Work Text:
I have been waiting for
this heart to fade or at
least to kneel. Maybe the
heart is not inside me but I
am inside it.
Victoria Chang, Marfa, Texas
The first time they sleep together, they do just that: sleep.
There have been times in the past when Neve didn’t really see the point of taking things slow, the rare times things happened at all. One would expect the pattern would hold now, with the literal end of the world looming in the not-so-far distance. But the truth is that those people, as lovely as they were, never truly saw the real Neve, mainly because they never got the chance to get close enough.
And now, when she has so much else to be focused on, when so much hangs in the balance…
No distractions, she told herself at the beginning.
Well, look at her now.
“Every morning?” she says from the bed, absent-mindedly swatting a wisp away from her face. Her back is flush against the wall, Lucanis’s shirt thrown over her bare shoulders, the rumpled sheets still warm under her. Yes, she has proper sheets and a mattress now, courtesy of the Lighthouse; she doesn’t want to think too much about the timeliness of their appearance.
The perennial mid-afternoon sun that bathes the study in golden light is both convenient if you’re married to your job, and a curse on your circadian rhythm, but she’s never been as grateful for it as she is now, because the soft glow loves Lucanis’s body.
It flows and shines on his skin like water, highlighting the lean muscles of his arms as he lifts them towards the ceiling, delineating the contours of his biceps and forearms so clearly she can see the scattering of dark hair on the outer side, tendons casting shadows with the precision of a bas-relief. His torso, usually covered by several layers of fabric and armor, is lean and pale now that Neve has the privilege (and she doesn’t choose this word lightly) to see it bare. Her eyes linger on every inch of it as if collecting evidence, from his bird-like clavicles to the swell of his pectorals, to the wings of his ribcage, to his flat stomach. His trousers are high-waisted and well-tailored; absolutely not something comfortable to sleep in, but even his current state of undress — or her own, since her chemise might cover everything that needs to be covered but couldn’t in all honesty be described as modest — is more than Neve would have expected of him, more than she thought he would be comfortable with.
And he was. Comfortable, that is, with letting her rest her head on his bare shoulder and her hand on his stomach, feeling his breath slow down and deepen as he gave in to sleep. That felt momentous, too, that he would trust her with his unconscious self, and that he would trust Spite with her as well. She waited for the demon to surface so she could tell him they have something else in common now: they both get to see Lucanis sleep. Eventually, as she waited, she fell asleep too.
“Every morning.” His voice is as smooth as his movements as he bends forward, lowering his head towards the floor. A couple of wisps that were floating above his shoulders scatter, but come back almost immediately, hovering around his upside-down head with interest. There are fewer of them than usual, Neve notices. “A Crow’s body is their first weapon, and it has to be maintained accordingly.”
She knew that, abstractly. She thought she had a better understanding of the idea after seeing the deadly dance Lucanis performed on the battlefield. As Lucanis wraps his arms around the back of his knees without any visible effort, she thinks this is even more impressive.
She rests her chin on her knee, reminding herself to breathe. “Who taught you?”
He doesn’t reply immediately. He must be counting the seconds.
Earlier, when he eventually let himself be persuaded to do his routine in front of her, Neve watched him get out of bed and pull up his hair in a knot to keep it out of his face. She’s seen him do it a few times before (usually before cooking) with an old frayed cord. She makes a mental note to get him something more practical and pretty the next time she’s around a merchant.
After what could have been ten seconds, he releases the pose and straightens again. “Several people throughout the years.” His bare feet are planted on the floor, seemingly immovable. Every movement exudes discipline and grace. “I won’t perform all the exercises I know. That would take the whole morning.”
“I don’t have plans.” He looks at her flatly, and she holds his gaze for a few seconds before conceding. “Fine. But I can always cancel them.”
The statuary stillness of his torso is broken by a barely perceptible laugh, and when he shakes his head a fine strand of hair falls across his forehead. Neve wonders if she’s dreaming. She’s in the Fade, after all.
“What was that stretch for?” she asks, mostly to keep herself from saying anything too idiotic or sappy.
“Neck, back, glutes, hamstrings and calves,” he answers with easy confidence. By the time he gets to the end of the list, he’s already taking a new position, and Neve’s mouth is dry.
His left knee touches the floor as he extends his right leg forward. Neve watches the muscles of his back stretch and tense as he bends towards his right foot and holds it with both hands.
“I have to see it”, she said earlier, after their pillow talk (if one could call it that; there was a pillow involved after all, a single one they shared, and a lot of talk) had moved from the past to the immediate present. It turned out both of them had a morning stretching routine, though while Neve’s was a series of quick, practical, begrudging exercises, Lucanis spoke of his own as something more similar to a ritual.
When she expressed her desire to watch this fancy Crow morning ritual, he looked uncertain, almost shy.
