled, antiseptic air inside the hospital. It takes Lucanis a minute to remember where he parked his car, to wade back through the fog of panic he’d arrived in.

“Your place?” Rook asks, turning to him from the passenger seat. The bruises on her face are visible even in the half-light of the dashboard.

He nods. It’s closer.

If he drives slower, more cautiously than usual the entire way there, Rook doesn’t mention it.

They fall into bed without speaking. Stripping tiredly down to their underwear, not bothering to change into pajamas, slipping under soft sheets. Rook curls around him, like she always does, and her splint is an awkward weight against his chest. A reminder.

“Thank you for coming to the hospital,” she murmurs. The words pierce through his shoulder blade directly into his heart.

“Of course I came.”

“I just assumed…you don’t talk about being hospitalized. I don’t know.”

Hospitalized is the word Caterina uses, so it is the word Lucanis uses. The polite term, he supposes, for waking up in the ER without knowing how he got there, being held against his will for three days, and then transported to a psychiatric hospital where he was held for weeks. Caterina didn’t visit him, even once, even during the brief windows when he was allowed visitors, so she wouldn’t know how insufficient the polite term really is.

“I don’t know how to talk about it,” he answers eventually.

“You know you can try, with me, if you ever want to.”

“I know.”

I know.

Eyes open in the dark, looking at his cell phone plugged in face down on his night stand, Lucanis almost tells Rook that, aside from a brief period as a child, he’d never struggled with insomnia until last year. Until Zara started texting and calling him at all hours of the night, demanding that he completely change something they’d finalized earlier that day, or asking for updates she knew he couldn’t possibly have. If he didn’t answer, she made sure he regretted it the next day. 3 AM was her favorite time to call. It’s almost 3 AM now, and Lucanis can’t help staring at his phone, expecting it to chime.

He almost says all of this to Rook, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he focuses on the feeling of her breathing, her chest rising and falling against his back. He catalogs: her sweat is one of his favorite smells, her nail polish is almost always chipped, she’ll squeeze a tube of paint completely flat before letting herself buy a new one, she looks at him like he’s worth seeing, she makes his apartment feel more like a home. She pretends to care less than she does.

Lucanis has never been good at pretending.

“Do you want a key to my apartment?”

Chapter Text

“Maybe let me lift the big heavy thing?”

“I got it.”

“Yeah, you’ve also got a broken wrist.”

Rook tries one last time to move her coffee table out of the way one-handed, just to prove a point, and once again fails completely. The coffee table is solid wood, found years ago at an estate sale out in the suburbs, and it was a real bitch to get up the stairs when she brought it home. It’s even more of a bitch to move now that the swelling in her wrist has gone down enough to trade in her splint for a cast.

“I just want to make sure I get underneath it.”

“Rook, you have never, not once in all the years I have known you, vacuumed under your furniture. Did you get body swapped at the hospital? Should I ask you something only you would know?”

“First of all, Harding, shut the fuck up—”

“Okay, you’re you.”

“Second of all…I don’t know, it’s the first time I’ve seen my floor in three weeks. Excuse me for wanting to make the most of it.”

Harding has been helping Rook clean her apartment all day. Rook bribed her with bagels and iced coffee, but that was five hours, two trips to the dumpster, and one trip to the laundromat ago. It’s almost 100 degrees out, and they’re both covered in layers of sweat, dust, cat hair, and dryer lint.

It feels good.

It also feels beyond necessary, now that Lucanis has a key to her place.

Rook doesn’t need to look at Harding know that she’s rolling her eyes. But, with an exaggerated grunt of effort, Harding moves the coffee table so Rook can vacuum underneath it, and then moves it back into place. Same with the couch and the armchair. Not the TV stand, too many cords. And Rook’s not actually going to pick the rug up to sweep the hardwood underneath it, she has to draw the line somewhere.

“Do you want those canvases back over here?” Harding asks from the corner where Rook’s easel is, once they’re finally in the putting back all the stuff they cleaned under stage.

Rook pauses. “Yeah, I guess.”

She hasn’t touched them in a month. Or her sketchbook.

She’ll get there. Or she won’t.

Fifteen minutes later, she’s standing with her back to her easel and her hands on her hips, surveying the results of their hard work.

“I don’t think it’s been this clean since you moved in,” Harding says with a satisfied grin.

“I don’t know if I’d go that far. But at least it doesn’t smell like armpits and Chef Boyardee anymore.”

“Oh, no, if anything it smells too clean. How much bleach did you use in the bathroom?”

“Definitely too much.”

The windows are open, it’s fine.

Harding glances over at her, and they’ve been friends long enough for Rook to know that the pause before her inhale means she’s about to say something Rook probably doesn’t want to hear.

“So, do you feel like we’ve successfully hidden all the evidence of how depressed you’ve been lately?”

“Ouch.”

Harding gives her a tight-lipped Midwestern smile and a shrug. “I calls ‘em like I sees ‘em.”

“I liked you better when you were less confrontational,” Rook grumbles.

“No, you didn’t.”

“Nah.”

Rook doesn’t think she’s trying to hide anything. She just didn’t care about her apartment turning into a giant mess heading into August, and now she does care. And she knows Harding is glad she cares again, otherwise Harding wouldn’t be here helping her get her shit together.

“Think we should escape the fumes for a bit?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure you’re up for this?”

They talked about the next item on their checklist once this morning, and Rook has put off thinking about it again until now. Her eyes fall on the little bouquet of delphiniums that she bought earlier, before the bagels and iced coffee.

“No, but I think it’s time.”

The intersection of 27th and Ritual is only a five minute drive from Rook’s apartment, and a fifteen minute walk from the Lighthouse.

Harding parks a little ways down the street, close enough for Rook to stare out the windshield at the light turning red, green, yellow, red again. It’s not a particularly busy intersection, but cars on Ritual Street drive faster than they should in a residential neighborhood. People lobbied to put in speed bumps after the accident, but nothing’s happened so far. Rook’s not getting her hopes up that anything will.

But maybe I could talk to Tarquin. He’d at least know who else I could bug about it.

Neve raps on the car window, startling Rook back into the present.

“We doing this or what?” Neve asks. “It’s hot as balls.”

Rook turns to Harding. “What happened to not making a big deal out of this?”

“Neve was there, too.”

Rook sighs.

Harding and Neve were both working the night of the accident last year. They both tried to ignore Rook and Solas’s screaming match in the back room. They both heard a firetruck and an ambulance drive by the Lighthouse, and they both listened to regulars come in talking about a bad car accident a few blocks away. They both carry their own guilt, however misplaced.

“I know.”

She grabs the delphiniums from Harding’s dashboard and gets out of the car. Harding leads the way to one corner of the intersection that Rook has avoided for the last year. That she’s literally added minutes to the routes she drives and walks every day to ensure she goes around. Who knows how many minutes total, if she added them up?

There’s no blood staining the street. No broken glass anywhere. No metallic burning smells, just hot asphalt and dried up grass in the hellstrip and someone grilling in their yard a few houses down.

“Fuck.”

Harding and Neve put their arms around Rook, one on either side, even though it’s way too hot for that, and she leans into them.

“I know you don’t like to talk about it,” Harding says after a minute. “But I miss him, too.”

“I know.”

Harding knew Varric even longer than Rook. Almost as long as Isabela.

“I never thought that’s how he’d go out. I thought it’d be like…Viagra giving him a heart attack when he’s eighty,” Neve says.

“Ew, Neve!” Harding exclaims, but she’s already laughing a little.

“She’s right,” Rook agrees, feeling the ache in her heart start to ease at that horrible mental image. “Sexed to death is probably exactly how he would’ve wanted to go. Or like…getting blown up lighting a really good fireworks display.”

“The man did love his fireworks.”

“Remember that giant biker guy with the eye patch who sold him those bottle rockets?”

“That were definitely illegal?”

“They looked cool, though.”

“Yeah,” Harding says, sniffling.

Rook looks over and realizes she’s crying.

“This is how I want to remember Varric,” Harding says, her voice breaking. “I want to celebrate him. All the good shit. He was everything good about the Lighthouse.”

“Next year,” Rook whispers, hugging Harding closer, feeling tears slip down her own cheeks. “Next year we’ll do it right.”

Next year has to be different. Rook can’t do repeat of this year, Harding is right. Hell, Solas was right. Varric would want to be celebrated, not mourned. Varric would want her to be happy.

She props the delphiniums up against the telephone pole at the corner before they go, beneath flyers for the August Book Club meeting.

Lucanis is waiting in Rook’s hallway when Harding drops her back off.

He’s in his suit from work, with his tie loosened around his neck, his jacket in one hand, and a plastic bag of takeout in the other. He still looks tired, he’s still not sleeping enough. But he’s getting done work earlier, so that’s something. Rook doesn’t know what the trade-off is for these new hours, he won’t tell her. He’s still so slow to open up about that part of his life.

But these things take time, right? It’s been less than a week since Illario’s coup. Since Lucanis appeared at the foot of her hospital bed looking at her like she was a ghost, touching her hand like he didn’t expect her to be real. Like he couldn’t help but expect the worst, and hey, we do kind of have that in common, don’t we?

He doesn’t try to disguise his worry for her, even as her bruises start to yellow, and she’s doing her best to reassure him that she’s here. They’re both here.

“The whole point of a key is that you can use it to go inside,” she says.

“It feels strange going into your home without you there.”

He goes to kiss her, but Rook ducks out of the way.

“Nope, sorry, I’ve been hardcore cleaning all day and I smell rancid, no kissing until I’ve had a shower.”

Lucanis nods, hiding some disappointment, but Rook is sure that if he got close enough for a good whiff, he’d be singing a different tune. She lets them into her apartment, and he follows her into the tiny kitchen to put the food away.

“You even cleaned your fridge?” he asks, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“It was turning into a real toxic lab experiment in there, yeah.”

So much expired dairy.

“Should we go grocery shopping?”

“Maybe this weekend,” Rook says, after pouring herself a glass of water and chugging it. “I know it’s pretty bare in there, but it’s hot enough this week that there could be blackouts, so why risk it?”

“Very practical.”

“Also lazy.”

“Both.”

She hands him a glass of water and takes his jacket to hang up in her hall closet.

“Did you and Harding visit the site of the accident?” he asks, and she hears the concern in his voice.

“Yeah. Neve, too. It sucked, but it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be?”

Rook knows—not even deep down inside, but on a pretty surface level, factual basis—that telling Lucanis about what happened the night Varric died is what’s finally allowing her to start processing her shit. She just had to open up enough for someone else to tell her, out loud, that it wasn’t her fault. It’s still hard to make herself believe it, but hearing him say it makes it feel more possible.

“That took a lot of courage,” he says when she drifts back over to him.

“Thanks.”

She takes his hand, damp from holding the sweating water glass, and he leans in to attempt another kiss. She bats him away.

“For real, I’m gross. We cleaned for hours. Hours.”

Lucanis steps out of her kitchen to properly admire Rook and Harding’s handiwork.

“It doesn’t even smell like Chef Boyardee anymore,” he says.

“I take full responsibility for you knowing what Chef Boyardee smells like at all.”

He makes a face. “Tried it once, never again.”

“You lack my refined palate and that’s okay.” Rook’s eyes drift over her bright, tidy living room, the curtains ruffling peacefully in the breeze from her fans. Her plants are wilting a little, but so is everything in this heat, and they’ll spring back eventually. “It looks nice in here, right?”

“It does. Really. Do you need a hand?”

“With what? This is as clean as it gets. I even folded my laundry.”

“Your shower.”

“My shower?” Rook raises an eyebrow at him, suddenly far more interested in where this conversation is headed.

Lucanis nods innocently, pointing to her cast. “You’re not supposed to get that wet, right?”

“Right…”

Is he suggesting…?

“It might be…easier, if I helped you.” His eyes take a long, lingering journey from her cast, up her body, to finally rest on her face. A heat starts to build inside of Rook that has nothing to do with the temperature of her apartment.

Yup.

“If you want to get naked in the shower with me, Lucanis, you can just say so.”

His cheeks flare pink, but his gaze doesn’t leave her face. Rook gives him a smug grin and heads into the bathroom, calling over her shoulder.

“Will you get a trashbag and duct tape from the kitchen?”

“A trashbag and duct tape?”

Rook holds up her cast. “Doctor’s orders, not a weird sex thing.”

She’s stripped out of her grimy tank top and shorts by the time Lucanis arrives in the bathroom with the supplies to waterproof Rook’s cast.

“What do you think, trashbag on first, or underwear off first?” she asks, putting the decision in his hands. Just to see what he’ll do with it.

He responds by setting the supplies down on her bathroom sink and stepping closer to her. Rook’s toes wiggle in anticipation, but Lucanis is all stillness and quiet consideration.

“Arms up,” he instructs.

Rook raises her arms. Lucanis slips his fingers under the band of her sports bra and tugs it, carefully, up and over her head. He then hooks his thumbs into her underwear, and waits for her to give him a nod before he slides them down her legs. She steps out of them, standing fully naked in front of him in his shirt and slacks. Grin still in place, waiting to see what happens next.

But as Lucanis tapes the trashbag over her cast with gentle deliberation, Rook’s smugness starts to evaporate. There’s so much care in the way he turns the water on for her, and adjusts it when she says it’s too cold. There’s nothing but tenderness in the grip of his hand when he helps her step in to the shower. She didn’t know it was possible to feel so cared for, or tended to.

This, in itself, turns the heat building inside of her into something slow and molten.

A minute later, the shower curtain rattles aside and Lucanis is behind her. Rook sees his arm reach around her for her shitty drugstore shampoo, and then his fingers are in her hair, massaging into her scalp. She relaxes into his hands with a sigh. She understands why cats like head scratches now, she totally gets it.

She closes her eyes, lets him turn her around and move her beneath the spray to rinse the shampoo off. Lets him gently brush his thumbs across her eyelids to wipe away any lingering suds. He does the same thing with the conditioner. Not speaking, because his hands are speaking for him.

An ache blooms within Rook, similar in so many ways to the one she felt earlier at the corner of 27th and Ritual, but also completely different. She feels calm. Slow. Like something that’s been tangled inside of her for a long time is finally safe to unravel.

When she feels the soft brush of the loofah against her chest, she finally opens her eyes. Her shower isn’t big. Lucanis is right there, skin glistening with water, dark hair hanging around a face that’s intently focused his own movements. He must feel her watching him, because he smiles up at her through his wet eyelashes. The loofah ghosts over the cuts and bruises on her arms, glides down her torso under her breasts. Dips lower, down her stomach.

Rook moves her legs apart instinctively, and Lucanis only hesitates for a second before running the loofah between and down her inner thighs. One, then the other. Need gathers there, heavy and insistent.

“Lucanis,” she whispers, blinking under the shower’s spray.

His eyes meet hers again, and he steps in even closer, dropping the loofah, his free hand stroking up her hip before drifting back over her thigh.

“Can I?” he asks, his voice low.

Rook just parts her thighs wider, letting his hand slip between them.

He’s slow at first, exploring, finding the right motions. Adjusting as her breath starts to come faster, gaining confidence after she gasps and braces her left hand against the slick shower wall. Oh. Oh shit. He paid attention. And then he surprises her with a dip of his finger, and she moans. When another finger joins the first, she pants, open-mouthed, into his shoulder.

Rook comes apart seconds later, awkwardly slinging her trashbag-wrapped arm around Lucanis when her legs threaten to give out beneath her. He holds her up without complaint, and she can feel him hard against her hipbone.

When she’s confident she can stand on her own again, she takes a half step back. Lucanis is breathing heavily, flushed and smiling.

“Can I kiss you now?”

Rook laughs and kisses him, not giving a single flying fuck about the stitches in her lower lip. Lucanis’s tongue flicks out against them, and Rook moans again. She reaches down, and, with a few quick strokes, has Lucanis moaning back as he finds his release.

“Rook—”

The bathroom pitches into darkness.

“Jesus fuck!”

“Ow, that’s my foot.”

“Are you—what the fuck—”

“Can you turn the water off?”

Rook blindly gropes around in the direction of the faucet and eventually manages to turn it off, leaving her and Lucanis standing in her shower in the dark. For a minute, the only sounds are the water dripping off their bodies and their breathing slowly returning to normal.

