#Soap doesn't die here for god's sake just let him live

[tassodelmiele]

The Magic Whatever

I needed to put this chaos into concrete writing-something.

I know this would ended as a mess in my mind, with no possibilities to born.

So I write it.

And now I'll feel bad if I won't keep on with the story.

Hope you're having a nice day filled with chocolate-

Disclaimer: titles make no sense.

Have a nice day

....

Soap didn't die on that mission; not 'cause there was no gunshot.

Bullet just disappeared.

And he found who made the trick, bringing the whole team with him in a rabbit hole filled with dangerous stuff sprinkled in lusterdust and smelling blood-scent, crumbled in caramelized sugar and glazed madeleines.

'Cause Marigold just did what she does best: following her instinct. And that day she just stole the bullet flying toward Soap's head.

1- Only thing you can trust in the morning is to have your pajama still on

«You have to trust me»

You have to.

Sure.

As if there were other possibilities. 

Anything could have done the work on that shitty morning, everything good enough to make the clock worth listening to: coffee's scent; pancake pan-fry's fizzle; a baseball bat in the middle of the forehead.

Anything but a geared man with a loaded gun rushing in the bedroom, making her remember that the whole load of fucks happened yesterday where just the cherry on top of a brown cake that didn't smell of chocolate.

Rushing upstairs became a stumble on every step; at the umpteenth shot hands ran on the ears and knees crumbled down, crouching the whole body on the floor.

I don't wanna die I don't wanna die I don't wanna-

A rough pat on the back awakened padded synapsis. There was a sudden yell: 

«Run!»

Legs did the work better than brain, jerking up, stomping on the stairs using no breath at all, with lungs empty of air and full of ashes and gun-powder scent.

Sudden cracks and blows followed the run to the second floor, heartbeats stuffed ears and throat, climbing on the gut's walls with the acidic adrenaline's aftertaste. Eyes were watering from fear and dirt, legs were moving by heart to the most open space in the house: the balcony; the goddamn 1x1 meter balcony with a lovely Thai grocery shop's sight. 

Chest crushed on the railing so suddenly, fresh spring breeze hit her with a kick in the lungs.

I'm out

The consciousness got foggy at that moment of paradise, and a tight grasp on the pajama brang it back down to the shitty ground: someone tugged her far from the metal grip of the railing, sucking her entrails backwards to throw her on the ground.

She slides all the short way to the wall; the head burned in a sudden bang on the fucking drainpipe.

Someone collected her body by pulling the shirt again, and lifted her whole weight. Terrible dry and smelly scent of old and powder hit her nostrils, one millimeter away from the not so ensuring face of a stranger in some sort of full-military asset. 

He smiled so kindly while spitting:

«Goodbye, dorogoy»

And pushed her out of the balcony.

Whatever came next, is void: body and soul get vacuumed in the eternal nothingness of a fall from the fourth floor; eyes squeezed, adrenaline rushed to the brain, screaming: you're gonna die; but there was nothing to grasp, nothing to grab, nothing to save her.

My breakfast's still in the microwave; a stupid last thought.

Just, it wasn't the last.

A firm hand catched her ankle, burning soft skin under rough gloves. She dangled, hanging still so dangerously close to the railing that the head banged again, but that was the smallest of her problems. Voices came from above, heard hazy and fuzzy in her scattered brain, yells and metal exchanging places as if someone was trying to drive a nail with a gun.

Then, a more nitid, strangely pronounced: «Let bounty fall»

And a clear loaded gun.

Her fried brain took advantage of that moment to make a to-do-list: the missing will, in case of premature death (almost certainly at that point); the promise to eat grandma's piadina at her home; a pistachio-macchiato she owned Johnny since he brought her home during a storm; oh, and…

…and air swallowed her up with the force of muscles she certainly didn't have.

The same, tight grip that was avoiding her a spine-crusher-jump, suddenly lifted her from the ankle, with a pull so strong that she was sure wings had grown on her back, letting her fulfill the dream to be a fairy. But as soon as the body flipped over the balcony, the gloved hand made her change trajectory with a fast move.