“I’m not trying to steal your tricks.” She had poked him in the side (he didn’t even flinch). “I’m too old to become a Crow, anyway.”
Unexpectedly, he tensed. “Don’t ever joke about that.”
That reaction was sobering. She lay her hand flat on his chest, over his heart. “Alright,” she said simply, and for a while they were quiet, just breathing the same air in their warm cocoon of Fade-delivered blankets.
In the end, he took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “I’m not used to an audience,” he murmured.
Ignoring the spike in her pulse, she leaned in and kissed his cheek. She’s still getting used to the way his beard tickles when she kisses him. She thinks she likes it. “I’ll withhold my critique until later, then,” she said in the same tone.
What have they done to you? she wonders now, watching the wonderful, gentle, caring man in front of her and trying to reconcile him with the assassin, the abomination, the Demon of Vyrantium, the man who was tortured for a year in the Ossuary. Lucanis, who cooks their favorite dishes on rotation, whose sense of humor sometimes turns almost childish, who would do anything for his family even after all that’s happened. Who made a deal with the demon sharing his body and then became his caretaker, his friend. Who has never killed an innocent, at least by his count.
She knew right from the beginning that figuring him out, and quickly, was a priority. What she didn’t expect was for this case to get so personal.
She straightens her back against the wall. She has to think of something else, or the volume of her thoughts will deafen her. Luckily, she has something quite entertaining to focus on. “I’ve got it,” she says.
Lucanis, who is now kneeling on the right knee, stops as he’s bending his torso over his left leg in a silent question.
“What your fighting style reminds me of.” Waving away the wisp hovering by her knee, she stretches her leg and flexes her foot, trying to reach it. Her fingers barely brush the instep. “I realized just now. You’re a dancer. The fancy kind, the really graceful ones.”
She expects him to deflect or brush off the clear compliment. Instead, he’s unruffled. “Interesting you should say that.” He reaches for his foot and holds the stretch. “My first fighting tutor was also my ballet teacher.”
“Ballet! That’s what it’s called.” And then, “You did ballet?”
“I’m trained in many physical disciplines.” His voice is steady, calm. Something about the familiar gestures must be grounding for him, Neve supposes. Her own stretches are just to stop her back from twitching and keep the muscles in her bad leg in working condition, but she understands the principle. “I’ve never performed in front of people, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“That’s a shame. I, for one, am enjoying the show,” she says, hoping the shameless sincerity of her tone will coax a reaction out of him. She’s disappointed when he moves straight to the next pose, cross-legged on the floor. “What was your teacher called?”
He extends his arms above his head, bends the right elbow and reaches towards the middle of his back. His eyes are unfocused for a moment as he stares at a memory. “Anita,” he says eventually, pulling his right elbow towards his head. “I haven’t thought about her in years.”
“Is she still…?” Neve regrets asking the moment the words leave her lips. The best she can do is cut herself off.
Lucanis’s poise, though, is undented. “I don’t know. Caterina employed a whole roster of teachers for me and Illario, and she switched them up frequently. I never saw any of them again after they were dispatched. No, not like that,” he says, correctly reading the dread on her face. “They received a considerable payout and led comfortable lives outside Treviso. Or so I was led to believe, and Caterina wouldn’t lie about something so trivial.”
She would, Neve thinks, if she expected her grandson to start trouble otherwise. She tucks this observation away. “And what’s that for?” she asks, changing the subject.
“Triceps.” He’s pressing on his left elbow, now. “Arms are often neglected, but it’s important to take care of them as well.”
“I’ll make a note of it.” Neve’s voice is distant to her own ears.
He, of course, notices. He stills completely, then lets his elbow go and pushes himself off the floor, making it look as if it took no effort at all. “Here,” he says, holding his hands out to her. “Let me show you.”
She stares. “I can’t stand without—” Her eyes flick to the corner beside the head of the bed, where she puts her prosthetic before bed, after removing it. She did the same last night, feeling the ridiculous pinpricks of self-consciousness as she unbuckled it in front of him. She’s not ashamed, she’s never been: it’s just new. Oh — now she understands what he meant when he said he’s not used to having an audience.
“We’ll sit on the floor,” he says. “Let me help.”
Let me help. She doesn’t know why, among everything Lucanis has said since they met that was cause of real concern, those are the words that terrify her. Or, rather, what terrifies her is her instinct to say yes, to give in.
It feels like an indulgence, after years of taking care of herself. She’s purposefully tailored her life around the assumption she wouldn’t get help even if she needed it. She can’t rely on anyone to be there for her. And it’s been enough, she has been enough. It hasn’t been easy, but it was gentler on her pride than the alternative.
“I don’t need help.” She keeps her voice light, to make it clear it’s a statement, not a reproach.
“I know.” The two wisps that were hovering around Lucanis earlier have followed him, one of them above his shoulder, the other dancing over one of his outstretched hands. “I’m offering it anyway.”