“Remember when I said that thing about blackouts?”

Which is how they find themselves, after some more fumbling around for phone flashlights and towels, sitting in their underwear on Rook’s couch in the stifling August heat, eating summer rolls and cold noodle salad by candlelight.

“Is this how you saw your day going when Neve offered to work a Friday for you?” Lucanis asks, pulling some more noodles on to his plate.

“Oh, god, I hope all the milk at the Lighthouse doesn’t spoil,” Rook says through a mouthful of lemongrass tofu.

“They’ll get the power back on soon.”

“It comes on a little slower here than in the Market District, but yeah, hopefully.” She swallows, frowning a little at her next thought. Debates saying it out loud, like it could be inviting bad luck, but if she can’t say it to Lucanis, who can she say it to? “I do sometimes think about how much easier life might be, if I didn’t have to constantly worry about the Lighthouse.”

It feels safer, somehow, to admit that in the semi-darkness.

“It is a lot of responsibility,” Lucanis says eventually, giving her a look that’s either thoughtful or surprised, it’s hard to tell.

“I don’t actually want to sell it,” she amends quickly. “I’ll fucking kill Solas if he tries to sell it.” Solas seems to have backed off, for now, only out of guilt about Monday night, but it won’t be forever. “It’s just hard not to wonder how things might’ve worked out differently, you know?”

“I know.”

The candles are casting Lucanis’s face in flickering, yellow light, highlighting the curve of his cheekbone and the ridge of his brow, but his eyes are downcast in shadow.

“Do you want to talk about it? Work?” Rook asks lightly.

She was never delusional enough to think that he wasn’t going to go right back to the office the day after the board meeting. A tiny part of her had hoped that he wouldn’t, even as she’d watched him set his alarm that night. But Caterina is expecting Lucanis to be her eyes on the inside for whatever Illario and Zara are planning next.

It’s already taking a toll. Rook can see it in the hunch of his shoulders and the deepening circles under his eyes.

Lucanis doesn’t answer her for awhile, but Rook knows now to wait. Let him get his thoughts in order. She finishes another summer roll by the time he says:

“I don’t know how much longer I can do it, with her there.”

“Zara?”

He nods. Of course.

Maybe in the dark, it will be easier for Lucanis to admit some things too.

“Did she hurt you?”

“She ruined my life,” he says immediately, half-smiling but with no humor, like he’s trying and failing to make it a joke.

Rook waits.

“It feels melodramatic to say it out loud, but she ruined my life,” he tries the words out again, his smile disappearing, and seems to find them fitting. “She’s the reason I was committed in December. I don’t—I promise I’ll tell you about it, some day, but please believe me when I say that she’s dangerous. She’ll do whatever it takes to get what she wants, and I made the mistake of getting in her way.”

“I believe you.”

Rook takes his hand, rubs her thumb across his knuckles.

“Illario knew?” she asks.

“I told him what she was like, before they started working together.” He scowls. “Not that it mattered. I didn’t tell him everything, after December, but…I think he must know. He and Zara were the only people who visited me.”

Rook can’t begin to understand his and Illario’s relationship. What she assumed was over-protectiveness on Illario’s part is clearly something more complicated. Darker. If Illario knows what Zara did, or at least some of it, and he’s choosing her over his cousin…fucked up doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“Want me to take a hit out on her? Neve probably knows some hitmen.”

Lucanis lets out a strangled laugh. “Tempting, but no. I’ll figure it out, Rook.”

“You know you don’t have to do that alone, right? You’ve got me. The Lighthouse crew. We’ve got your back, whatever you decide to do.”

He leans across their food and cups her cheek with one hand, kisses her softly.

“Thank you.”

They eat in silence for the next few minutes. Rook wishes he would tell her more. She wishes she was more patient. She wishes she could strangle Zara Renata or make her hurt as much as she hurt Lucanis. But how do you make a woman with more money than god hurt for anything?

The blackout shows no signs of ending, so they rinse their dishes under cold water and stretch back out on the couch, side by side, legs propped up on Rook’s coffee table, her ankle crossed over his, their fingers intertwined, staring into her clean, dimly lit living room. The sounds of neighbors talking and dogs barking and cars passing outside are louder, without the hum of electricity in the background.

“Do you think you’ll start painting again soon?” Lucanis asks eventually, his head tilted towards her easel.

“Hmm. I don’t know. I mean, yes, but I don’t know when. I’m not there yet.”

There was a time in Rook’s life where she used to draw and paint constantly. She couldn’t not create. It overflowed, it poured out of her. She grasped the edge of that feeling earlier this spring, but it’s gone again. Trusting it will come back takes a faith she’s not sure she has anymore.

“Did I ever tell you I would have liked to go into the arts? If I’d had the nerve to upset Caterina’s plans?”

“You know, I can see that.” And she can. He’s focused, disciplined, emotional, imaginative. There’s so much more to him than Talon Corp, and Rook wonders sometimes if he actually realizes that. “What discipline?”

He shrugs a little awkwardly. “I don’t know. I took a few art history courses to try to impress Viago, but eventually I didn’t have time for them. Maybe literature, if I could do it all again?”

“So you can write our next Book Club book?”

He chuckles. “Maybe.”

“What about the culinary arts? You’re already great at those. And I could help eat all of your failed experiments.”

He laughs again. “True. Well, it’s too late, now, anyway.”

“For you? With your money? Nah.”

“Do you think so?” His laugh fades.

“Sure.”

Lucanis shrugs it off, but Rook can see him thinking about it.

She lets him think. Not pushing. Just holding his hand, leaning her head on his shoulder, and letting herself imagine a future where she can paint again and Lucanis can sleep through the night.

Where he can let himself dream.

Chapter Text

Driving forty minutes outside the city to a field in the middle of nowhere to try to spot the Northern Lights sounded like a good idea when Bellara suggested it a few days ago, but, now that they’re here, Rook is wondering if this is actually the beginning of a horror movie.

“You’re sure there are no hillbilly axe murderers out here?” she asks, looking around at the pitch blackness surrounding their little island of blankets.

They passed an old, abandoned Walmart on the road out. Hillbilly axe murderers would definitely live in an abandoned Walmart. Also zombies.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Bellara says breezily, fiddling with her telescope.

“Okay, but when do we actually see anything?” Taash asks, glaring up at the sky.

“It’s not dark enough yet—”

“It gets darker?” Rook asks. She really has lived in the city for too long.

“—but I have the telescope pointed at Jupiter, if anyone wants to look at that while we wait.”

“While we wait to get murdered with axes…” Rook mutters.

“Calm down and eat some candy,” Harding says, reaching over Lucanis to hand her a bag.

“I won’t let you get murdered by hillbillies,” Lucanis reassures her.

“Thank you,” Rook says through a mouthful of peanut M&Ms. They’re both lying down on one corner of a blanket, with her head resting on his stomach.

There really are a ton of stars out. It’s a shockingly clear night. Perfect for catching a glimpse of the Northern Lights even this far south, because of something about the Earth’s magnetic field or geomagnetic storms, Rook wasn’t totally listening. Bellara definitely said the word “magnet” a few times. The weather is finally starting to cool off, just a tiny bit, enough that Rook is wearing actual pants for what feels like the first time since June. She got her cast off last week, and the breeze drifting across the field still feels like a novelty on her exposed wrist. There’s the faintest scent of drying, dying leaves in the air. Summer will be over soon.

“I thought you liked Halloween stuff,” Neve’s voice floats over from the far side of the blankets.

“I like watching scary movies in the comfort of my own home where I can lock all the doors and sleep with the lights on if I need to. And I like the Halloween Queeraoke Party at the Viper’s Nest.”

“Do you know what your costume’s going to be yet?” Bellara asks, stepping aside for Taash to use the telescope.

“No clue.”

“It’s over a month away, there’s plenty of time,” Harding says.

“I feel like I already know the answer, but do you all dress up?” Lucanis asks.

“Of course,” Emmrich says. He’s lounging on his side, giving off big Jeff Goldblum energy even with his shirt buttoned up.

Rook elaborates. “Bellara will do something spectacular that took months to make from scratch, Emmrich is always a vampire, Davrin will either be a pro-wrestler or Blade and sometimes he and Emmrich will fake fight, Neve will put something together last minute that looks amazing, and Harding and I will put something together last minute that looks stupid. And, based on last year, Taash will probably look hot and scary.”

“Oh, wow, Jupiter is rad,” Taash says, completely distracted. “Telescopes are rad.”

“I know, right? I got a really good look at the blood moon eclipse with it last month,” Bellara says, clearly delighted.

“Will you still be on sabbatical?” Emmrich asks Lucanis. “The Halloween party is a wonderful time but costumes are mandatory for entrance. Although, I may be on trick-or-treating duty, Fred wants both me and Strife to go this year.”

“Big stick incoming!” Davrin shouts across the field, flashlight bobbing in front of him, just before Assan trots up dragging a stick that’s longer than he is.

“Through the end of October, so I guess I’ll have to find a costume,” Lucanis says.

Lucanis lasted another month at Talon Corp before requesting a sabbatical. A month too long, if you ask Rook, but he didn’t, so she’s keeping her mouth shut about it. The decision to take one in the first place didn’t come easily.

It was a month of watching him fight silently with himself after fighting loudly with Illario on the phone. A month of reminding him to eat, and finding him still awake when she got up in the middle of the night to pee, and listening to him tell her, in angry fits and starts, what he suspects Zara and Illario are really up to.

Don’t go back. She doesn’t have the guts to say it.

The end of October is still over a month away.

Maybe he won’t.

“When’s the last time you dressed up for Halloween?” Rook asks.

“Let me guess, you never did,” Davrin says, folding himself down onto a blanket between Assan and Neve.

“No, I did. Illario and I were cowboys for a few years in a row.”

“God, that’s cute,” Rook says, trying to envision little kid Lucanis running around in a cowboy hat. This quickly turns into imagining grown up Lucanis wearing chaps, and nothing but chaps, which temporarily short circuits her brain.

“Only a few years? Did you get too cool to keep doing it?” Harding teases.

“Illario did, and I didn’t have anyone else to trick-or-treat with.”

“Bummer,” Taash says, still glued to the telescope.

“How’s the CEO life treating him?” Neve asks with a curl to her lip that Rook can hear but not see.

Lucanis told the rest of the crew a bit about what happened last month. Enough for them to know that the spin the news put on it—that Caterina “retired”—wasn’t the whole truth.

“He seems happy enough,” Lucanis says evenly. “It’s everything he ever wanted.”

And he didn’t care who he stepped all over to get it.

“Is he actually any good at it?” Davrin asks skeptically.

“He is. Profits are already up.”

“A little too up,” Rook says under her breath.

“What’s that mean?” Harding asks, taking the M&Ms back from Rook.

“Forget it, I shouldn’t have said anything,” Rook says quickly. “Sorry, Lucanis.”

“It’s fine.” Lucanis gives her arm a gentle squeeze.

“You don’t have to tell us anything, Lucanis. Truly,” Emmrich says.

“You can if you want to though,” Neve wheedles.

“I love shit-talking people I don’t know,” Davrin agrees.

Rook feels Lucanis chuckle a little, then take a deep breath, his stomach rising and falling beneath her head. She thinks for sure he’s going to shut the conversation down, but then he goes and surprises her.

“It’s…this information can’t leave this…field, okay?”

Rook’s eyebrows raise, even as everyone rushes to agree. Lucanis takes another breath, finding the right words, unintentionally drawing out the suspense.

“When I first started working with Zara, she wanted me to do things that weren’t exactly legal,” he finally says, still talking around it, which is less surprising.

“Murder?” Taash asks immediately.

“Buy her cocaine?” Davrin asks.

“Or a pet tiger?” Harding asks.

“Is that illegal?” Bellara asks.

“It is here.”

“Nothing that exciting. She wanted me to sell some stocks based on information she shouldn’t have had.”

“Insider trading, huh?” Neve comments thoughtfully.

“Isn’t that what Martha Stewart went to jail for?” Harding asks.

That’s word-for-word the same question Rook asked when Lucanis first told her about it a few weeks ago.

“It is,” Neve answers for Lucanis. “You really think that’s what Illario is doing?”

“I don’t know for certain. But Zara asked like she assumed I would say yes. She didn’t see any risk. I have old messages on my phone where she basically says as much. Illario could have taken her up on the offer after they started working together.”

Rook has heard all of this already, but it still fills her with the same helpless anger. Illario absolutely could have said yes. After all, Lucanis’s no bumped him to the top of Zara’s shit list, and instead of being normal about it, Zara made it her personal mission to fuck with him for an entire year. Enough to get him committed. How that happened is still a big huge blank for Rook, and she’s trying to make peace with the fact that it might never get filled in.

She thinks it must be harder for him to find the right words, for that part.

“Lucanis, did Illario agree to your sabbatical because you have leverage on him?” Emmrich asks with obvious concern.

Lucanis shifts a little uncomfortably underneath her, and Rook wonders how much he regrets opening this can of worms.

“I don’t have any proof, aside from Zara’s messages, and those are circumstantial at best. I think he just agreed because…he won.”

“Why not just fire you?” Davrin asks.

“He needs someone to gloat to,” Lucanis says simply.

“Rich people problems are wild,” Taash says in honest amazement.

Rook feels Lucanis’s phone buzz somewhere under her shoulder, and she leans up so he can dig it out of his pocket. The screen illuminates his face, and his eyebrows draw together as he reads something and types, before putting his phone back. Neve’s phone lights up next to her a second later, but she doesn’t check it.

Hmmm…

“Well, I’m glad you’re back at the Lighthouse,” Emmrich says. “It’s nice to have you around more.”

“You’re just saying that because he’s bringing churros again,” Rook says.

“That’s certainly part of it.”

When Lucanis started baking again, a weight Rook didn’t realize was still on her shoulders got a bit lighter. He’s cooking dinner more. He’s already finished the Book Club book for next month. He hasn’t picked his holiday knitting projects back up yet, but there’s time. She thinks he’ll get there. The end of October is over a month away. There’s time.

“Who knows for how long, though?” Bellara says, suddenly mopey. “Solas could shut us down any day now.”

“Bell!” Harding exclaims.

“What? It’s true! And I need this job! My rent just increased and the university won’t raise my stipend.”

“He won’t shut us down,” Rook says firmly.

How the fuck am I going to stop it, though? A last minute, amazing, perfect plan has to form at some point, right?

“What are we going to do, have a bake sale? A car wash?” Neve cracks, like she’s reading directly from Rook’s mental list of less-amazing, already-crossed-out plans.

“We’ll figure something out,” Rook says.

She hears Lucanis’s intentional silence. He already offered to help, financially, with the Lighthouse situation. Only once, prefaced with an I know you’re going to say no, but I have to at least ask. And she did say no, and Solas has texted her a couple times since then, and now she’s wondering what other options she possibly has. How last minute her perfect, nonexistent plan can possibly be.

Taking Lucanis’s money just feels like a cop out. Too easy, but also incredibly hard.

“So, how much longer until we see some lights, Bell?” Davrin asks, blatantly changing the subject.

“Maybe we should we just call it quits?” Harding suggests with a yawn.

“They could be visible until 2 AM, there’s still time!” Bellara insists.

“Some of us have to work in the morning,” Neve says.

“Some of us are starting to have to pee,” Rook adds.

“A little bit longer, guys!”

“Okay, okay, fine.”

“Taash, come snuggle me, I’m cold,” Harding whines, even though she’s in a sweatshirt and shorts and runs hotter than a space heater.

“Just go pee in the woods, Rook,” Taash says, dutifully plopping down behind Harding and pulling her into their lap. The two of them have been talking it out, now that Harding’s finally decided to get out of her own way.

“And get axe murdered by a hillbilly zombie? No thank you.”

She reaches back across Lucanis, wordlessly holding her hand out for more M&Ms, and Harding gives the bag back. For awhile, they all stare up at the sky, and the only sounds are Rook chewing M&Ms, Assan chewing on his stick, and Bellara and Emmrich chatting quietly by the telescope. Frogs are croaking a little farther away, somewhere beyond the treeline.