Air gave her stomach a kick and her guts a stir, while whoever was moving her threw every inch of Winnie the Pooh pajama, yellow air and morning sickness on the "dorogoy" one, as if she was a goddamn club.

She was smashed on the man, facepalming her nose on his gear, and he was tossed KO on the ground.

Floor's caress hit her too, still held by ankles and, maybe, with a kneecap a little bit out of its place.

«Ye'r alright?»

The known voice reached her ears, and that was the first good news since one hour.

He's still here

Then she kinda blacked out, not dazed enough to faint, but at least to replace sounds with heartbeats and sight with foggy, swirling floor tiles. 

Moment of silence.

Johnny pointed at who they were supposed to protect.

«What in the bloody hell-»

«There wasn't time» was the rushed up answer. Ghost let the naked ankle go, patting his oddly slimy gloves on the tights. 

«Why 're women so creamy?»

«Beauty purposes»

«'S horrible»

«Didn't think you were so picky»

«I don't like touching maggot's texture, if that's what you mean by "being picky"»

Soap knelt next to her, who faltered something inaudible as soon as being touched. He stuck his finger around her joints, checking for potential damages.

She whined as he turned her face up to him: there was a big, yellowy spot next to the left side eye.

«That was already there» Ghost's specified.

«Aye, I know»

Fingers pressed on her knees.

«She truly is a strong one» Lt. muttered.

«Told ya»

«Difficult to believe»

«Ye've literally throwed her like a goddamn baseball bat»

Ghost silently looked at the girl, splattered on the ground.

«It worked»

He crunched down, collecting her body on his back as a potato bag.

«'S better get the hell outta here»

«What 'bout wake her up first?»

«Are ya proposing to explain her the whole shit bag now?»

Soap hesitated for two seconds; that sounded as a negative answer for the Lt.

◌◌◌◌◌

One hour later, morning coffee hit Price with strong aroma, cigar aftertaste and a plethora of questions condemned to be unresolved.

He sipped, holding the mug a little longer in front of his face just to look at her without making it too obvious how bad he had no idea of what the fuck was the matter with that random yellow-haired lady sit in his office, surrounded by Johnny and his pathetical attempt to be comforting.

«Is» he pointed at her «she the target?»

Gaz nodded. «Soap said so»

«Mh». He sipped again, pondering about it. 

«A bloody child»

«Apparently she's twentythree»

«What's the point?»

«Bakery worker, living in a suburb's flat, three roommates-»

«The point in her being a target» Price specified.

Gaz lowered the voice, trying to capture some crumble of whatever Soap was saying to the girl who was, luckily, giving 'em her back. He carefully opened a pack of crackers. «We've had a speech 'bout it. You already forgot?» 

The captain pierced Gaz's breakfast in a cold glare.

«You're as helpful as a mosquito net in a submarine»

A sudden fear of downgrading hit the sergeant. The cracker came back in the pack.

«…sorry cap. She's the» he cleared his throat, feeling a little stupid saying: «someone with a magic whatever», as Soap had described her the first time.

Memory about the oddest Task Force's meeting of all time gave Price a facepalm. 

He swallowed half the cup of coffee at once.

«What in the bloody hell are we doing»

«…an unbearable, complete fucking disaster»

Patting her head was an option Soap was evaluating for half an hour, but maybe it wasn't the most clever move. He ended up looking at her very firmly.

«That's the bloody hell you've saved me from»

No signs of life from the other side. He munched a few swears, knowing so well what he was trying was as confusing as telling a chicken that it could fly like eagles with its shitty wings.

«Look» he started again, third time in a row «'m not kidding, 'k? I know it's you who 'm looking for, 'm just asking a little help to understand how in the fuck a goddamn bullet disappeared one inch from ma head»

She wasn't trembling, crying, fainting; maybe she wasn't even breathing, sitting still in front of his face while Soap had a complete visual of her pissed face, and the lovely sight of Gaz eating crackers and Price silently hating everyone while standing in the corridor.

