Work Text:
It had been long since Reaver had paid the monarch a visit. Despite loving the attention he got whenever he showed his face around royalty, he couldn't help but be slightly overwhelmed by all the buzz. A hood covered his head, a scarf hid his features under warm wool— it was winter, after all, he could explain it all away. He slipped through the castle gates largely undetected, mentioning only that he had business with the Queen.
He carried with him a bottle of spiced wine. He usually kept it in one of his many homes; he recalled most recently uncorking some by the manor at Bower Lake. He smiled, smugly, to himself— it wasn't so much a kindness he was doing, rather, he was intent on getting the Queen to owe him a favor. He was determined to get that favor.
He managed to slip inside the castle without any fuss, and under the cover of night, most ordinary citizens had gone home. He finally slipped off the hood and lowered his scarf, and made his way to the Queen's quarters. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught some glances, but he kept his head held high— what was he to care of the concerns of others? He'd learned a long time ago not to cast judgement like that— at least, not publicly. Why couldn't they? It wasn't his problem, so he pressed on.
The Queen's room was at the end of a long hallway lined with columns and paintings and such. Reaver paid it no mind, the only object in his vision the door to their room. He knocked.
"My dear Hero," he called, "I come bearing gifts."
There was a scuffle inside as the monarch poked their head out of their room. They grinned wildly at Reaver, and opened the door wide for him.
"Conversation, too, if you're willing," Reaver jabbed. The Queen scoffed, but beckoned him over to a set of chairs by a window overlooking Bowerstone. The room was dimly lit, candle-flames dancing here and there. Fine art covered every inch of the walls, and a beautiful red and gold rug hid the cold stone floor beneath. It was clean and fresh and proper. It had clearly just been tidied up. Reaver took his seat by the window and stretched.
"So," he began, as the Queen sat adjacent from him, "it seems everyone in the country is buzzing about your fiftieth Crucible win." He smiled, his expression not one of pride for a friend but not one of sour jealousy, either. "Fifty," he reiterated, letting it sink in."That can't possibly be consecutive, can it?"
The Queen laughed at his jest, and shook their head. No, of course not. They smiled at him, something warmed with age; it shone through their wrinkles and battle scars. This, Reaver knew, was genuine. He subtly recoiled, his own outward mask thinning.
"And all won with some blade you found in a dank, old cellar?" Reaver pressed, mock interest seeping through his words. He fiddled with the cork keeping the wine shut, running a finger along the edge of it in circles.
Again the Queen laughed. Their voice was dry, like crackling autumn leaves. They waved a hand, dismissing the Daichi's origin.
"I know we've had our… differences," Reaver continued, choosing his words carefully. The Queen, amused, raised an eyebrow at this. "But I must say that's quite impressive. Rarely does a man survive the Crucible, let alone return to it; sometimes multiple times a day, I've heard."
He looked at them for a moment; studying them, trying to figure out just what was wrong with this person. His mind jumped to that horrible night in the Spire, where they had shown the supposed King Lucien no mercy— not even a chance for a monologue!— and he was reminded, briefly, that this little Sparrow had so much blood on their hands.
It almost frightened him. Almost.
As if they were completely innocent, the Queen smirked and flexed an arm, muscles completely invisible under their regal garb, and to this, Reaver chuckled. He wasn't amused, he just knew that was the correct response to such a display.
A beat. "I've brought a gift," he announced, showing off the bottle of wine.
Intrigued, the Queen scurried closer to his seat, where they snatched the bottle and inspected it with curious fervor. But— then— they frowned, and placed the bottle back in Reaver's hands.
Ignoring this, Reaver continued. "I thought we could share a glass together. Nothing more, nothing less. After all, without your trials in the Crucible, you would never have met me." He was being hyperbolic and proud, but anything to share a drink with them.
The Queen cast him an overdone annoyed glance and crossed their arms. It lasted just a moment before they smiled and shook their head. They sat back down in their seat, looking at him expectantly.
"Oh, come on," Reaver encouraged. "What's stopping you? Your husband? Your position as Queen? I've no idea where your husband is, and plenty of royalty have had plenty of drinks."
The Queen shook their head again. That wasn't the issue.
"Is something the matter?"
Something in the Queen's eyes glittered with mischief and pride. Oh no. Reaver knew that look. "You've gone and gotten up to something! Of course. Without me?" he asked, feigning sadness. He even pouted a bit, to really sell it.
He watched as the monarch's eyes darted from place to place, clearly trying to come up with an explanation. Then, gently, so gently, they placed a hand on their belly.
Cold panic sparked. "Oh!" Reaver exclaimed. "Oh."
And suddenly, he was doing horrible mental math. The last time they had seen each other, when was the last time they had— and the Queen had been married for how long?— and, wait a minute, didn't they just get home from Westcliff? He studied their figure, looking for evidence of it. They'd always been fat, but it was exceptionally hard to spot any difference in the low light. And they were so much older now. How in the world could they have—
The Queen watched his changing expression with deep amusement and shook their head. They held out a hand to quell his fears, and pointed to the ring on their finger. So it wasn't his. That was fine. He could live with that.
Reaver swallowed. "Well! What a— surprise!" He truly could not find any words for it. "How long have you known?"
The Queen grinned once again, as if keeping a secret.
"Fine," he concluded. "You don't have to tell me, one of your closest friends." He broke eye contact with them, staring at the floor for a moment. "I suppose this is better suited for your husband, then." He dragged himself to meet their gaze. They nodded.
"Well!" he stood quickly, wanting to take his leave. "I'll go find him and send him my congratulations. I don't mean to depart so quickly, but seeing as I don't have a proper gift for you, then—"
The Queen had also stood, and placed a hand on his shoulder. He felt the shock of their touch and did his best not to jump. They gave him a look of— genuine kindness?— because of course they would, that's exactly the kind of thing they would do. Reaver's eyes narrowed. His spine stiffened.
Then, they let him go.
He looked at them for just a moment before turning toward the door. "I'll come back with something else, then," he explained as he gathered himself. By the doorframe, he continued, "within the week. Not gold, certainly not gold, you have plenty of that and I don't want to be rid of mine! What is it you like? Shiny trinkets? Weapons?"
When they didn't respond, he continued, "What, literature? Food? What do you—"
Silence, as usual. Not even a gesture. Just the mischievous glint in their eye, an amused smirk. They were watching him flounder and they were loving it.
"A surprise!" he concluded. "I'll get you a surprise gift."
They cocked their head. Alright then.
"Yes, a surprise will do. Forget I made any suggestions!" He donned his scarf and hood hurriedly. "Good night, dear Sparrow."
Without waiting for their response, he zipped out of their room.
Written by a human in Ellipsus.