That sound, specifically, almost makes Rook miss the creek by that little subdivision where she lived in elementary school, before she moved to another state a couple years later and had to make new friends. By that time, no one wanted to catch frogs anymore.

Lucanis probably would have caught frogs with her, if they’d known each other as kids. She remembers the way he rolled up his sleeves and jumped in to help when the dishwasher was broken. Him putting on a tacky St. Patrick’s Day t-shirt just because she asked. How he bought her a mug to make up for one that got broken. The first time he held her hand, the fake constellations she stared at on the bathroom ceiling.

“Big Dipper,” Rook points up at the real stars blanketing the sky overhead. “Only one I can ever find.”

Lucanis reaches up to hold her wrist, his hand warm and solid, guiding her finger lower.

“Draco,” he says, tracing a gentle curve of stars. “Ursa Minor there. Cepheus—”

“Is Cepheus a house?”

“A king, married to—” He shifts her finger over. “Cassiopeia.”

His other hand comes up to lightly brush her hair behind her ear, where her tattoo is.

“Why that constellation?” he asks.

Rook lowers her arm, keeping their hands clasped over her chest. “She was hot and she knew it.”

A joke, because saying she acted like an idiot and paid the price would ruin the moment. And Rook isn’t sure if she wants to stick with that narrative anymore. Definitely not when it comes to Lucanis. Or the Lighthouse.

Lucanis laughs, jostling her head a little, and Rook just twines their fingers closer together. She never gave much thought to holding hands. Solas was never big on it, maybe it was too undignified or childish for him, who knows. She must have held plenty of hands in her relationships before that, but none really jump out. Nothing that compares to how perfectly content she feels with Lucanis’s hand in hers.

They lay there for awhile longer, eyes scanning upward.

“Have you ever seen them? The Northern Lights?” Rook asks.

“I have, on a trip to Iceland. They’re beautiful.”

Rook’s never been out of the country. Not even to Canada.

“Worth waiting around for?”

“Yes!” Bellara says, interrupting her own conversation.

“Yes,” Lucanis agrees with another laugh.

“Okay, but I really do have to pee.”

“There was a Taco Bell down the street from that boarded up Walmart?” Lucanis suggests.

Rook sits up immediately.

“Perfect.”

“Wait, are you really going to Taco Bell?” Neve asks.

Now that Rook is upright, she can see that Neve and Davrin are maybe sitting a little closer than before. If anything is happening there though, neither of them have said shit about it. Typical.

“You want anything?”

“Do you really need to ask?”

The group chat is already flooded with everyone’s Taco Bell orders by the time she and Lucanis tromp across the field to his car.

“I’m proud of you,” Rook says, sliding into the passenger seat.

“For remembering we passed a Taco Bell?”

“For talking about stuff. Opening up to everybody. I know it’s not easy.”

Lucanis is quiet for a few seconds before he shrugs. “It’s getting easier.”

They drive down dark back roads, The Decemberists bleating on the stereo about lighting candles at a moribund cathedral and feeling better now, and Rook manages to wait two whole verses before turning back to him.

“So, what were you and Neve texting about?”

The corner of his mouth twitches up, but his focus remains on the road. He’s become an exceptionally cautious driver in the last month. “You caught that?”

“Does it have something to do with Illario?”

He’s quiet again, fingers flexing on the steering wheel. Between the space of one song ending and the next one beginning, he finally says, “She pointed out how interesting it is that Illario has had prolonged access to my phone. Twice.”

Once at the hospital, when he forgot it after Caterina woke up. When was the second time?

“Twice?”

His sigh is barely audible. “Remember when I asked Neve to track down information about my mugger?”

“Of course. She said you paid her more than triple her usual rate, by the way.”

“She was undercharging for her services.”

“She doesn’t usually work for bazillionaires.”

“Anyway, she thought it was odd Illario was so close by that night. The Diamond is a ten minute drive from the Lighthouse, at least, and he got there in half the time.”

That hadn’t even registered with Rook, at least that she remembers. She was so focused on making sure he was okay and then wondering when she would finally get to go home that she only felt relief when Illario showed up so quickly.

“Okay…”

“And she didn’t get the full license plate number of the SUV that the mugger got into, but the last few digits match Illario’s plates.”

“Wait, Lucanis, what are you saying? Did Illario pay some guy to steal your phone?”

Christ, no wonder he was so upset at Knitting Night.

“It could just be a coincidence.” He says it like he wants it to be true, but knows it isn’t.

Rook snorts. “Pretty wild coincidence. That guy hurt you, Lucanis, what the actual fuck?”

He doesn’t answer, and Rook wishes she could have some chill about this but she has exactly zero.

“That night we made tiramisu, you told him the mugging was random. You said it was just some kid.”

Lucanis frowns out at the road ahead. The Taco Bell sign appears in the distance. “I don’t…I didn’t want to think about him being involved. It was simpler that way.”

Because if Illario was capable of that, what else is he capable of?

“Shit, Lucanis. I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Zara’s messages are still on my phone. I checked. If he was trying to delete them, he couldn’t. Or didn’t.”

The words don’t go back are on the tip of Rook’s tongue, but she doesn’t want to make him feel worse than he already does. And then they’re pulling into the parking lot, and, once he’s parked, Lucanis turns towards her and takes her hand, staring down at it.

“Rook.”

“Yeah?”

His eyes lift to hers, and whatever he sees there smooths away the little indent between his eyebrows.

“Thank you. For listening.”

Her anger softens, her shoulders sag. “Always.”

The abandoned Walmart across the street looks even creepier than when they drove in, but the Taco Bell is brightly lit and surprisingly busy, given that it’s almost midnight in the ass end of nowhere. Maybe because it’s almost midnight in the ass end of nowhere.

Lucanis is done ordering by the time Rook’s out of the bathroom.

“Better?” he asks.

“Much.”

They lean shoulder to shoulder, waiting for their food, watching people come and go. Her brain keeps tripping back over the conversation they just had in the car, but the shock is already wearing off. It’s funny, how life just…keeps going. How all that bad stuff can be real, but standing here with Lucanis in the Taco Bell lobby feels more real, somehow.

“Did you get anything?” she asks, glancing over at him and nudging his shoulder with hers.

“Just a couple soft tacos.”

“I can’t believe you like Taco Bell now.”

“It’s growing on me.”

Then their order is up, and Lucanis takes the bag and hands Rook the drink carrier.

“You know you’re going to be up all night, drinking that this late,” he says with a pointed look at one of the Baja Blasts she’s already putting a straw into. He holds the door open for her.

“Oh well, guess I’ll just have to keep you company,” she says, winking and taking a deliberately big sip as she walks past him.

“Rook.”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

Rook makes it a few more steps into the parking lot before what Lucanis said actually registers, and she turns around.

He’s stopped right outside the door, and he’s looking at her with the quietest smile on his face.

“I love you,” he says it again, more confidently, walking forward until he’s right in front of her.

It doesn’t feel like time stops, or music swells, or everything goes into soft focus. It just feels like they’re standing in a Taco Bell parking lot somewhere past the suburbs close to midnight. It feels like this moment has always happened this way.

“I love you, too,” she says with a grin, and she’s never been more certain of anything in her life.

Lucanis’s smile cracks open wider. He leans in to kiss her, but then his eyes swivel up and he pulls back.

“Look.”

Rook follows his gaze. Faintly, just past the glow of the parking lot lights, ribbons of green are shimmering in the sky.

“Holy shit,” Rook breathes. “It’s beautiful.”

“Worth the wait?” he asks, and when she looks back down, he’s staring straight at her.

“Yes.”

Chapter Text

Rook: wdym you can’t come???

Harding: my ma’s flight got delayed again

Halloween is turning into a disaster.

Rook: how delayed?

Harding: a couple hours?

Harding: and before you ask, i’m not going to the party then driving back to the airport. i already paid for parking

Rook: this blows. no one is coming

Neve: Omw calm your tits

Emmrich: So sorry, Rook. Fred is adamant we watch all of the Addams Family movies together and he cannot be reasoned with after eating so much candy.

Davrin: I’ll be there too wth??

Taash: surfing > karaoke, sry

Bellara: My costume is falling apart I can’t show my face in this

Bellara sends a picture of herself wearing the top half of the C-3PO costume she made completely by hand, with her face slathered in gold face paint and a pile of other gold-painted bits at her feet, looking completely frazzled and dejected.

Rook feels Lucanis’s shoulders shaking in silent laughter from where he sits next to her, looking down at the group text on his own phone.

They’re already at the Viper’s Nest.

She’s in a suit she borrowed from Lucanis, but with her own pants because his are tailored to the centimeter and barely cleared her thighs. Paired with a badge, aviators, a crappy brown wig, and a fake mustache, and she’s one of the Beastie Boys from the “Sabotage” music video. Except no one gets it, because Harding and Neve are supposed to be the other two Beasties and they’re not here yet.

And now Harding’s not going to be here at all.

Lucanis: I thought you had a backup costume?

Bellara: It’s not as good!

Rook: omg people just get here. you already missed my turn at karaoke

Davrin: 5 bucks says you did tribute

Harding: no one’s taking that bet

Rook: i did and everyone loved it shut up

“Tribute” by Tenacious D has become Rook’s go-to song for the Halloween Queeraoke Party, mostly because it doesn’t require a ton of actual singing.

“Everyone did love it,” Lucanis says, patting her leg.

He’s dressed as a cowboy. With chaps.

Rook has clocked at least ten other cowboys at the Viper’s Nest so far, and at least half of them have blatantly checked out Lucanis. He doesn’t even have his shirt off, he’s a fully clothed cowboy. His ass just looks that incredible. Those chaps are doing the lord’s work.

“Can I squeeze your butt?” Rook asks, turning towards him.

“I’m sitting down?”

But it gets a smile out of him, after he’s been a little distant all day. He’s worried about Monday, she gets it, but she needs someone to have fun with tonight if half the crew is bailing.

“Next time you get up?” She bats her eyelashes for good measure, realizes he can’t see through her aviators, and lowers them with one finger to bat her eyelashes again.

He laughs. “Sure.”

One of the other cowboys who went the no shirt, cutoff jorts, cowboy hat route is up on stage singing “Pink Pony Club.” The stage is decorated like the tackiest cemetery known to man, with foam gravestones that say things like “Seymour Butts,” “Polly Amory,” and “Ben Dover.” There’s a thin layer of blood red fog swirling around the floor, courtesy of a few fog machines and red lights, and dozens of plastic skeletons are hanging from the ceiling between crisscrossed rows of purple string lights. A projector is showing old black-and-white horror movies on one wall. The Halloween drink special is something glittery and green. When Rook worked here, it used to be a plain old dark and stormy, so whoever got Ashur to agree to the glittery thing deserves a raise.

Maybe Tarquin? Where’s he been?

“I can’t believe Harding isn’t coming,” Rook mopes, taking a swig of her beer.

“Neve and Davrin will get here soon.”

“Bellara better show.”

Rook: bell your half assed costume will still look better than my whole assed one

Rook: no one knows who i am

Taash: no one remembers that music video ur just old

An indignant squawk escapes Rook’s mouth and she slumps down in her seat, staring at her phone in disbelief.

“Old?!”

When she looks over to Lucanis, his eyes are twinkling and his lips are pursed together and he’s very obviously trying not to laugh at her. She swats his arm.

“You’re older than me!”

“To be fair, I also didn’t remember that music video until you showed it to me.”

“Lucanis!” she whines.

“I like your costume!” he insists. Then his voices lowers, getting a little rougher around the edges. “I like how you look in my clothes.”

Rook forgets all about moping.

“Oh, really?”

He nods down at her, wets his lips with a sip of his drink. “Mmhmm.”

“Do you want to make out in the bathroom about it?”

“I could be convinced.”

“We could practice now first?”

Lucanis responds by taking Rook’s beer out of her hand and setting it down, and she swings one leg over his lap, bracing her hands on his shoulders.

“Howdy,” he says with a smirk.

Okay, turns out I officially have a thing for cowboys.

Rook kisses him long and slow, tasting the whiskey on his breath and tugging his hair just a little to angle his face where she wants it. He shifts his legs, sliding their hips closer together. When her hands wander down his denim-clad back to try to grab his butt, he breaks off their kiss with a throaty laugh.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve kissed someone with facial hair,” he says, poking her spirit-gummed mustache back into place.

“Get a room, you two.”

“Neve!” Rook exclaims, but then her face falls. “What the hell are you wearing?”

Neve is not dressed like a detective from the 70s, à la the “Sabotage” music video. She’s wearing the same Catwoman costume she wore last year.

“When Harding said she had to bail, I pivoted. Excuse me for wanting to look hot on Halloween.”

“Now I’m the only Beastie!”

Neve cocks her head thoughtfully. “I don’t know, you two together is kind of giving Village People.”

“She kind of has a point,” Lucanis says, looking at Rook and then down at himself.

“There was no detective in the Village People.”

Davrin appears a second later with glittery green drinks in hand for him and Neve. He’s dressed in a neon unitard and lace-up boots—pro-wrestler this year instead of Blade then, which makes sense if vampire Emmrich isn’t around for him to fake fight.

“I told you we’d be here soon,” he says.

“We’ve already been here for an hour! What’s the point of closing the Lighthouse early if no one gets here until late anyway?”

He just shrugs a muscular shoulder. “We had to make a pit stop on the way here. I lost my jock strap.”

“I refuse to believe you only own one jock strap,” Lucanis says.

“Did you drive over together?” Rook asks, eyes flicking between Davrin and Neve. There’s a shared glance, a smirk, a nod, nothing outrageously flirty. They’re being totally normal, but something is going on. I’m dressed like a detective, I should be better at this.

“Actually, we—”

“Next up is Lucanis!” the karaoke emcee announces.

“Oh god.” Lucanis’s face pales.

Rook stands and hauls Lucanis to his feet, then smacks his ass for good measure as he heads for the stage.

“You got this!”

It took a lot of convincing to get him to put his name down. A lot. She had to promise to go first, and assure him that everyone else would also be singing, and that no one cares how bad anyone is. With karaoke, it’s usually more fun when the singing is bad.

That’s what everyone tells her, anyway.

Lucanis grips the mic nervously, standing in a pool of red fog, staring somewhere in the direction of the lyrics prompter. The opening chords of “Season of the Witch” play, which immediately gets a few cheers—obviously, it’s a Halloween classic. Rook puts her fingers in her mouth and whistles, sharp and loud, and Lucanis’s eyes find hers across the crowd. A smile lights up his face just as he starts singing the first lines, one that Rook can’t help but mirror back in astonishment.

He can sing. Like, he’s not going to win American Idol or anything, but he’s got a good voice.

“Damn,” Davrin says.

“Did we know he could do that?” Neve asks.

Rook shakes her head mutely, eyes glued to the stage. Lucanis is starting to relax into it, letting a little rasp come out when he hits the chorus, and his warm, lilting voice fills Rook’s entire chest to the brim with what is and can only be called love. In moments like this, when he peels back another layer of himself, it hits her full force. The desire to fill herself up with every single insignificant detail of his life, to know him better than she knows herself. To never stop knowing him.

“I can’t believe he’s never performed at open mic night. Sucks he’s going back to work on Monday,” Davrin says, finally breaking Rook’s focus.

“Well…” Neve says, exchanging a quick sideways glance with Rook.

“Well, what?” Davrin asks. “Last time he went back to Talon Corp after a break he was AWOL for like a month. He’s not going to have time for open mic night.”

“He might be around more than you think,” Rook says, taking the last swallow of her beer.

“Okay…is Zara finally out of the picture or something?”

“Something like that,” Neve says.

Then Lucanis is singing the final chorus and bowing to rapturous applause, and Rook stands and whistles again. He makes his way back over to them through the red fog, blushing fiercely but grinning from ear to ear, and Rook grabs both sides of his face to plant a huge kiss on his lips.

“You were so fucking good!” she exclaims.

“Is there anything you’re not good at?” Neve asks wryly.

Lucanis pretends to give it some serious thought. “I can’t juggle. And my flan needs work.”

“I’ll work your flan,” Rook says with a wink.