«Two years»

The story began again in a low sigh. Soap raised two fingers at his temple.

«It was two years ago. I was 'bout to be bloody dead meat, with a shoot here, a russian bullet in ma brain»

He decided it was time for the secret weapon: a piece of newspaper came out from his pocket, shown as if it was the Saint Grall in all its oldness and perfection.

«'Ve found this». Soap pointed at the paper: a photo, five written lines. «It's you. Hospitalized 'cause of a bullet nearly pierced your temple»

The sheet got closer to her face.

«Except for you being alone. In your home. And I know ye'r no suicidal» 

Silence. Again.

Soap managed to pat her shoulder, a middle way between raising his voice to be the bad policeman, and pinching her cheeks to be the friendly one.

«...'m sorry for the shitty tons of lies 've told ye. At the bakery, I mean». It was so stupid to make apologies, but he did it anyway. «Duty purposes, laddie»

He gave her another pat.

«Fact is that who tried to kill me knows you». He chose to get straight to the point. «'Cause ye've got…dunno. Something. And that something saved me, somehow. And look, gorgeous, I don't believe in "abrakadabra", and whole Harry Potter's universe's a shitty filmography for ma taste. I just know I'm still breathing 'cause of you, and I'm used to return favors»

«There's no point in explain myself if you don't believe in magic»

Voice cut her throat sharply yet loud, destroying every Soap's attempt of being nice. Her still swollen eyes pointed at him. 

«Is not something I can explain»

«Try» 

It was so surreal as a situation that if a llama with a hat appeared, no one would have been surprised. 

«I'll listen, at least»

◌◌◌◌◌

Snake bites hurt the most when the weather wasn't stable. Like an old good war scar, hidden under shiny gold dots that she constantly tortured in search of a crumble of quiet.

«Lost in yer thoughts?»

Marigold's hair waved like a dandelion's shade in the gloomy morning. A big cup of pistachio-macchiato was presented in all of its greatness to the usual early-morning customer.

«Kinda funny weather, isn't it?» 

«That's London, laddie»

She chuckled kindly, repeating a motion used with every visitor that became authentic just with Johnny.

«I'd rather be surrounded by coriander field»

«That's what ye planted 'round the house?»

«My parents' choice. I don't like them, smell becomes odd on rainy days. Better than London's morning, though»

«Aye. I bet sun suits ye better»

Another chuckle, and she went KO with a throaty laugh that exploded hidden in her hands. Johnny raised his cup.

«Cheers»

Two months before he showed up out of nowhere, stating "the smell of good coffee" had brought him to the Merry Marguerite.

Marigold had seen all sort of human being in her bakery-waitress experience: who pretended to look at ease in suit, leather bag and badly knotted tie; who was hiding from his life, drowning every brain cell in sugar; happy ones and silent ones; lost ones and usual ones; strong espresso ones, and milky-chocolaty-heavy cream latte ones.

Johnny was none of them.

Johnny was a usual stranger, a known foreigner, a recalled wayfarer; a usual guest who showed up every ten years, but you know him since you've been born. 

«Merry Marguerite. 'S yer name?». That was the question in front of the first pistachio-macchiato the girl had ever been asked for.

«Nope. That's my boss previous cat»

«Cool. So 'm not gonna call you Margie or somethin'»

What a funny way to ask a name. She smiled at first, kindly, disappearing in the back to grab some fresh pain au chocolat. 

Marigold didn't expect him to wait for an actual answer. 

He came and clinged on the counter, with those huge biceps relaxed and a silly smile, a little cocky but never disrespectful. He asked for his macchiato, made a joke about the bakery's name and waited for her to give him something back.

After three days she giggled him a quick: «Mary, Or Goldie. Doll, if you want, some friends of mine used to call me Doll»

«'Cause ye'r cute?»

«'Cause as a child I used to cut every inch of my doll's hair and make them join the "punk club"»

And tortured doll's stories were what made them friends. 