Oh, he knows what he’s asking. He knows her. Something shifts inside her at this not-quite-revelation, because, truly, he must have been studying her for months now, and she respects his professional skills greatly. They’ve both built their careers around noticing, deciphering, sneaking into places they’re not supposed to be. He surely began watching the Tevinter mage as soon as they met, just like she’s been keeping an eye on the Crow assassin possessed by a demon.
Her eyes fall to the wisp on his palm. “Why are there so few of them?” she wonders aloud.
“Spite,” Lucanis says. When she blinks at him, he explains, “We agreed he will keep himself occupied with the wisps when we are…”
She’s speechless. It was just an idle question: she wasn’t expecting him to have the answer, or for the answer to reveal this much thoughtfulness. Unthinkingly, she places her hands in his. “Well, if that isn’t two birds with one stone.”
“Several small birds.” Lucanis’s expression is serious, but there’s a smile in his voice. “And a big one.”
Instead of helping her to stand, as Neve was expecting, he places her arms around his neck. The shirt draped over her shoulders slips onto the mattress and her bare arms are covered in pinpricks. Before she realizes it, Lucanis slipping a hand behind her back and an arm under her knees, lifting her effortlessly from the bed. The movement makes her stomach drop in a way that’s not completely unpleasant. His skin is cooler than hers, or perhaps she’s overheated.
She realizes she’s clinging to him and forces herself to relax with a laugh. “Does this count as exercise for you as well?”
“Everything does.” Pivoting gracefully, he lowers himself until he’s cross-legged on the bare floor in front of the bed. “Especially with you.”
I won’t make your life easy, she warned him not long ago. I don’t make anything easy. Lucanis didn’t disagree, but the fondness in his tone took her aback then and does the same now. He’s still holding her in his arms, steadily but without gripping. Neve could easily free herself. She doesn’t. This close, she could count the moles on his face, were she not otherwise occupied. “I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or not.”
“I get that a lot,” he replies with a straight face, echoing exactly what she told him the other day on the streets of Dock Town.
She knows it’s supposed to make her laugh, to put her at ease. And that’s part of the problem, actually, because it falls on top of everything else, all the thoughtful little gestures, the coffee, the midnight talks, the way he pushes through his own hang-ups to indulge her curiosity. The way he offered to carry her for two steps to save her some discomfort, not because he thinks she’s weak but because it was a service he could render.
He sees her. He remembers her words, her opinions, her favorite foods. He fell asleep in her bed.
Slowly, almost uncertainly, she leans in. More heat sparks in her stomach when his gaze drops from her eyes to her lips. Her arms are still around his neck, and he offers no resistance when she pulls him towards her the rest of the way.
It’s not their first kiss. That happened on a secluded rooftop garden in Treviso overlooking the bay, and his mouth, just like her own, tasted of excellent coffee and marron glacés. Her breath still catches when she thinks about it.
It’s not their second, either. Last night, when he came in with her midnight coffee and some of the shortbread he’d just baked (“So I can make sure you taste them before the locusts swoop in,” he said), instead of thanking him, she calmly stood up from her chair, took the deliciously smelling cup and tray from him, set them down on her desk and took his face between her hands.
That kiss lasted a while, neither of them seemingly willing to be the first to let the other go, so it probably counted as their third, fourth, maybe fifth as well. “Stay,” she said eventually, whispering the words on his lips, soft like a prayer. When he didn’t answer immediately, she added in the same tone, “I’ll let you have one of my shortbread cookies.”
They should do this more often, she thinks as Lucanis’s lips slide on her own. She moves her hands from his neck to his face, scratching his beard with her nails, and he hums against her mouth.
“Neve,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to look in her eyes.
They breathe together for a moment, and she lets him search for whatever he’s looking for in her face. Everything else in her life has always been pressing, urgent, a race against time. She wants to be patient for this, to savor it.
When he exhales, his breath is shaky. “I can’t offer you much,” he says, “and what I have is… perhaps not that inviting.”
Neve almost laughs. She could say the same about herself. Is this how people feel when they’re dealing with her?
Her hands are still cupping his face, while Lucanis’s have dropped to her waist, warm through the thin fabric of her chemise. She never breaks eye contact; she doesn’t even blink. “I don’t ask for much,” she replies, as gently as someone like her can. “But I like what I have right now. I would like to keep it for a while, if I can.”
“Neve,” he says again, more desperate than a whisper should be. Nobody has ever said her name like that.
He doesn’t have to say anything else out loud: she can listen, too. She can look at this man, sitting on the floor of her study in a state of unprecedented undress, the reflection of a wisp dancing in his dark eyes, and see both herself and what she can only hope to become, one day. Slowly, savoring each sound that makes up his name, she says, “Lucanis,” and then kisses him again.
It’s the last word anyone in the room says for a while.