“You’ll what my what?” Lucanis asks, eyebrows shooting up, his grin going charmingly off-kilter. Rook shrugs.

“Yeah, I don’t know, it sounded sexier in my head. Do you need another drink?”

“Yes, but what is my flan supposed to be?” he asks, starting to laugh.

“I think it’s your dick,” Davrin deadpans.

“It’s metaphorical,” Neve explains.

“My dick?”

“No, your flan.”

“But—”

Rook leaves them to debate Lucanis’s metaphorical flan and wades through the red fog and a crowd of pirates, Dr. Frank-N-Furters, sexy wizards, and, surprisingly, more than one Power Ranger, to sidle up to the bar. The person next to her is in the bottom half of a two-person horse costume, drinking one of the glitter drinks and looking around morosely.

“Where’s your other half?” Rook asks them after she flags down a bartender.

“Not here yet,” they say with a listless shrug.

“I feel your pain, my group costume fell apart too.”

“Oh, that sucks. I love that movie, by the way.”

“What movie?”

“Anchorman. That’s your costume, right?”

Rook sighs. “Yeah.”

I give up.

“Okay, guys, what do you guys think about a full group costume next year?” she asks after returning with their drinks.

“For eight people?” Davrin asks.

“That half of us can put together last minute?” Neve says, equally doubtful.

“We have a whole year to plan it!” Rook insists.

“That’s what you say every year,” Neve reminds her pointedly.

“It would be so easy! We could be Marvel people. Spirit Halloween exists for a reason, it wouldn’t even be hard.”

“That shit is expensive,” Davrin vetoes.

“Characters from the Office?”

“Boring,” Neve says.

“Sheet ghosts?”

“Not sexy enough.”

“Sheet ghosts with holes cut out for our tits? Tit window sheet ghosts?”

“Absolutely not.”

The karaoke emcee announces that Neve and Davrin are up next.

“Duty calls!” Davrin says cheerfully.

“Sorry, Rook,” Neve says with a wave over her shoulder.

“A duet, huh?” Rook asks, narrowing her eyes in suspicion at their retreating backs. They’ve never done a duet before.

“Why are you making that face?” Lucanis asks.

“They’re up to something.”

“What?”

“Fuck if I know.”

Neve and Davrin both play their cards so close to their chests that it’s absolutely within the realm of possibility for them to have been secretly hooking up and not talking about it. But for months? Without even a single peep? Rook doesn’t know whether to be annoyed or impressed.

They get a few catcalls after taking the stage, because, well, they are both really hot and wearing skintight costumes. Rook assumes they’re about to launch into a heartfelt ballad like that one song from Dirty Dancing—Davrin can and has done the lift before, with Antoine—but then “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls starts playing and Rook doesn’t know what to think.

It’s hilarious, it’s heartfelt, it’s over the top. Davrin is dancing around, Neve is definitely channeling Posh Spice. Rook is immediately on her feet, dancing and singing along with everyone else, even Lucanis, who she’s not shocked to see knows all the words. After the first “If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends,” Neve points out to someone in the crowd. Rook follows her finger.

“Oh my god!”

“What?” Lucanis asks, trying to look where she’s looking.

Rana is grinning back at Neve with her arms crossed, wearing a Batman t-shirt, a utility belt, and a cape.

“Rana? Rana! Are they dating? Has Davrin just been wingmanning Neve this whole time?”

Before Lucanis can respond, Tarquin elbows his way through the crowd in front of them.

“Rook, hey! Oh good, Lucanis, you’re here too,” he says, panting slightly. He’s dressed like Cowboy Ken from the Barbie movie, but in black bike shorts instead of pants, because he’s Tarquin.

“What’s with all the cowboys tonight?” she teases, pulling the fringe on his shirt.

“You need to come with me,” he says instead of joking back, and he’s not smiling and he sounds weirdly serious. Rook immediately snaps to attention.

“Is everything okay?” She takes off her sunglasses.

Yeah. Tarquin looks legit worried.

“Um, yeah I think so? Ashur just needs some backup.”

“Ashur?” Rook asks, her mood plummeting even faster.

“Backup for what?” Lucanis asks.

But they’re already following Tarquin through the crowd toward the entrance, leaving Neve and Davrin mid-”zig-a-zig-ah.” Hector is manning the door, as usual, but he’s flanked by Ashur in an Orville Peck costume—complete with a fringed face mask—which is unusual. There’s nothing obviously wrong except for the cowboy posse they’re unintentionally forming.

Seriously, so many cowboys.

“Finally! Lucanis, talk some sense into these people.”

Illario’s voice cuts through the background chatter of people waiting in line as soon as Lucanis and Rook get all the way outside. Zara is beside him, her red lips pulled into a disdainful frown.

Shit.

Lucanis steps forward, in front of Ashur, and Rook is right beside him without a second thought, even as a cold dread starts to worm its way down her spine.

“I told you. No entry without a costume,” Ashur says. Illario and Zara are not dressed for the holiday, unless Rich Assholes counts as a costume.

“What are you doing here?” Lucanis asks warily.

“We need to talk,” Illario says. There’s something off about him, something agitated lurking beneath his cool expression.

“And you can do it outside,” Ashur says.

“Ashur is right,” Rook says, and it kills her to agree with him but there’s no way she’s letting Illario and Zara into the Viper’s Nest. They can say whatever they came to say and fuck right off.

“Oh, come on. Can’t a man at least get a drink?” Illario wheedles. Trying to pick a fight.

“Not without a costume,” Ashur repeats.

“I’m dressed as someone who can have this place shut down and demolished by next week,” Zara drawls, glancing down at her nails. “Or couldn’t you tell?”

Someone in line mutters, “Damn, girl.”

“Ashur,” Tarquin warns quietly from behind Rook. Tarquin probably knows exactly who Zara is. But Ashur doesn’t back down.

“You’re welcome to try.”

Rook thrusts her bottle of beer into Illario’s hand. “Here. Drink up.”

He chugs it without breaking eye contact, and Rook doesn’t actually want to take the bottle and break it over his head, but right now, in this moment, it’s fun to imagine.

“Great, you had your drink, now you can go,” she says.

“Not yet,” he answers, his focus returning to Lucanis.

Lucanis’s lips are pressed into a thin line, his face still and calculating. He doesn’t say a word, just turns and walks a few yards down the sidewalk, away from the entrance and any curious onlookers. Tarquin gives Rook’s arm a quick squeeze as she follows, Illario and Zara hot on her heels.

“You look like Temu Viago,” Illario says from behind her, a hint of laughter in his voice.

Rook rounds on him, crossing her arms to resist the urge to pull off her stupid mustache. “What do you want?”

“What I want has nothing to do with you,” Illario retorts, “so why don’t you go back inside?”

Lucanis crosses his own arms. “Whatever you need to say, you can say in front of Rook.”

“Are you sure about that?” Zara asks, with that same false concern Rook remembers from the Diamond.

Lucanis freezes beside her, but his voice is firm when he says, “Yes.”

“Fine,” Illario snaps. “Why are the feds sniffing around Talon Corp, Lucanis?”

Fuck.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

How’d they find out?

Zara cocks an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “If Talon Corp goes down, you don’t think you’ll go down with it?”

Lucanis remains stubbornly silent. Rook knows he’s thinking about Monday, he must be.

“You don’t think I can’t ruin her life?” Zara points at Rook with one perfectly manicured finger, and Rook feels it like a poke to the chest. “Buy that little coffee bar right out from under her?”

“Don’t fucking threaten me. Or him,” Rook bites out before Lucanis can say anything, even as his words come back to her. Please believe me when I say she’s dangerous.

“I can do worse than threaten him,” Zara says with a beautiful, lazy grin.

“Zara,” Illario cautions, cutting her a sidelong glance.

“What? He knows it. Maybe he just needs a reminder. How much of a nudge would it take to put you right back in a padded room, Lucanis?”

Rook grips her own arms so tight it hurts, but she has to do something otherwise she’s going to vibrate out of her skin with anger. She just came out and said it, she just—

“You need to go,” Lucanis says quietly, his voice clipped.

“Or what?” Zara sneers.

“Zara, go,” Illario echoes Lucanis.

Rook sees her own surprise reflected in Zara, who stiffens, her perfect sneer freezing in place.

“Oh, so now it’s between family, hmm?”

“I can handle this without you.”

“Without me? You’d still be talking yourself in circles if it wasn’t for me. I’m the one—”

“Go back to the car,” Illario commands, a trace of panic in his voice.

Zara’s lip curls at Illario, then she locks eyes with Lucanis. “Fine. Talk. Ask him who wanted you out of the way in the first place. Ask him why your medication stopped working.”

“Zara.”

“I’m going,” she says, not bothering to mask the irritation in her gaze. Then she slinks away down the sidewalk, past Ashur and the short line of people waiting to get in. Rook didn’t realize Ashur was still there. Him and Tarquin, both watching out for her from the entrance.

Under the neon glow of the Viper’s Nest snake sign, Lucanis and Illario stare at each other. Neither of them speaks for a minute.

“Is that true?” Lucanis finally asks, and Rook feels the weight of those words on her chest. She hopes Illario feels it, too. She hopes it suffocates him.

“You’d believe her over me? Your own flesh and blood?”

Lucanis considers the question for a long time. “There was a doctor, in the second hospital. Calivan. Was he on your payroll or Zara’s?”

Something like regret flashes across Illario’s handsome face, but all he says is, “Lucanis.”

“Was I meant to survive it?” Lucanis asks simply, and all the air leaves Rook’s lungs.

Illario doesn’t answer. Or can’t.

“I hope it was worth it, cousin.”

Lucanis reaches out for Rook and she takes his hand. His grip is too tight but his palm is dry and his stride is even as he leads them away from Illario, back inside the Viper’s Nest. Rook doesn’t know if she’s more shocked by the conversation that just happened or the fact that they’re going back to the party.

“Hey,” she says, tugging on his hand. “Hey—hang on a second.” She tugs harder, bringing him to a stop before they get too far. Strains of music bleed into the entryway, not the Spice Girls, it’s someone else’s turn now. She has no idea how much time has passed. Probably only minutes.

Lucanis turns around, a purple glow cast across his face from the string lights on the ceiling. “I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?”

His composure cracks, just a hairline fracture in his attempt at a smile. “No.”

“Talk to me.”

His smile falls. Rook keeps holding his hand, and she waits.

One song ends and the next song begins, someone’s best attempt at “Zombie” underscoring the silence. Lucanis takes a breath.

“If it’s true, if Illario did tamper with my medication last year, then he helped orchestrate the worst year of my life. And I can’t—I didn’t want to believe he was capable of that.” He pauses, eyes cast downward. “But, if it’s not true, then I’m even more broken than I thought. And I don’t know which is worse.”

It's okay if you're broken, she almost says, but she thinks he already knows that. She wants to say, You weren’t betrayed, but she thinks it would be a lie, and she won’t lie to him.

“It would explain why I was feeling more like myself again, for awhile, during my first inpatient stay last summer,” he continues.

“…Because no one else had access to your medication.”

He nods. “I used to keep it at my office. I was there all the time anyway.”

“Could Zara have done it?”

Lucanis shakes his head, meeting Rook’s gaze. “I don’t think so. But she…” He swallows, brow knitting, forcing himself to continue based on whatever he sees in her eyes. “Zara is the last person I saw before waking up in the ER last December. She insisted we have a drink to celebrate a good buy. And the ER doctor said there was five times more than my regular dose in my system, when I only remember taking one.”

Rook feels sick. “You think Zara drugged you? Lucanis, that’s—”

“I don’t have any proof.” He shrugs helplessly. ”But she could have gotten impatient waiting for me to fall apart on my own again, like I did over the summer. And I don’t know what doctors or judges she bribed, but she made sure I went right from a 72-hour hold to a state psychiatric hospital. Not even Caterina could stop it.” His gaze drops. “I don’t know that Caterina even believed me, when I said I wasn’t suicidal.”

His own grandmother? “Really?”

“What’s easier to believe, that my best client and our only living relative conspired against me to gain control of Talon Corp, or that I finally broke under the pressure of a demanding job after spiraling for a year?” he asks with another tired attempt at a smile.

“When you put it that way…” Rook tries smiling back, even though her chest feels too tight.

Lucanis rubs a hand down his face.

“The crazy thing is, I still don’t know if what I’m doing is right.”

“The crazy thing is that we’re having this conversation dressed like a cowboy and a detective.”

He lets out a surprised laugh, then immediately sobers.

“Hey, the feds contacted you first,” Rook reminds him, squeezing his hand. “You’re just cooperating.”

“I know. But this could change everything.”

“I think it needs to change?”

He nods again, and Rook has to hope he actually believes it.

“If they try to hurt you again—if anyone tries to hurt you again, they’re going to have to go through me and everyone at the Lighthouse first,” Rook says fiercely. “I don’t give a shit what Zara says. We love you. I love you.”

“We do love you!” Bellara says, appearing beside them.

She’s dressed in relatively normal clothes, with with patches of fur sticking out from the hems and big wolf ears on her head. There’s still some gold glitter residue on her face from her failed C-3P0 costume.

“Is everything okay?” she asks, lisping through her fangs, glancing between them like she’s belatedly realizing she might have stumbled into a moment.

“It will be,” Lucanis says, and it’s Rook’s turn to nod.

It will be.

“Oh, okay good.”

“Bellara, what is this costume? A Twilight vampire-werewolf hybrid?” Tarquin asks, coming in from outside. Hopefully that means they finally chased Illario off.

“No! My face paint wouldn’t wash off. I’m Bridget from Mistress of the Scarlet Moon!”

“Oh, I love that book!”

“Your cousin left,” Ashur says quietly to Lucanis, as Bellara and Tarquin start talking animatedly about sexy werewolves.

Some of the tension eases in Lucanis’s shoulders. “Thank you.”

“Tarquin filled me in. You don’t know how to stay away from trouble, do you, Rook?”

She shrugs. “You know me.”

“Just be safe, okay? Both of you.”

“Okay, dad.”

Ashur scowls over the top of his face mask. “Don’t call me dad.”

With a touch to Tarquin’s arm, he heads further inside.

“Did I miss Shia LaBeouf?” Bellara asks as the rest of them follow Ashur’s lead.

“Of course not,” Rook says.

Neve and Rana are sitting conspicuously close when they return to the group, with Davrin leaning back looking like a proud mother hen.

“Bellara, you made it!” he says.

“Hi guys. Hey, Rana! Wait…”

“Yeah, I need another beer but first I need to know how long you two have been a thing and when I was ever supposed to find out?” Rook demands.

“No one knew except Davrin,” Neve says with a sheepish grin. “I just…you were right, about me being a bit commitment-phobic.” She leans into Rana, who gives her an adoring look. “Rana and I have been friends for so long. I didn’t want to get ahead of myself.”

“And you didn’t want me egging you on,” Rook realizes.

“Davrin is about fifty times cooler than you, yeah,” Rana says.

Rook can’t even be mad. “That would be so mean if it wasn’t true.”

“You said it, not me,” Davrin agrees.

After another round of drinks, the karaoke emcee calls them all up to the stage. Rook turns to Lucanis, who’s been kind of quiet for the last half hour, but not in a way that worries her, not really. Not like at their dinner party back in the summer, after Illario killed the vibe. He just looks like he’s…processing. Which makes sense. It’s a lot. So much that Rook hasn’t even begun to process it herself, beyond that’s incredibly fucked up.

And Monday still looms.

“You sure you don’t want to get up there with us?” she asks.

“Someone has to record it for posterity,” he says, the corner of his mouth turning up. “And I didn’t know Varric.”

“He would have liked you a lot,” Rook says. It’s the truest thing she’s said all day.

Lucanis’s smile widens, and he gives Rook’s ass a gentle swat as she scampers off to the stage. Davrin hands her a mic, and she takes a deep breath.

“Some of you might remember Varric doing this song every year,” Rook says before the track starts, looking out into the audience and choosing to believe that at least some of them knew Varric. He was a legend, after all. “And, well, someone has to keep the tradition alive.”

She nods to the group, and starts speak-singing:

“You’re walking in the woods.”

Neve picks it up: “There’s no one around and your phone is dead.”