«You're gonna have green tongue at this rate»

«Can't help it. That's the best pistachio-macchiato in town»

«Of course. That's why there's a secret recipe»

Johnny raised his eyes from the cup. He was dressed up almost the same every day: jeans and t-shirt, mohawk and bright-curious eyes as blue as the sky London decided not to show to his citizens.

«Spit it out»

Answer was a long breath of her, blown on the fresh madeleines.

«A secret's a secret, Johnny»

«Ye made me curious, though»

«That what secrets are about: make people eager to know what's underneath»

«Aye. I can tell ye're good at that»

Her fingers stopped working on the correct rearrangement of the custard croissants. 

«Yeah? Am I that good at not blabbing our secret recipes?» she laughed. «I'll add the skill to my curriculum, then»

The waiting for an answer became a little too long, making her raise her sight.

Johnny wasn't really laughing: his smile was telling something that could go from "I know what kinda porn you're into" to "the yellow in your hair is brightening my day up".

He suddenly smirked: «Feeling under pressure, Doll?», ending the question in the last macchiato sip. 

«Should I?». She clinged on the counter, a little cheeky «Am I under interrogation?»

«Ah» The empty cup ended up on the side, allowing him to have a full vision of her hair brightness. «It would be no good for ye»

«How come?»

«C-u-r-i-o-s-i-t-y» He spelled. «I'll end up digging too deep on ye to find what's underneath. It's not pleasant havin' a stranger stomping on yer garden»

«And what if you lose yourself while finding a way out of me?»

«Ye'll guide me. 'M sure ye've got signs in whatever wood has grown inside of you»

And Marigold became silent, softly smiling a sad sight, unexpected through the funny mood Johnny thought to have been built.

«And…» A warm, sugary smelling madeleine was offered to him as a pay in advance. «If you find the way out, would you tell me too, please, which way I ought to go from there?»

He chuckled, suddenly kinda softened by her tone, catching the quote so well he wasted no time to replay:

«It depends a good deal on where you want to get to»

«I don't much care where»

«Then it doesn't much matter which way you go»

Whole bakery filled with the loss of words that baked the room in glazed and caramelized smell, crunchy as a chocolate cookie fresh from the oven. Silence got stuffed with coffee sipped under breath, time got replaced with madeleine's crumbs rolled under the fingertips.

The first bite on the pastry broke the spell. Johnny ate it whole, chewing slowly.

«Seems like, even if ye're lost in yer wonderland, ye'v found a way to me»

And then, she knew.

She knew he had read her somehow, even if he hadn't understood a single word.

It was two years ago that the dream went away: a man alone, dark and chaos of voices, blood smell and an odd, painful hold on the guts; words shouted fast and aggressively, a clock ticking, the well known feeling of something that was about to happen.

A shot. 

And the sudden awakening in a sweat lake, breath lost in the dream and the pressure against her lungs screaming that there wasn't time left.

Marigold didn't know why she had chosen to go to bed that early, as much as she didn't know why she was running out of bed, stomping on the fallen sheets to reach the bathroom curled on her reversed stomach, with guts mixing inside as if she was dish-washing her organs.

Lungs were closed, breath fought to come in and out and heart started racing faster, pounding so much blood to her head. Fingers grasped the hair, dug the scalp, searched for a way to the brain like something was desperately trying to get out, or get in, she didn't know, it was just so painful, so hopeless, so furious, and clock ticked faster, louder, stuffing head and eardrums while voices become clearer, surrounding her in a battlefield that certainly wasn't her bathroom anymore.

Everything came to a peak of adrenaline piercing her brain. She grabbed something from somewhere, tearing it away from a reality that wasn't her, that shouldn't have been her, in which she didn't belong. Her fingers grasped the bullet, pulling it away from him, whoever him was.

And she just took it with her, in the bathroom, stepping out of the trajectory fast enough to let it just scratch her head.

◌◌◌◌◌

«Why?»

Her shoulders scrolled, stiff from the tension.

«I've asked myself so many times. Maybe because I know you were dying. Whoever you were. Whatever you were doing»  

«When we met the first time, did ye recognize me?»

«No. Dream wasn't that clear»

«Did you speak 'bout it with family? Friends, or-»

«Is not that easy to explain, I've told you»

«Have ye done it before?»