Then Davrin: “Out of the corner of your eye, you spot him.”

“Shia LaBeouf,” Bellara whispers dramatically.

And then they launch into the song about Shia LaBeouf being an actual cannibal, taking turns with the verses, and at least half the Viper’s Nest sings along. People remember the words. People remember Varric. At the end, after they’re finally safe from Shia LaBeouf, there’s a standing ovation.

When Rook steps off the stage, Lucanis pulls her into a hug.

“Great song, right?” she asks, holding onto him maybe just a little too tightly.

“Truly an epic,” he confirms.

“Varric did it better,” she says into his shirt, letting her heart overflow but somehow managing not to cry.

Lucanis pulls back to look at her with a tender smile and one hand on her cheek. “I didn’t know him, but I think you did him proud tonight.”

“Know what would make him even more proud?”

“What?”

“If you and I made out in the bathroom.”

They do make out in the bathroom. Twice. They drink glitter drinks. They sing more songs, and go home, and fall into bed.

On Monday morning, they wake up to news alerts from multiple outlets:

FBI raids Talon Corp, CEO Illario Dellamorte Arrested

Zara Renata Person of Interest in Talon Corp Fraud Investigation

Is This The End for Talon Corp?

Chapter Text

“Happy birthday, Rook!”

“You mean happy bird day?”

“You’re not allowed to say that anymore.”

“Thanksgiving isn’t until tomorrow.”

“But it’s funny!”

“It was only funny the first three times.”

Harding harrumphs and sticks her tongue out at Taash, and Rook snickers.

“Thanks, Harding,” she says, finally taking the present from Harding’s outstretched hand.

It’s a semi-large box, which, from Harding, means absolutely nothing. Harding loves to disguise presents, it’s her favorite thing. When Rook rips off the expertly-wrapped paper—there’s no way Debbie Harding’s daughter didn’t learn to fold the crispest corners—to find another box inside, she’s not surprised in the least. Unwrapping that box reveals a ton of rocks—

“You got her rocks?” Taash asks.

“Just wait,” Rook and Harding say in unison.

—which are only there to add weight to the box and disguise a tissue wrapped piece of paper at the bottom. Rook unfolds it and reads:

“’Check your email.’”

She obediently takes out her phone just in time for a new email to pop up, then gasps in delight. “Harding, this is way too much!”

“What is it?” Lucanis asks, trying to read over her shoulder.

“A gift card for Peacock,” Harding says with a satisfied grin.

A subtle ache twinges in Rook’s heart as she returns Harding’s grin. “Varric used to give me one every year.”

Rook honestly forgot all about it. The last gift card he got her covers her subscription through the beginning of the new year, and it would have been a real bummer to open the app up in a couple months and not be able to watch anything without forking over her own money. Varric started paying for her subscription years ago, ever since she got him and Isabela hooked on Below Deck. The three of them spent an entire summer bingeing it together.

“It’s probably not as much as what Varric would give you,” Harding says, “but I know he wouldn’t want you to fall behind on your Bravo shows.”

Rook wraps Harding in a hug so big they almost fall off the couch into Taash, who’s sitting on the floor with their focus back on the TV.

“Hey, you’re going to make me miss the judging!”

“Happy birthday,” Harding says, giving Rook one last squeeze before proceeding to yawn right in her face.

“Might be time for bed?” Rook suggests, booping Harding’s nose.

“Yeah, let’s head upstairs,” she begrudgingly agrees, nudging Taash’s shoulder. “You two got everything you need?”

“You act like this is the first time I’ve slept over in your basement and not the five millionth.”

“And you know my ma will kill me if I don’t do Good Host stuff.”

“Fair.”

“We’re good, Harding. Thank you,” Lucanis says.

“Thank you, guys, really,” Rook adds. “It was a great birthday. And bird day.”

Rook is used to her birthday getting folded into the Thanksgiving holiday every few years, it is what it is. It sucked more as a kid. Thanksgiving doesn’t feel nearly as important as an adult, but Debbie makes a mean sweet potato casserole and there’s something about the hoopla of it all that feels nostalgic. Besides, the crew all got together last weekend to celebrate her birthday at the roller rink like a bunch of ten year olds.

“See you in the morning.”

“Tell me who wins this episode,” Taash says over their shoulder to Lucanis.

“I think it’s going to be the lady with the glasses,” he muses, which stops Taash in their tracks.

“No way! Her cookie crust was all—”

“Bed, Taash!” Harding calls from halfway up the basement stairs.

“It’s not going to be Glasses Lady,” Taash grumbles, before disappearing behind Harding.

Rook sprawls out onto the part of the couch Harding vacated, her head pillowed in Lucanis’s lap. The judging finishes up on the holiday baking show they’re watching, and Glasses Lady wins the episode.

“We should go to sleep soon, too,” Rook says as the credits roll and the next episode queues up. “It’s not mandatory to get up at the ass-crack of dawn and watch the Macy’s Parade but Debbie will silently judge you if you don’t.”

Varric would loudly judge anyone for not getting up in time for the parade. He was a mainstay at the Harding Thanksgiving table, sometimes with Isabela, sometimes with other strays he picked up over the years. Rook was one of those strays, once. This year, just Rook, Lucanis, and Taash are staying over at Harding’s. Neve is with Rana’s family—”totally not a big deal, guys”—Davrin went to see his uncle, and Emmrich invited Bellara along to Strife’s family’s celebration.

“We at least have to watch the next episode. I want to see what Sideburns Guy makes.”

“He’s going to beef it, just watch,” Rook says, snuggling closer to Lucanis’s thigh.

“What? He’s been doing so well!”

“You saw the preview, he messes up his frosting and he’s not going to have enough time to fix it and it’s all going to fall apart. How have you never watched one of these shows before?”

“I didn’t know what I was missing.”

“Clearly.”

Sideburns Guy does, indeed, beef it.

“One more episode?” Rook asks. Lucanis is absently carding his fingers through her hair, and Rook doesn’t think she could move from this spot even if she wanted to at this point.

“Weren’t you the one saying we should go to bed?”

“Well, yeah, but then they teased a croquembouche in the next episode. I love a croquembouche.”

He chuckles, probably filing that information away for later “Okay, but first I need to give you the rest of your birthday present.”

Rook shifts to look up at him. “You already gave me scratch-its and Ding Dongs. And a sweater.” It’s bright red. She’s wearing it over her pajamas.

“This one is a bit more personal.”

“More personal that a hand-knit sweater?”

“You might not like it.”

He pulls a slightly wrinkled envelope out of the pocket of his pajama pants, and it has a certain heft when he places it in her hands. Rook gets a feeling in the pit of her stomach that she already knows what it is. When she opens it, her eyes barely need to scan the pages to know she was right.

It’s an offer to buy the Lighthouse outright, including a stipulation that the deed would be in Rook’s name. Her pulse is suddenly thundering in her ears and her throat gets tight.

“Lucanis.”

“Please let me do this for you,” he says quietly. Laying on his lap like this, Rook can see the breath held in his chest as he waits for her response.

She can’t speak for a minute. It doesn't feel real. It’s everything she ever wanted. It would make life so much simpler. But it’s so much money. An unfathomable amount of money, except that it is fathomable, to Lucanis.

“Let me think about it—really, I promise, I will think about it,” she says, when he gives her a look.

He nods, placated at least for the time being, and lets himself breathe again.

The next episode starts. Lucanis goes back to stroking Rook’s hair. The envelope burns a hole in her peripheral vision. Solas hasn’t issued an ultimatum, exactly, but he’s escalated from texts to voicemails and it’s only a matter of time before he shows up again to force the issue. The fact that he still wants to sell feels like a bad joke, the kind that’s isn’t funny at all and just makes the audience look around uncomfortably for the exit. But it’s not like she’s completely ignoring the problem. She talked to Josephine, who suggested talking to the bank. So she applied for a loan, and the banker gave her a polite, if slightly condescending, lecture on increasing her credit score.

And what Zara said about buying the Lighthouse out from under her still haunts her.

“What if—I don’t know, what if Zara comes back and ruins everything?” she asks.

Lucanis’s fingers pause in her hair, just for a moment.

“She fled the country after most of her assets were seized,” he says. “I have it on good authority she won’t be coming back any time soon.”

“You’re not worried about her?”

There’s only the tiniest beat before he says, “I don’t know if that ever goes away.”

They’ve talked about it a few more times since Halloween. He’s trying to move on, so Rook doesn’t pester him, but she has no idea how he kept it all bottled up for so long. What Zara and Illario did to him is a million times worse than she ever could have suspected, but it’s heartbreaking how unsurprising it all is. She doesn’t need to ask why they would do something so unhinged, Zara already said it that night: to get Lucanis out of the way.

Because he wouldn’t go along with their plans. Because they could.

And Lucanis is picking up the pieces more bravely than Rook would even know how to, if it was her. She sometimes wonders if he knows he doesn’t have to be that brave. That she’ll love him anyway, through all of it, for as long as it takes. Even if it takes his entire lifetime. She doesn’t mind going slow.

At a commercial break, they pull the couch out into its futon form and make the bed with the sheets and blankets Harding left for them.

“You’ve really slept on this a million times?” Lucanis asks, tucking in one corner of the fitted sheet.

“At least,” Rook answers with a shrug, finishing up with her corners and grabbing the flat sheet. “After I got fired from the Viper’s Nest—”

“You got fired?”

“I might have kicked a customer out for being blatantly homophobic.”

“And that got you fired? From the Viper’s Nest?” The blanket he's unfolding hangs forgotten in his hands for a second as he stares at her in disbelief.

“Turns out it wasn’t actually a customer, it was the fire marshal. Ashur had to bend over backwards to clean up that mess.”

“Still…”

She shrugs, tossing the pillows back on the bed. “Fire marshals are no joke. After I got fired, I was pretty strapped for cash. I got the job at the Lighthouse not too long after, but I was behind on rent at my old place and it all kind of snowballed. When Harding and Debbie found out, they basically forced me to move in until I could save up enough for a security deposit somewhere new.”

“That’s incredibly kind,” Lucanis says softly.

“That’s the Hardings.”

Harding provided an absolute mountain of pillows, which Rook and Lucanis use to prop themselves up so they can still see the TV while laying down. The metal bar beneath the futon’s flimsy mattress digs into Rook’s butt in a way that’s familiar and oddly comforting, but Lucanis keeps wriggling around.

“How do you not have chronic back problems from sleeping on this more than once?”

“It’s not that bad. Kind of reminds me of being a teenager.”

She wonders how many basement sleepovers Lucanis attended as a teenager. Maybe some. Probably none. She curls in closer and places a kiss to his shoulder, through his t-shirt.

“You doing okay?” she asks.

“I’ll book an appointment with my chiropractor in the morning,” he says dryly.

“You know what I mean.”

He’s looking at the TV, but she can see his focus turn inward. The shoulder she just kissed lifts in a small shrug.

“It’s strange, not being at Caterina’s.”

The court case against Talon Corp is nearing, and Lucanis was advised not to spend time with Illario or Caterina. Caterina might not have been directly involved in Illario’s fraud, but it started while she was still CEO and the SEC seems more than happy to implicate her.

“What were your Thanksgivings like growing up?”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Much more…formal than this. It was usually just the three of us. And staff.”

“No kiddie table then?”

“Kiddie table?”

“Like there was a separate table for the kids to all hang out at, so they didn’t annoy the grown ups. One of my cousins would always mash up all of his food into one blob and dare other the kids to eat it. It was so gross.”

“Did you ever eat it?”

“Of course I did.”

“This explains so much about you.”

“It really does. Do you want kids?” Rook’s eyes fly wide in panic when she realizes how casually she just said that. “Uh, I mean—”

Lucanis just shakes his head. “No, I don’t.”

Unexpected relief surges through her, washing the panic away.

“There was a time, when I was younger—much younger,” he continues, “when I thought raising a family, having my own children, would…fix something, I guess. Make up for my own childhood. Eventually I realized I wanted the idea of children, not my own children. Besides, I can barely take care of Spite.” He smiles at his own joke and glances over at her. “What about you?”

“Nope. No kids.”

“Really?” he asks, eyebrows raising thoughtfully.

“It’s like what you said about wanting them. I had parents who wanted me but didn’t actually want me. I’m not saying I’d make the same mistakes or anything, but I just…don’t think parenthood is for me.”

He nods, and his arm tightens around her just a little. “I get that.”

“I do kind of hope Harding or Davrin or someone has kids though.”

“So you can be the cool aunt?”

He does get it.

“Thank you for calling me cool. No one else does.”

“That’s the only reason you keep me around, isn’t it?”

“Yep, for the morale boost.”

Their focus drifts back to the TV for awhile, with Lucanis occasionally tapping one-handed on his phone. After another commercial break or two, Rook’s curiosity gets the better of her, and she manages to sneak a glance at his screen then has to hide a delighted little smirk. His notes app is up, full of shorthand comments on different baking techniques and flavor combos.

She gets the feeling there’s going to be a lot more baking competition shows in their future, and a lot more pastries for her to taste-test. Oh, darn.

The basement is warm and a little stuffy, and faint scents of pumpkin pie from Debbie’s Thanksgiving Eve prep and buffalo wings from Rook’s birthday dinner waft down from the rest of the house, mingling with the Hardings’ fabric softener and Lucanis’s cologne. Rook can’t think of anywhere she’d rather be right now than on this ancient futon, tucked against Lucanis’s side, in the sweater he knit her, with one of his arms wrapped around her back, thinking about Lucanis thinking about pastries.

“That is an impressive croquembouche,” Lucanis breaks the silence. He gave up taking notes on the croquembouche halfway through, that one is probably going to require more detailed research.

“See? I told you.”

“Glasses Lady is going to win the whole thing, isn’t she?”

“There’s only one more episode…”

“We really should go to bed.”

The holiday baking show host starts to explain that the next episode is all about filled cakes.

“After the finale.”

“It’s almost midnight, I’m calling it.”

Lucanis reaches for the remote but Rook grabs it first, holding it away from him with her arm back behind her head.

“One more,” she insists, grinning.

A matching grin tugs at Lucanis’s mouth as he reaches across her toward the hand that’s holding the remote, his body now pressed firmly against hers from chest to knee. Warm, alive, present. Rook inches her arm higher and kisses his smiling lips.

“Are you trying to distract me?” he murmurs.

“Is it working?”

In response, his mouth trails downward to place a kiss to the hollow under her jaw, his beard tickling her neck. A small, happy sigh, just a hiccup of air, escapes Rook’s lips, and she feels Lucanis’s smile widen against her skin while his hand continues creeping up her arm towards the remote.

Oh, so that’s how it is.

She hitches a leg over his hip, tugging until he rolls on top of her with one of his knees slotted between her thighs. Desire sparks there, bright and heady. She rocks up against his leg, her breath catching. Rocks again, and feels his interest stirring. Gotcha.

Not to be outdone, Lucanis kisses down the column of her throat and presses his knee in closer, parting her thighs wider. Oh, fuck. He nips at her collarbone, breath hot against her skin, and Rook turns her face into the arm that’s braced against the pillow next to her head with a sharp intake of breath. The seam of her pajama pants is rubbing in almost exactly the right spot, and she suddenly does feel like a teenager again, pawing and giddy.

Her free hand finds Lucanis’s chin and pulls his mouth up to hers again, lips crushing hungrily together. He shifts, sending more friction between Rook’s thighs, and she barely notices when he plucks the remote from her hand only to drop it somewhere next to them on the futon and continue kissing her.

The holiday baking show plays on in the background as Lucanis’s hands roam beneath her shirt, tracing feather-light across her ribs, and Rook is melting, her skin burning at his touch. Her fevered groan escapes into their shared breath, and the sound is so indecent she almost doesn’t recognize it coming from her own mouth, but it’s too late, she’s too warm, her sweater is too hot. She sits up, leveraging him backwards, and starts to pull both of her tops over her head.

Lucanis’s hands find hers, stopping her halfway through the motion.

“Wait.”

The holiday baking host starts interviewing contestants. “Is that a meringue? Those are some stiff peaks.”

Rook slumps, breath coming fast, the air cool on her exposed midriff.

“Shit, sorry, I got—”

“What if someone comes down here?” He glances towards the basement stairs, frozen, kneeling between her thighs.

Is that all?

“They won’t,” Rook says, finding his mouth with hers again, lightly scraping her teeth against his lower lip. “It’s late, they’re all asleep.”

He kisses her back helplessly, a low hum slipping from his throat. His grip changes, and she doesn’t know if it’s to help her lift her tops up or pull them back down. “What if—”

Rook’s hands release her shirts and rest on his chest, leaving the next move to him. “We don’t have to—”

His fingers flex against her bare skin. “I want—” He stops himself.

“What do you want, Lucanis?” she asks, pulling back to cup his face and give his words her full, undivided attention. “There’s no rush. Whatever you need, there’s no—”

“I want this.” His breath is ragged, his brown eyes stark with desire, heavy-lidded and desperate. “I want you.”

In the silence that follows, a judge on the holiday baking show says, “Looks like you’re working up a real sweat over there! What are you creaming?” and Lucanis’s composure breaks, his eyebrows quirking. Rook snorts.

“Okay, maybe we do have to turn the TV off,” she says.

Lucanis immediately gropes around for the remote on one side of the futon, while Rook searches the other side. Suddenly the mountain of pillows and pile of blankets seems like overkill.

“Okay, but where is it?”

“It has to be here somewhere.”

“I don’t see—”

Lucanis lifts up a blanket and they both hear the remote clatter to the floor a few feet away.

“Oh, fuck it.” Rook drags him back to her.

One of the contestants says, “It needs to be harder,” and they both start snickering. Then Lucanis finds Rook’s hemline again and tugs her shirt and sweater over her head, and the sweater gets stuck for a second, and she’s cackling breathlessly when he finally frees her.

Her laughter turns into a gasp when Lucanis ducks his head to kiss one of her breasts, drawing the nipple into his mouth. His other hand splays across her back, and those five points of contact are the only thing keeping her upright as she melts further under his single-minded focus. But it’s not enough, she needs more skin against skin, manages to pull off his shirt as she pulls him back down on top of her.

Her hands stroke down the muscles of his back as another contestant starts worrying, “If I try to fill it when it’s too hot and moist, the whole thing could melt,” and she feels his stomach twitch as he fights off another wave of laughter. He’s filling out again, his ribs less pronounced, the plane of his abs thickening. All that baking, she thinks deliriously.

Her spine arches and twists as his kisses meander downward, and she reaches to palm him through his pajama pants, but he draws further back to strip off her pants and underwear.

The host says something about “making sure the cream doesn’t drip out” as Lucanis’s mouth finds the heat between her legs, and Rook is overwhelmed with laughter and budding, building pleasure. They’ve explored this a few times already, and he applies himself with a dedication that soon has her laughter dissolving into needy whimpers, a flush traveling from her core all the way to her hairline.

“Lucanis,” she whines, louder than she means to, and claps one hand over her mouth before she gets loud enough to invite any knowing looks over the breakfast table tomorrow. Her hips buck, her other hand tangles in his hair to draw him back up. She tastes herself on his lips, finds his eyes again. His pupils are blown wide and his lips are parted, panting.

“Do you want to—”

“I want to—”

Rook’s hand skims down his torso, under his waistband.

“Can I—”

He lets her slide his pajama pants down past his lean hips, lets a stifled gasp escape his lips as she takes him in her hand and guides him between her thighs. Lets her cradle his flushed cheek and pause, checking in, waiting, still.

“Rook,” Lucanis pleads, his gaze clinging to hers.

She nods, brushes a thumb across his cheekbone.

He presses in and Rook watches his eyes flutter close, eyelashes trembling soft against his cheeks. A slow roll of her hips brings him closer, closest, and she’s so consumed with the feel of him that whatever’s happening on the TV finally fades into the background. Their bodies find a rhythm, and then Rook’s brain is quiet, present, filled with nothing but awe for all the strange whims of fate that brought her together with this man, to this moment. Her lips find the mole on his temple, the sweep of his cheekbone, the sweat in the hollow of his throat. Her eyes search his face, every line treasured, every furrow beautiful. I want this. I want you. Always.

She comes before he does, but barely, and they lay in a tangled heap on the futon for awhile. Breath slowing, sweat cooling, her fingers lazily grazing up and down his back. Long enough that Rook thinks Lucanis might have drifted off, long enough that she won’t be far behind him.

Long enough for her to find the words, and the bravery to say them.

“I’ll take it,” she whispers into the warm skin of his shoulder.

“Take what?” he mumbles drowsily, turning his head towards her. Not asleep, after all.

“Your present. The Lighthouse. Assuming Solas accepts the offer.”

“He will.”

She pauses, takes a deep breath. Say it, Rook. Don’t be a chickenshit.

“But I want you to do it with me. I want this to be our future.”

His dark eyes consider hers silently, searching between them, unblinking. Rook worries she’s making demands of him, worries he’ll say no because he has every right to. But she can’t imagine running the Lighthouse without him now.

A smile softens Lucanis’s face, slowly then all at once.

“Deal.”

Her eyes close in relief, just for a second, and the last tangled knot inside her chest works itself free.

“I love you.”

He kisses the top of her head. “I love you, Rook. Happy birthday.”

On the TV, Glasses Lady wins the holiday baking competition, and they both let out tired, sated laughs.

“Knew it.”

Chapter Text

The eggnog is spiked. The pigs are in blankets. Mariah Carey is blaring over the speakers. It’s flurrying outside and has been for hours. The Lighthouse Christmas party is in full swing.

“Are you sure about this?” Lucanis asks, a skeptical slant to his eyebrows as Rook tugs a Santa hat lower on his head.

Those eyebrows are temporarily dyed white, along with his hair and beard.

“You’re the only one with a beard, it just makes sense.”

She grabs a wide black belt from the pile of accessories and decorations on the back room table and reaches to buckle it around his waist. He reluctantly holds his arms away from his sides.

“Is that why Varric always did it? Because he had a beard?”

“The beard was a pretty late development, actually.”

“Did he wear a fake beard before?”

“No, but he had the holly jolly spirit to pull it off.”

“I see. And who did it last year?”

“Me.” Rook steps back to examine the full effect of the Santa costume with a critical eye. “And I was really forcing a vibe and it probably sucked for everyone, which is why I’m not doing it again this year.”

Lucanis frowns and puts his hands on his hips, emphasizing the pillow they stuffed down the front of his Santa coat.

“So what I’m hearing is that having a beard is not actually a requirement to be the Lighthouse Santa.”

Rook pats the crushed red velvet over his pillow stomach. “It’s too late to get out of it.”

He sighs and tugs at the coat’s fluffy white collar. “Why does this party need a Santa again? No one here even celebrates Christmas, not in the religious sense.”

“Yeah, we celebrate Christmas in the kitschy commercial sense. Varric got this costume ages ago. He said it’s the same one Ed Asner wore in Elf.” Probably not true, but with Varric, you never really knew. “Being the Lighthouse Santa is huge honor, actually.”

“No one’s going to sit on my lap, right?”

“Ew, no.” A pause. “Maybe me, later.”

The smirk he gives her is wholly inappropriate to see on Santa’s face.

“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” he asks.

“Weirdly, yes, and I’m not going to think too hard about it. Come on, it’s showtime.”

If the holiday decorations at the Lighthouse were aggressive last year, this year they’re belligerent. When Davrin and Neve butted heads over whether to put up multicolored string lights or white ones, Rook’s solution was why not both? After half the neighborhood showed up to the holiday craft night they threw the first weekend of December, they all agreed to roll it over into a two-night thing. It morphed into a weekend-long craft-splosion of paper snowflakes, popcorn garlands, and air dry clay ornaments, and the results are strung across both the ceiling and the tree they put up in the corner. When Taash accidentally broke one of the houses in Varric’s cheesy old Christmas village display, Lucanis made a very tasteful little gingerbread house to replace it. The rest of the crew has been adding extra piping and candy to it, and the rest of the village, over the last week, and the whole village now looks completely deranged.

It’s perfect. Rook loves all of it.

At Rook’s signal, Bellara changes the music to “Here Comes Santa Claus” and Lucanis emerges from the hallway. There’s a decent audience for his Santa debut—the Lighthouse is technically closed for the party, but they don’t lock the doors so regulars can still pop in to grab a drink and say hi. He’s met with a round of hearty claps and cheers, and his cheeks immediately flame bright red, which makes Rook feel a teeny bit bad but it does add nicely to the overall Santa effect—”his cheeks were like roses” and all that.

“Santa!”

Fred and Mila bound over in full-on Buddy the Elf mode.

“Ho ho ho?” Lucanis offers, lowering his voice in an attempt at holly jolly.

Fred frowns.

“Wait, aren’t you dad’s friend?”

“I—” Lucanis cuts a panicked look over at Emmrich.

“He’s not only my friend, but a close, personal friend of Santa’s,” Emmrich swoops in.

“That’s right,” Lucanis recovers. “And the big guy knows you’ve been very good this year.”

“But he would love it if you brushed your teeth when you were asked, right?” Emmrich adds, winking at Lucanis.

“Ah…right!”

“And to stay away from the brownies that say ‘these have pot in them,’” Strife adds, finally wandering over. He and Emmrich are in matching ugly sweaters.

“We know, those are for grown ups,” Mila says with a roll of her eyes.

“Can we have more hot chocolate though?” Fred asks.

“Sure, ask Bellara to make you some.”

“Why don’t you go get the chess board set up after that, Fred, and we can play another game in a bit?” Rook suggests.

“Okay! Tell Santa I say hi!”

They all watch the kids scamper off to find Bellara.

“We have to tell him soon,” Strife says pointedly to Emmrich.

“Why? Strife, where’s the harm?”

“Eventually other kids are going to make fun of him.”

Emmrich purses his lips. “Maybe next year.”

“Eight’s not too old to believe in Santa,” Rook weighs in.

“I never wanted him to think Santa is real in the first place,” Strife mutters. “It’s nonsense.”

“It’s magic,” Emmrich says, wrapping his arm around Strife’s shoulder and squeezing.

“Just let me know how long I’m supposed to be Santa’s close, personal friend,” Lucanis says. The long-suffering sigh that accompanies those words isn’t fooling Rook—he’s starting to get into it, she can tell. His eyes, how they twinkle. Does he have dimples under his beard?

“Until next year,” Strife says flatly.

“Oh, hush,” Emmrich chides. “You do make a wonderful Santa, Lucanis, really! The suit fits you perfectly.”

“Did Varric need the pillow or…?”

Rook gives Lucanis a quick peck on the cheek and wanders off to the bar to find more wine.

It’s only 5:30 PM, but the sun set an hour ago and she can’t tell if it’s still flurrying. With all the lights blazing, the windows just reflect back the scene inside. It’s like being trapped in a snowglobe with all of her favorite people. Emmrich and Strife chatting with Lucanis. Bellara making Fred and Mila hot chocolates. Neve and Rana snuggling on a couch, drinking eggnog and giggling into each other’s ears. Harding and Taash taste-testing all the baked goods Lucanis made. Davrin breaking off from Antoine and Evka—they’re back to being friends again, finally—and approaching the bar with his empty wine glass outstretched towards Rook.

“That the good stuff?” he asks.

“Lucanis brought it, so yeah.”

“You know I can’t drink the shitty stuff anymore, thanks to him? Guy’s taught me more about wine in the last year than I’ve learned in my entire adult life.”

“You two are my favorite unlikely animal friends. Like a dog and a miniature horse. But the miniature horse is dressed as Santa.”

“He does look good in that suit,” Davrin says, giving Lucanis an appreciative once-over.

“Right?”

“I still think I could’ve pulled it off.”

“Dude, you tried it on, it did not fit you. You’re too swole.”

“I know, but still.”

“Don’t tell Lucanis he was second pick for Santa.”

“I’ll take it to the grave.”

They pinky swear over their wine glasses, both making eyes at Lucanis, who gives them a quizzical head tilt from across the room.

“Hey, congrats on your promotion, by the way. Senior trainer or something?”

“Something like that,” Davrin says with a chuckle. “Thanks. My boss said the work I’ve been doing with Assan played a pretty big part in letting him know I was ready to take on more responsibility.”

Assan is sitting patiently next to Taash and Harding at the food table with a ferociously wagging tail, waiting for them to drop something.

“Awww, look at you being a proud dog dad.”

“He hasn’t eaten a plastic bag in two whole weeks.”

“Rook! Come here for a sec!” Neve calls over.

Rook clinks Davrin’s glass with hers and heads over to the couches. Rana is leaning back against one of the arms with Neve reclining against her chest. Their relationship is rapidly approaching cuteness overload, and Rook has to constantly remind herself not to give Neve shit for lowering her walls enough to engage in—gasp!—public displays of affection. The temptation is so real. Rook deserves a medal for resisting.

“We need you to settle a bet for us,” Rana says, her cheeks pink from alcohol and merriment.

Neve pulls her legs up so Rook can sit on the other end of the couch, then stretches them back out over Rook’s lap.

“Shoot,” Rook says, taking a sip of her wine.

“Okay,” Neve lowers her voice so Rook has to lean in closer. “Have you and Lucanis fucked on top of a pile of money?”

Rook barely manages not to spit-take her wine all over Neve’s nice silk shirt. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I just think,” Rana starts to say between giggles, “that if I was dating someone that rich, I would have made it happen by now.”

“A pile of money? What, like Scrooge McDuck?”

“Oh my god, you could Scrooge McFuck!” Tears of laughter are now streaming down Rana’s face.

“I told you, that’s not Rook’s style,” Neve says, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

“It’s not Lucanis’s style either!” Rook exclaims indignantly, getting caught up in the giggles despite herself.

“What’s not my style?” Lucanis asks from over by the bar, where he’s opening a bottle of wine for Davrin and Isabela.

“Nothing!” the three of them say in unison, before dissolving into more laughter.

“Honestly though, how is he feeling about how things went down with the case?” Neve asks when she finally regains some of her composure. “When I asked him earlier, all he said was ‘fine.’”

“I think he is mostly fine with it. Honestly!” Rook says to Neve’s arched eyebrow. “He never wanted his only family to get locked up.”

“I have a lot of opinions on the carceral state, but if anyone deserved it…” Neve says.

Rook grimaces in agreement. She’s spent an unhealthy amount of time over the last few months imagining Illario rotting away in jail for the rest of his miserable life. “I just can’t believe they cut a deal with the feds.”

“I can,” Rana says with a snort.

“Tale as old as time. Zara Renata is a way bigger fish, so of course Illario and Caterina are getting off light in exchange for their cooperation,” Neve says.

“’Light’ might be stretching it, they still have to pay restitution. They might not be in jail, but they’re fucking broke now,” Rook says with a glimmer of satisfaction.

“Any chance they own a motel in a backwater town that they can move into?” Rana jokes.

“Ooh, are you talking about Schitt’s Creek?” Bellara asks, plopping down in an armchair with a giant glass of eggnog. It’s Varric’s old recipe, and it’s very strong.

“Kind of!” Rook snickers.

“Have you guys thought about your New Year’s resolutions yet? One of mine is to watch more TV,” Bellara says.

“With what free time?” Neve asks skeptically.

“Bell, I love this for you,” Rook says. “Let me know if you need recs. Or any of my passwords.”

“I will! I mean, if everything goes according to plan, I’ll finally have my PhD by the end of spring. I just want to enjoy having a little bit more free time, you know?”

“If you also want to pick up more shifts at the Lighthouse…”

“I’ll need the money more than ever after my stipend’s done. Oh god. Maybe I should stay in the program just a little longer?”

“Rook, the chess board is ready!” Fred pops up, shoving half a cookie in his mouth. There’s a trail of crumbs behind him that Assan is diligently vacuuming up.

“Do your dads know you’re eating that cookie?” Neve asks as Rook gets up.

Fred freezes, speaking around a giant mouthful. “No? I mean! Santa’s friend said it was fine. He made them and they’re gluten-free.”

“We need to work on your poker face, Fred,” Neve says with a smirk.

“We’re playing chess, not poker,” Fred corrects her demurely over his shoulder as Rook leads him away.