She havered on the chair, eyebrows frowned and lower lips bitten to hold the trembling.

«Dunno». Voice raised to hide the fear, replacing it with slow boiled anger. «Maybe»

«Ye don't know?»

«No» She shouted. «I can't know, I've not got a secret diary about headaches and nightmares, sorry»

«Ye'r tellin' me ye've got some sorta "telekinetic" power-»

«'M telling you nothing. Just how it went that night»

«Aye, that's what 'm saying: you're describing me, if not a magic trick, at least a psychic ability»

«I don't know what it is» Words became sharp pebbles thrown randomly out of her guts. «And if you wanted to thank me 'cause you're still alive, I accept your gratitude, even if you've brought me home a goddamn bunch of armed people»

She hit the right spot to make him straighten his back on the chair, while still trying to upload information about the whole "dream" matter.

Soap knew his face got a little crinkle around the eyes and the stiff teeth.

«We've brought none to you, Doll. They would have been there to kill you anyway»

«I don't have any Russian friends. Nor enemies»

He mumbled: «Aye», as if he already knew what kind of people she was acquainted with, as if he'd already dug her whole life. And she faltered, squeezing fists on her pajamas, shaking in a motion of frustration that got her to the guts. 

«What? Have you already scanned me? You've done what the fuck you wanted with my free day just for what?»

Johnny fell from an apple tree.

«We went to save you-»

«Sure, after spending whole months telling me bullshits. ‘Cause everything was bullshit. Correct? Our chats at the bakery, you working as a PC technician, your terrible coffee tastes…»

Words died on her tongue in a sudden spin of her head. She grabbed her temples, rilling fingertips around the pale skin, and hissed as the digits touched the livid bruise around the eye.

Liquorice aroma filled her nostrils in a strong caress; Soap was offering her a candy pack.

«Ye've not eaten this mornin'» He muttered, recalling the time at the bakery when she almost fainted 'cause of skipped breakfast and lower pressure. 

She took a bunch of bitter-sweet treats, stuffing her mouth.

Johnny's sight made a fly to his feet, collecting time before blowing: «Wasn't all bullshits. Sorry, anyway»

«Why that much effort? What for?»

«Get to know ye. I need to be sure 'bout you»

«Pretty sure I'm as clear as an empty fish tank to you, by now»

«Wrong»

She frowned, irritated from the tip toes to the dry hair's double edges. Liquorice candy cracked under her teeth.

«Whaddya mean? That I can't even know how the fuck I play ma goddamn, stupid society-role?»

«Calm down laddie, 's nothin' this pretentious, was just giving ma take on you»

»…mh» another candy ended up chewed under her tongue. «So I'mma childish whoever to you and your mates?»

Soap gazed at her, chuckling, pondering about how seriously he needed to take her bratty chat. 

«…was life what made you that difficult to handle?»

«Dunno, you tell me, 's you who filled me in shit to "get to know me"»

At this point a strong, harsh incipit of voice pierced through the corridor, shouting: «The goddamn bloody Jesus of Laswell has finally brought me that stupid-…»

Ghost's steps slowed down as he faced two idiots stuck in front of the office door: one holding a half-pack of crackers, the other was drinking from an empty mug.

Deciding how to react brought him to the right conclusion to pretend nothing was happening. He passed a blue folder to Price, who was badly hiding shame behind a I-wasn't-eavesdropping kinda look.

«Intel 'bout that russian» Ghost explained.

Captain coughed a: «Did he speak?»

«I was very persuasive. Dunno why Laswell needed to write down what he'd already spit with his teeth»

«Bureaucracy can't be avoided. Verdict?»

«Clear as a nuclearized swamp in the middle of nowhere» 

«'S what he told you?»

«He told me» skull mask turned darker to match its owner's attitude, lowering on Price's coffee scent breath. «They were there to rob. I made him tell…»

He turned, almost instinctively, as he heard two voices muttering from the office, recognizing Soap's one in the being-as-nice-as-possible mood. 