Rook isn’t actually that great at chess. Varric taught her years ago, once the shock of hearing that she’d never learned wore off—”checkers is not the same as chess, kid!”—and he taught Fred as soon as he was old enough. Fred caught on a lot faster than Rook.

“So, how’s third grade treating you?” she asks.

“It’s good! We’re doing a project right now on how different metals can change the color of fire and…”

He’s filled her in most of the way on how to make a color changing candle seesaw when her phone vibrates in her pocket.

Lucanis: Is now a good time for the gift exchange?

Rook: yes please save me from getting my ass handed to me at chess by an 8 yr old

Lucanis: Again?

Rook: shut up

Lucanis announces it’s time to open presents.

“Presents!” Fred shouts, leaping up and abandoning the chess game that he was most definitely winning.

Rook hangs back for a second, watching everyone gather around the tree. Bellara and Harding sit on the floor with Fred and Mila, and everyone else drags chairs over or perches on tables. For the tenth, twentieth, thousandth time tonight, she catches herself looking for Varric. The empty, roaring ache that she tried to fill with too much eggnog and too-loud music at last year’s party has dulled to something smaller and quieter. It’s better than last year, but his absence still hurts. Won’t ever stop hurting, probably.

Lucanis catches her eye as she finally heads over, one eyebrow lifting in silent concern. Rook shakes her head and offers a smile, which he matches before clearing his throat to get everyone’s attention. The genuine affection she sees in his face for the people around him makes that ache in Rook’s heart shrink just a little bit more.

“As I understand it, it falls to me to hand these out?” he asks, gesturing to the haphazard pile of presents below the tree.

“Duh, Santa,” Rook says.

“Santa’s friend,” Fred corrects her.

“That makes it sound like they’re having an illicit affair,” Bellara whispers to Irelin, who’s sitting behind her. They’re on again for the holidays, as usual.

“What’s ‘illicit’ mean?” Fred asks.

“What’s an affair?” Mila adds.

“Anyway! I believe Santa told me that only people who have taste-tested my polvorones get to open their presents,” Lucanis says with that twinkle in his eye.

“I had four!” Fred says.

“Four?” Strife says in dismay.

“I had some pizzelles, does that count?” Davrin asks.

“I think I ate like two of each,” Taash says.

“Plus three chocolate chip,” Harding reminds them.

“There aren’t very many left,” Holden says, taking a little chocolate hazelnut sandwich cookie from the pile of desserts in the napkin in his palm. Rook stole a few of those yesterday when Lucanis was mid-baking frenzy, and he told her what they’re called. Baci di something. Unsurprisingly, they’re delicious. All the baked goods are.

“Good, I expect a full report by tomorrow, I want everyone’s input on the menu,” he says with a satisfied grin. “Now, let’s start with Davrin’s gifts because I’m ninety percent sure he whittled me a wine stopper.”

“Rook, did you tell him?” Davrin demands.

“What? No!”

It might have slipped.

They go in rounds. Most of them went the handmade route: Davrin whittled everyone a little carving, Taash made pendant keychains with volcanic ash gathered from their travels, Lucanis finished knitting his scarves with plenty of time to spare, and Rook painted miniature portraits of everyone as muppets. Little tiny paintings. Baby step ones.

“Okay, but I think my nose would be orange, not blue.”

“This is beautiful Rook, thank you!”

“You even did one of Assan!”

“Of course I did.”

The other presents are just as thoughtful: Harding got everyone little rechargeable camping lanterns—”none of you were prepared during the blackout this summer!”—all wrapped in different sized boxes, of course, Emmrich picked out used books individually tailored to everyone’s interests and wrote little inscriptions inside the covers, and Neve got everyone gift cards to the grocery store.

“Very practical.”

“I know. You’re welcome.”

They all went in on little presents for Fred, Strife, and Rana, and made sure there’s something for all the regulars, too. Except Isabela, she refuses a present every year as long as she can drink for free between Christmas and New Year’s. No one is left out.

“Wait, what about Bellara? Did you forget presents again?”

“That only happened one time, and I didn’t forget, they melted. Does anyone know if it’s still snowing?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Irelin asks.

Bellara’s already halfway across the room, peering out the window. “Come on, I think it cleared up!”

There’s no arguing with Bellara when she hops between two feet like an excited little squirrel, so they all obediently troop outside to stand on the sidewalk and shiver in the evening’s chill. The flurries have stopped and the night sky is clear. Bellara cranes her head back, turning in a slow circle, and then points upwards.

“Okay! Look right over there, just up and to the left of that rooftop. See that cluster of stars?” she asks.

“No.”

“Yeah?”

“Kind of…”

Light pollution is a thing even in this relatively quiet neighborhood, so it’s still hard to spot exactly what Bellara is pointing at, but Rook thinks she gets the gist.

“That’s us!” Bellara exclaims.

“What is?”

“Bellara, did you name a constellation after us?” Emmrich asks with dawning realization.

“I mean, they’re not really a constellation or anything. More like, just kind of close together? As long you look from this hemisphere. Then we’re all right there, together!”

Bellara hands out little pieces of paper showing the stars “officially” registered under their names, and Rook sees her own big, doofy smile mirrored in the rest of the crew’s faces as they all stare up at their little cluster. She leans against Lucanis for warmth, and he loops an arm around her waist to fold her in closer.

“That’s really sweet, Bell,” Neve says fondly.

“Taash are you crying?” Harding asks in shock.

“No!” Taash sniffles. “But it’s just like in Dragonheart. I love that movie.”

“I’m the brightest one,” Davrin decides. “That one on the bottom.”

“What if I wanted to be that one?” Lucanis asks, then it all devolves into a good-natured argument about who gets to be what star. There’s not quite enough snow on the ground for an actual snowball fight, but it doesn’t stop Taash from trying, and soon they’re all flinging little handfuls of slush at each other, their whoops and shrieks echoing into the dark night.

Rook stoops to make another tiny snowball, and when she looks up to pick her next target she sees Solas approaching down the sidewalk.

She straightens.

“Hey it’s getting pretty cold, why doesn’t every—” she starts to say.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Harding’s voice calls out from behind her, aimed like an arrow directly at Solas.

“She said a swear,” Fred whispers.

Rook cuts her hand at Solas, the smallest gesture, and he stops just outside the warm light spilling from the Lighthouse’s windows. “Harding, it’s fine,” she says, turning to her friends.

Harding’s face is an open book of suspicion, and the joyous feeling in the air starts to dissolve as everyone looks between Rook and Solas and Harding.

“Come on,” Neve says, touching Harding’s arm and giving Solas a cool stare. “Let’s go back inside.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Rook says.

“But—”

“It’s okay. Really.”

Harding huffs and glares at Solas, but lets Neve lead her inside. Everyone else trails after them, shooting concerned or confused glances over their shoulders. Lucanis last of all. He takes off his Santa coat and drapes it around Rook’s shoulders, giving them a quick squeeze, before disappearing through the door.

“You really couldn’t have picked a worse time,” Rook says, taking a bracing little breath before going to stand in front of him on the sidewalk, pulling the red coat closer around herself.

The tiny smirk that passes for one of Solas’s smiles appears for just a second and he shrugs. “I had planned on waiting outside and texting you.”

He doesn’t ask what they were all doing out on the sidewalk. He either doesn’t care or knows it’s not his place to care anymore. Peals of laughter ring out from inside, and they both turn to look. Lucanis has placed his Santa hat on Mila’s head, and she’s racing away down the hallway from Fred, who’s shouting something about “close personal friends,” while Assan chases after both of them. People are dancing, trying on scarves, pouring more drinks. The scene is tooth-achingly wholesome. Rook wonders if Solas misses being part of it. If he misses Varric. If his scars from last year still hurt, even if he’s not the one who fractured his elbow and had to wear a sling for three months.

She almost asks him, but bites her tongue instead.

“Merry Christmas, Rook,” he says, handing over a manila envelope. “It just needs your signature. Notarized.”

She takes the paperwork to sign over the deed to the Lighthouse, and it feels like getting something back that she didn’t realize she’d been missing. Like putting on an old favorite t-shirt that got buried at the bottom of her closet, or finding a necklace that she used to wear every day and thought she lost. Like she’s whole again, or could be.

“This means a lot, Solas,” she says quietly, forcing herself to be earnest with him for once.

“I know.”

“We’re still not friends.”

He chuckles. “I know.”

There’s another pause, where Rook almost invites Solas inside. Almost. He attended every Lighthouse Christmas party up until last year. It’s weird to think that he probably won’t ever attend one again.

“I can’t stay,” he says.

“I wasn’t going to ask you to.”

He nods once and turns away, heading back the way he came.

“Merry Christmas, Solas.”

He doesn’t turn around to acknowledge it, but she knows he heard her, and that’s enough.

As soon as the front door bells jingle to announce Rook’s return, everyone’s heads whip around. She holds up the envelope.

“It’s official! Well, almost official. Where do you get things notarized?”

A cheer goes up through the Lighthouse, then “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” comes on and Emmrich and Strife start dancing again, and any lingering tension from Solas’s appearance evaporates.

It’s impossible not to join in. Fred and Mila insist on dancing with Santa’s friend, so Rook hooks her new scarf—made out of the same red yarn as the sweater Lucanis knitted for her birthday, which she refuses to be embarrassed about wearing at least once a week—around Harding’s neck and tugs her over to flail around together.

“Think that’s the last we’ll see of Solas?” Harding asks with glance towards the windows, as if he might still be lurking out there like a tall, bald vampire.

“I think so.”

That seems to take some weight off Harding’s shoulders. “I can’t believe it’s official. This is already so much better than last year’s party.”

“Oh god, I know,” Rook agrees with a roll of her eyes. “You’ll notice I’ve stayed away from the eggnog this year.”

Harding gives her a fond, stern look. “Hey, you were doing your best. We all were.”

Rook’s eyes drift across the Lighthouse. Last year, she’d been trying to forget. To numb herself to the reality of a Christmas without Varric. Here, now, she remembers Varric holding the ladder for Neve to put up fake garlands and mistletoe by the door. Sitting at a table addressing cards and wrapping presents. Shooing Harding away from the bar while he made his top-secret eggnog recipe. Laughing uproariously at himself after putting on the Santa suit.

“Next year’s going to be even better, right?” Harding asks, a hopeful glint in her eyes.

“It’s sure as hell going to be different.”

“Different is good. It’ll be fun to have the baked goods made in-house. I’m not sure how we’re going to stop Taash from eating all of them though.”

They share a grin, and Rook pulls Harding in closer for a hug.

“Thanks for everything this year, Harding. Really.”

“Oh, shut up,” Harding responds warmly, her voice muffled by Rook’s shirt.

“I’m cutting in!” Taash announces, wiggling between Rook and Harding’s arms.

“Babe, I think you’re supposed to ask first,” Harding says.

“Why? I already did it.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Rook says to Taash’s back muscles.

“You can stay if you want,” Taash says over their shoulder.

Rook does stay, dancing with Harding and Taash in a silly, joyful circle. Flynn shows up not long after and gets roped into dancing with them too, and manages to drag Evka over with them. Rook can’t stop smiling even though her cheeks are literally starting to hurt. The manila envelope catches her eye every couple minutes, a wink, a promise, an assurance of new things to come.

On the next rotation, Rook sees Lucanis standing by with an affectionate grin on his face. Aside from the white hair and red pants, he’s almost back to his normal self now. He holds out his hand.

“Dance with me?”

Rook takes his hand and he spins her in close as Judy Garland starts crooning out “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” Her arms rest on his shoulders and his hands rest comfortably on her waist, and they just sway and grin at each other for a minute.

When it gets to the “Make the Yuletide gay” line, half the room shouts the word “gay” and bursts into giggles.

Some things will be different next year, but Rook gets the feeling that dumb shit like this will never change.

“Do you want this back?” she asks, plucking at the Santa coat that’s somehow managed to stay around her shoulders. Lucanis shakes his head.

“I don’t know how Varric did it every year, that suit is so hot. You’re so hot—” he says the last part half a second before Rook also says:

“You’re so hot.”

“—yes, I saw that one coming a mile away.”

The crinkles around his eyes are in full effect. With the white dye in his hair, Rook catches a sudden glimpse into her future. Lucanis twenty years from now. All the years in between where she’ll grow older with him. All the holidays they’ll celebrate together.

She wraps her arms closer around him and brushes her cheek against his.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice a warm rumble in her ear.

She breathes in his cologne. Breathes out. “More than okay. You?”

“Better, now that Solas signed that paperwork.”

“You already checked it over?”

“Of course I did.”

“Okay, but did you check it twice?”

She feels him chuckle. “Was that a Santa joke?”

“Maybe. You sure you’re okay?”

The unspoken part of that question hangs in the air for a few seconds, for him to do what he wants with: how is he coping with another holiday coming up and no family to celebrate it with?

“Christmas isn’t for a few days. Caterina might still call,” he says lightly. The undercurrent of sorrow in his voice is faint, but it’s there.

“Do you want her to?”

She hears his intake of breath, like he’s about to say something, but the words don’t come. And Illario’s name doesn’t come up, hasn’t come up for awhile now, but he’s part of it, too. The song changes to something livelier. They keep swaying in a slow circle, chest to chest, cheek to cheek.

“I don’t want to leave things like this,” he finally says.

“Then keep trying. She’ll call back eventually.”

“She might not.”

“She might not,” Rook acquiesces.

He sighs, and she feels him deflate a little. “Things have always been complicated between us, but now…”

“Do we need to put on some Avril? She knows all about things being complicated.”

“Rook.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Rook pauses, cracking a little grin. “She does have a couple Christmas songs, though.”

Lucanis stops their shuffling dance and hugs her tighter for a few long seconds. Tight enough that she can feel his heart beating steadily against her own.

“What was that for?” she asks.

He pulls back just enough to place a kiss to her temple.

“Nothing. This is the best Christmas I’ve had in a long time, that’s all.”

“You were in a psychiatric hospital last Christmas. The bar is so low,” she jokes lightly as they start dancing again. He’s been opening up about it, inch by inch, a few words at a time, a sentence here and there. Even cracked a few jokes himself, about how he never would have gotten Spite if last year had gone differently.

“True,” he says, and his small laugh of acknowledgement gusts against her cheek. “But I was alone, and for most of the years prior to that, I might as well have been. This is better.”

Now it’s Rook’s turn to hug him tighter, to make sure he never feels that alone again.

“It’s a good thing you feel that way, because I’m pretty sure you’re stuck with us now.”

“There’s no one else I’d rather be stuck with.”

A different version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” comes on, and everyone screams “gay” at the gay part, and Rook gets to pretend she’s blinking back tears of laughter. They are, partially, but they’re also tears of joy and a deep, profound sense of rightness.

Rook’s old lighthouse painting on the wall above the community bulletin board shifts into view as she slowly spins with Lucanis. The little figure on the shore is barely visible from here. Solas always thought it was a symbolic everyman. Varric always thought it was him.

But it’s Rook.

She painted herself into it, because she didn’t realize how alone she’d felt until she found the Lighthouse, too.

Chapter Text

“What’s the point in taking the trash out now? There’s going to be so much trash tomorrow.”

“That’s exactly why we’re taking the trash out now. Hand me that other one?”

Rook hauls the bigger trash bag over to Lucanis, who’s waiting by the dumpster in the alley behind the Lighthouse, his breath fogging into the cold night air. The bag is bursting with the last of the Christmas decorations. They already chucked the tree into the dumpster earlier, then had to spend twenty solid minutes sweeping up the trail of dried pine needles that led down the hallway to the back door.

“Decorations down before the second week of January,” Rook says, hands on her hips. “This has to be a record.”

“Davrin texted me. He’s so proud.”

The lid of the dumpster falls with a satisfying clang after Lucanis swings the last trash bag in.

“Ready to go?”

“Y—” Rook starts. Stops. “Wait, no. One sec.”

She doesn’t know what makes her say it. She is ready. She has her warm, black winter coat and her red scarf and her bag. They locked the front door. The lights are off. But her feet carry her back inside anyway.

She flips the hallway light switch.

One last look.

The scuffed, wooden floors, dented and stained from years of footsteps and fumbles. The spots on the bar where glasses and spills and leaning elbows have worn away the varnish. The cracks and creases in the leather couches. The shelf of tacky novelty coffee mugs. The faint smells of ground espresso and empty wine bottles.

Neve’s stacks of flyers. Harding’s plants. Bellara’s toolbox. Davrin’s carvings. Taash’s empty protein shake containers. Emmrich’s books. Lucanis’s carefully organized folders of paperwork.

Rook gets her phone out and takes a picture. A few pictures. Just so she doesn’t forget.

She’s standing in the doorway to the back room when Lucanis’s footsteps come up behind her.

“I didn’t mean to keep you waiting out there, sorry,” Rook says.

“It’s okay.”

He stops next to her, staring where she’s staring.

“We could replace that couch, you know. Now would be the perfect time,” he says, teasing.

“Don’t even joke,” she warns dryly.

Varric’s couch. The one he bought secondhand a few weeks after Rook started at the Lighthouse, apropos of nothing in particular. Nothing to do with Rook’s offhand comment that her sleep schedule was still out of whack after switching from working late nights at the Viper’s Nest to early mornings here, and she’d kill for the chance to take a power nap on her break. Just a coincidence.

Lucanis brushes his hand against hers, hooking a couple of their fingers together.

“They’re minor renovations. It won’t look that different,” he says gently.

“I know.”

But it won’t ever look like this again.

Tomorrow, they’ll move everything out of the back room and cover anything they can’t move in dust sheets. Monday, they’ll meet with the contractors.

Tonight, Rook has her pictures and her memories, and that has to be enough.

“Come on,” Lucanis says, and she let’s him tug her away.

They drive down 24th towards the Crossroads, over puddles and cracked pavement, past telephone poles layered with soggy flyers and murals haloed by streetlights. Everything is closed for the night, everyone is in bed or getting there. Windows are mostly dark, except for a few houses with Christmas trees still up or lights strung across porch railings.

The doorman, Frank, greets them with a warm smile when they get to Lucanis’s apartment, and Spite greets them in the foyer when they open Lucanis’s door. He rubs his little black head against Rook’s ankles, waiting for her to unwind her scarf from around her neck so he can leap into the air and try to snag it out of her hands.

“Don’t encourage him,” Lucanis says, as Spite drags one end of the scarf to the ground and starts chewing on it ferociously.

“Aw, but he likes it!”

“He also likes eating candles, that doesn’t mean it’s good for him…”

“I think the fact that your cat and your girlfriend are both gross gremlins says more about you than anything else,” Rook says with a grin. Lucanis lets out an exaggerated sigh and takes her coat and scarf from her outstretched hand to put away in the hall closet. His faint muttering fades behind her as she heads into the kitchen:

“No, get out of the closet. This isn’t your scarf. Or your coat. Stop helping. No. I said stop helping.”

“Are you hungry?” Rook calls over her shoulder, opening the fridge.

“Starving, actually.”

They spent so much time cleaning that neither of them really took a dinner break.

He follows her into the kitchen and pours them both some wine, glasses clinking lightly against the counter, while Rook puts on an apron and gets to work chopping an onion.

“Weren’t you saving that for something special?” she asks, pointing with her knife at the bottle he opened. It was ridiculously expensive, she knows that much.

“Tonight is special, don’t you think?” he asks with a slight tilt to his head.

She should be used to his thoughtfulness by now, but he still manages to surprise her sometimes. The corner of her mouth tugs up. “You’re right. It is.”

“Besides,” he says after taking a sip, eyeing the ingredients she’s dumped out on the counter, “I think it will pair well with Hamburger Helper.”

Once Rook found out you could make Hamburger Helper from scratch and it actually tastes even better than the boxed stuff, it was all over. She’s made it five times in the last two months.

“Only the finest vintages do,” she sniffs.

“Do you need any help?” he offers.

“Are you just asking so you can cut the onions into perfectly symmetrical shapes?”

“They do cook more evenly when they’re all the same size.”

“Okay, Mr. Knife Skills,” Rook says, chopping away haphazardly.

Lucanis just smiles and holds his tongue as he posts up at the kitchen island. The trade off for Rook cooking more is him not getting to criticize her technique, or lack thereof, and he knows it.

The onions go into a pan with some some oil, and Rook gets to work mincing some garlic. Well, she calls it mincing. Lucanis would probably call it an uneven dice.

“Teia says hi,” he says, tapping on his phone.

Rook represses a chuckle. Teia came by the Lighthouse once, last month, ostensibly to grab a coffee, but Rook saw how she eyed Lucanis, how her sharp gaze assessed him as part of the Lighthouse and seemed satisfied with whatever she saw. The cheek kiss she gave Rook before heading out was accompanied by a whispered, “Take care of him.”

To which Rook responded, “I’m sure as shit trying.”

That earned her a smile and a wink, which felt like pretty high praise from Teia, as far as Rook could tell.

“How’s everything going with the rebrand?” she asks.

“She’s optimistic. And Viago’s finally come around now that he’s had some time to process Talon Corp imploding.”

“Do you miss it?”

Lucanis takes a sip of his wine, his dark eyes inscrutable, holding her gaze while he formulates his answer. “I don’t know if I’m allowed to.”

Not what Rook expected him to say. She stops mincing.

“Because you chose to leave?”

“That choice was made for me.”

“You chose not to stay.”

He gives a noncommittal hum, but his brow creases the way it always does when he’s giving something serious thought.

“Do you wish you’d gone back to help Teia and Viago salvage things?”

That crease deepens slightly, then smooths over. “It would have put me back in Caterina’s good graces. But no. The Dellamortes and Talon Corp are through.” There’s a lightness to his tone, despite the finality of those words. “The onions need to be stirred.”

“Stop helping.”

Rook stirs the onions. The easy—easier—way Lucanis talks about Talon Corp now is a good sign, she thinks. There’s still a long way to go, but his shoulders don’t seem as heavy.

The garlic goes in next, then some messily chopped bacon and ground beef, and the kitchen starts to smell like dinner. Lucanis goes back to scrolling on his phone. Rook waits to see if he’ll say anything more about Caterina.

“The post about the renovations is already getting a lot of positive feedback,” he says after another minute.

Guess not.

She still hasn’t called.

“Well, except for Isabela complaining that the Lords are going to lose all their games now that we’re disrupting their bowling night ritual for a month,” he continues, rolling his eyes at his phone.

“She told me we owe them a month of free beer.”

He shoots her a flat look. “A month of free beer for the Lords? Does she want us to go out of business?”

“I talked her down to a free round.”

“Oh, good,” he says wryly. “I can’t believe her Instagram handle is ILikeBigBoats. Does she even own a boat?”

“I think she used to.”

“Was it a booze cruise?”

Rook snorts. “Maybe.”

The meat is starting to brown and crumble, and Spite wanders over to investigate, his little black nose twitching towards the stove.

“Spite, no,” Lucanis warns, jumping to his feet.

Spite immediately trots over to the cabinet where Lucanis keeps his bag of Friskies and lets out a demanding mewl. He never eats any of the fancy, high-end cat food Lucanis tries to feed him, just the cheap, grocery-store brands, and Rook loves how much it annoys Lucanis.

“Fine,” Lucanis grumbles, bending down to feed the cat.

He doesn’t return to his seat at the kitchen island afterward, leaning against the counter next to the stove instead. Sipping his wine, looking at his phone, existing closer within Rook’s orbit.

“Think I should deglaze with wine or broth?” she asks, even though she already knows what she wants to do and she knows what he’ll say. But he likes being asked.

“Wine.”

“Mmm.”

Rook splashes in some white wine, feeling very confident about not measuring for someone whose only cooking experience until recently was all box-based. The pan steams and sizzles, and she takes an appreciative inhale.

“Man, I love scraping up all the bits.”

“The fond.”

“The what?”

“Fond,” he says. “That’s what the bits are called.”

“I’m fond,” she says. “Of you.”

They share a quiet grin.

More liquids go in, and some elbow noodles. Rook sips her wine and stirs. Leans into Lucanis and thinks fond thoughts, as he leans back against her and kisses her temple.

“A few commenters are already asking if we have a firm date for reopening,“ he says, glancing back down at his phone.

“You need to stop obsessing over that post. It’s happening. It has happened, officially.”

“I know. But I feel partially responsible for people not being able to go to the Lighthouse for a month.”

“You are partially responsible.”

“And I want that to be a good thing.”

“It is.” Now it’s her turn to give him a quick peck on the cheek. “It’s only a month. They’ll live.”

Rook has told herself that a dozen times over the last few weeks, and heard it a dozen more from all their regulars. They’re all more excited about coming back to Lucanis’s baked goods than annoyed about the temporary closure. And they’re excited for her. For all of this being possible, for how much Varric would have loved it.

“Cheese, please,” she says, and he obligingly grates some from the hunk she grabbed out of the fridge. He refuses to buy shredded cheese and she refuses to grate it herself. This is the compromise.

Rook stirs in the cheese and holds a spoonful out to Lucanis, who blows on it before taking a bite.

“Good,” he says, chewing with a considering nod. “Maybe a little more salt?”

Rook takes her own bite and nods. Yeah, needs salt.

“I’ll nail it eventually.”

He tops off their wine. “Cooking is a process. And I like when you cook.”

“Maybe some day I’ll even try cooking a vegetable,” she jokes.

“Hey, Taash would call this carb loading for tomorrow.”

The commercial oven they’re installing is tiny, and they’re only knocking down the wall to the storage closet in the back room to open up the space a little more. And extending the hallway a tiny bit to make a new storage closet. And putting a retractable awning over the patio.

Lucanis was right when he said it won’t look that different, but it’s still a mind-boggling amount of work to get done in one month. Luckily, the crew is all helping. Mostly because they refused to let Lucanis pay them for a month of not-working, which Rook thinks is crazy.

Then again, you couldn’t pay her to stay away from the Lighthouse now.

It’s weird, feeling hopeful about the future. More good weird than bad weird, but it’s not a feeling she completely trusts yet.

Lucanis gets two bowls out, and Rook dishes up their Hamburger Helper, and they settle at the kitchen island to eat. Then Spite hops onto the counter, and Rook sighs and gets up to put a lid on the leftovers in the pan, and sits back down to eat for real.

Lucanis makes a small choking sound.

“I thought you said it was good,” Rook says, glancing over, fork halfway to her mouth.

Lucanis is staring at his phone.

“Illario liked the renovation post.”

Rook almost drops her fork.

“What, really?”

Lucanis clears his throat and nods. “He immediately unliked it, but the notification is there.”

“Shit.”

Rook takes a slow bite of food, waiting to see if Lucanis says anything else.

“Are you okay?” she asks, when his silence stretches out and he doesn’t start eating again.

“I…yes. I think so.”

He puts his phone face down on the counter, his hand resting on top of it. Rook covers his hand in hers.

“It’s okay if you’re not,” she offers, which earns her a faint twitch from the corner of his mouth. It’s been less than a month since the case against Illario and Caterina settled out of court. He talks about moving on, but it’s clear he’s still figuring out what that looks like.

“I know. This is just so…typical of him.”

“What, popping up out of the blue like a shithead?”

Lucanis lets out a short laugh and finally peels his eyes away from their hands to glance over at her. “Blocking me, but keeping tabs on the Lighthouse.”

“Oh.”

Rook is surprised, honestly. She thought Illario would be a scorched earth, burned bridges kind of sore loser. But, apparently, some perverse part of him can’t quite let go.

His social media presence is as obnoxious as ever, possibly even more so since he was “acquitted,” in his words. He’s already guesting on some of the bro-ier finance bro podcasts. Anything to prove he came out on top, unaffected by the court of public opinion or the actual court system. The fact that he blocked Lucanis, that he acts like he has any moral high ground whatsoever, makes Rook grind her teeth at night.

“Would you rather it was all or nothing?”

“I want to hate him. I do hate him, sometimes,” Lucanis says immediately. There’s a pause, and his voice falters. “It happened, and I have to live with it.”

“But…?”

“But it’s nice to think there’s a part of him that cares.”

He slumps a little, leaning into Rook’s shoulder.

Rook frowns. “Yeah, I guess he does care. In his own fucked up way.”

“I don’t know if I can ever forgive him.”

“I don’t know if you have to,” Rook reminds him. “It’s like Emmrich said, right? You can be angry, and sad, and still love him. Even if you never talk to him again.”

Lucanis nods. She offers him a forkful of her dinner, and he eats it with a slowly returning smile. He picks up his phone again, and Rook peeks over his shoulder to look at the new comments on the renovation post.

“At least Zara’s not on fucking Instagram,” she mutters.

“Zara’s exactly where she deserves to be,” he agrees.

In fucking prison.

“Is Isabela really starting a petition to change the name of the Lighthouse to ‘the Brick Shithouse?’” Rook laughs.

“Apparently, now is the perfect opportunity.”

They finish eating, and Lucanis takes Rook’s dishes from her hands.

“You cooked,” he says, opening the dishwasher.

Rook nods and suppresses a yawn. With a stomach full of Hamburger Helper, in the warm, spacious confines of Lucanis’s apartment, her body is reminding her that it’s been a long-ass day. And they have a long-ass day ahead of them tomorrow. Her brain hasn’t gotten the memo yet, though. There’s too much to think about, too much excitement bleeding over from all the well-wishers in the comments on the renovation post.

“There’s no way I’m falling asleep anytime soon,” she says, finishing her wine.

“Me neither,” he says with a self-aware sigh. “Do you want to watch something?”

“Next episode of the UFO cult documentary?”

“Meet you on the couch.”

Rook heads down the hallway to Lucanis’s room to change. Her pajamas are folded in one of his dresser drawers—only because he folded them—and the Christmas card propped on top of the dresser catches her eye, just like it has every time she’s opened the dresser these last few weeks. The cardstock is heavy and elegant, but the picture of a dove on the front is boring, uninspired. It doesn’t go with the rest of the bedroom decor. At a glance, it wouldn’t seem worth displaying at all, a week and a half into January.

It’s from Caterina.

Rook doesn’t need to look inside to know that there’s no note, no written offer of reconciliation. But it’s signed, “with love.” Lucanis said that’s how she signs all of her Christmas cards. He hasn’t put it away yet, though, and Rook catches him looking at it sometimes like it means something.

Maybe it does.

She passes him in the hallway on her way back to the living room, and has the fireplace going and their show queued up by the time he settles down next to her.

“Is that my sweatshirt?” she asks.

She knows it is. Lucanis doesn’t own any sweatshirts.

He tugs at the purple fabric with a lopsided smile. “It smells like you.”

Rook leans in to kiss him, soft and deliberate, then brushes her thumb against his lower lip.

“You have some toothpaste…”

He captures her hand in his, kisses her knuckles. Keeps their fingers intertwined as he stretches his legs out and rests his head in her lap. Rook drags her quilt off the back of the couch and drapes it over them, then waits for Spite to jump up to curl into a little, purring ball against Lucanis’s chest. Once they’re all settled, and she’s stroking Lucanis’s hair while he absently pets Spite, she presses play.

A few times, during the boring, exposition parts, Rook’s attention wanders towards the windows. Last week, Lucanis rolled one of his Persian rugs back so she could set up an easel right next to the living room windows, where the morning light is perfect. Her new work in progress is propped up on it.

Well, not new, exactly. It’s the same canvas from last year, painted over with a new base layer. The color and shape of the old piece is still there underneath, but she needed to start over. Her inspiration changed. Now, cerulean and phthalo blue are starting to take over the pink base layer, with traces of magenta mixed in for hints of purple. It’s brighter. More hopeful.

“I think—” Rook starts to say. Then stops, looking down.

Lucanis is asleep.

His breathing is soft and even, one hand holding hers, the other curled in, tucked against her thigh. It’s the earliest he’s fallen asleep in…Rook doesn’t remember when. Ever, in all the time she’s known him?

There’s a lot to do tomorrow. Furniture to move, contractors to call, decisions to make, comments to respond to. They should get a proper night’s rest, in a bed.

Rook just smiles, and brushes her fingers through Lucanis’s hair.

I think we’re going to be alright.

She lets him sleep.