And he saw those horrible yellow bob hair again, the oddest pajama with little Winnie the Pooh stamps, and bruises marked on the arm that Ghost was quite sure was the one he made collide with the Russian soldier.

«Why is that child still there?»

«Security»

«That's why I'm asking you. Shouldn't be held, like, somewhere safer?»

«Nothin's safer than my office»

Ghost blown, nodding ironically.

«Plus» The folder came back to the Lt. «Soap wasted no time trapping her in that sorta interrogatory». Price gazed at them, knowing well Johnny was aware they had listened to everything. «Don't think he's cleared his mind 'bout you-know-what, though»

«Better he does, since we've rushed all of this shit 'cause of that» 

Price sighed, Gaz chuckled 'cause it was funny seeing Ghost complaining like an old man, and the Lieutenant just growled again: «An enormous ton of shit»

«Following that lady wasn't time wasted, at least. There is something stinky hidden underneath». The last cracker was being chewed in a mess of crumbles on the shirt. Gaz muttered a swear before adding: «She was being chased by those men. Fully armed, you said»

«Affirmative. Three, ready to kill»

«What were you sayin' 'bout it?»

«That russian» Ghost instantly reconnected his synapsis with the previous speech, recalling his fists on the man's face with a hidden smirk. «said they were sent by some sorta monk»

The statement made the audience caught by suspense. Frowned eyebrows and tilted foreheads spoke for themselves.

Gaz tried to break the silence with a cautious: «Some sorta wha-»

But Price felt the urge to make a fast recall:

«Four months ago, Soap found that girl with the "magic whatever" that he stated saved him from Makarov. Two days ago» he counted on his fingers «Soap spotted a man following her home. He also did the day after. That made Sergeant suspicious and you two eventually get involved in that sorta "saving" operation»

«Soap was right, at least. Someone was keeping a close watch on her»

«Yeah, but» Captain's hand flew in the air, holding his line of discussion. «Am I the only one noticing there's a bloody nothin' logic 'bout this? Are we really getting involved in somethin' raised by a "someone saved me with magic, and I'm gonna find him"?»

Ghost gazed at him, eyes half-hidden by the mask.

«You trusted Soap»

«Undoubtedly» Was shouted so clearly that nothing was left to be clarified.

It wasn't Soap himself the wrong variable in the equation.

It was that Soap was right. 

And it was not logical. So illogical it was actually happening, and Price couldn't just register an impossible chance that was occurring in front of his goddamn eyes.

«What if» Gaz suggested, licking cracker crumbles out of his lips «We just ask her?»

«Ya heard: she doesn't know»

«Yeah, well, maybe she doesn't know if it's safe to spit out the truth in front of three strangers and an almost ex-friend» He nodded toward Soap. «'S not like he's playin' his cards well»

«What do you suggest, sergeant?»

«We could just-»

And the chair that was hosting Marigold's butt suddenly got thrown on the floor by her sudden standing. Three pairs of eyes caught her taking on Soap in all her pajamas and yellowness, without a single world left as she grabbed the sergeant's shirt with both hands, roaring with a voice thought impossible for one her size:

«Just let me at least pretend I did something good!!»

She turned her still naked feet, ready to run home somehow, killing spree in her clenched fists and rage in her bruised throat.

Steps died immediately at the trio's sight.

The otter-puppy eyed with a hat; the good twin of Chris from "The day before" ; the Dia de los muertos cosplayer in the wrong season.

Classification ended with a kick in the head from her own brain, which told her to have a good look at that scary-skeleton mask.

She blew her cheeks, finger pointed at Ghost as she shouted almost with a growl:

«Youfuckin'sonofa-!»

◌◌◌◌◌

[sorrelchestnut]

Birds on a Wire, Lucanis/f!Rook, 4/?

Part One, Part Two, Part Three

Rook's grown considerably less resistant to his blandishments since those early midnight meetings; these days luring her into a nap is as simple as climbing into bed and asking her to join him for a while.  Lucanis waits a few minutes to make sure she is well and truly out before rising to retrieve the luggage left outside the door by a soft-footed servant - along with a second bag of elf-sized clothing in a variety of what he assumes are current fashion in Antiva, so clearly someone did their due diligence on Rook's pack already.  He ferries the whole lot of it inside to pile on his desk and unpacks their bags into the wardrobe, knowing damn well that the maids will come along tomorrow and do it again to their satisfaction.  It's for his sake, really.  Trying to remind himself this is where he's supposed to be.

(never happy here. not like THERE. why did we leave?)

The Lighthouse was never theirs to keep, not really.  Even Spite must know that.  Either Lucanis would die pitting his blade against the gods-

(mine, mine, mine!  they cannot have you!)

-or they would triumph, and live, and then leave.  That was the deal.  Lucanis delayed as long as he could, but the vacation was always going to come to an end at some point.  He was always going to come home.

(tears in dark corners. old misery in stone. this isn't home.  this is a prison!)

Perhaps, but it is one that Lucanis walks into with his eyes wide open.  This is his responsibility, his contract.  He cannot be other than what he is, other than what has been made of him.  He can only hope, with a desperation that borders on fervor, that the burden will not prove too great to be shared.

(yours.  mine.  OURS.)

“How many new outfits did they foist on me?”

Lucanis doesn't start at the welcome intrusion of Rook's sleep-roughened voice: she's always had a sense for his darker moods.  “Only three so far, but I wouldn't be surprised to find a few more slipped in tomorrow.”

“Please tell me at least one of them is in something other than black, blue, or gray.”

Silently he holds up the black tunic he was folding.  “This one has some gold braid.”

“S'pose they tried, at least.”  In the mirror he watches as she pushes herself to a sitting position against the headboard, sleep-rumpled and bleary.  “How long was I out?”

“No more than an hour.  We still have some time before dinner.”

“Do I need to dress up?”

“Tonight, no.  Tomorrow, when Catarina is back…”  He clicks his tongue in a wordless shrug.  “Maybe we visit the markets tomorrow?”

She snorts.  “Do your worst, pet.  Long as I keep my sword, I'm happy.”

“Oh that's not a concern.  A Crow without a blade is worse than naked; it's like bringing a dog to the dinner table.”

He waits for her to say the obvious - I'm not a Crow - but she only hums in vague acknowledgement.  “My favorite people,” she says around a yawn, and stretches extravagantly, undershirt riding up at her tanned belly.  “Alright, I'm up, I'm moving.  Let's do this thing.”

In Lucanis's experience, most people who need to declare that they are awake are several steps removed from actually being so.  Rook, ever contrary, is up and out the door before Lucanis can finish dressing for dinner.  Rolling his eyes - does she even know where the kitchens are? - Lucanis lets Spite follow the scent of her soap through the back hallway into the library, where he finds her wandering the lower balconies with her hands firmly tucked into her pockets.

“Looking for something in particular?”

“You know me, dove, not much of a reader.”  There's some kind of tension in her voice, some minute thread of unhappiness whose provenance he can't quite identify before she shrugs it away and smiles at him.  “Just went the wrong way is all.  This place is a bloody maze.”

(closed doors. boarded windows. doesn't want you to see.)

Lucanis can't imagine what Rook could possibly be ashamed about in this house.  Nevertheless, it is not something to be picked at and unraveled here, where any watchful eyes could see, so he only says, “All the better to trap the unwary,” and comes up behind her to put his hands on her hips.  “That would be less of a problem if only you'd stop running off.”

Rook shifts her elbows to make room for him to rest his weight against her back the way she likes, caging her in against the balustrade.  “Yeah, but then you'd think I was a fake again, might need to call Emmrich for an exorcism.”

(hands still in her pockets.)

Lucanis noticed that too.  He slides his hands from her hips to her tattooed forearms, playing his fingers along the bones of her wrist.  “Mm, can't have that.  This many books?  He wouldn't come out for a week.”

There's a pause, where he worries he might have misread the source of her upset - and then her hands come up to twine with his, and her muscled body goes lax against him.  “You'll have to invite him then.  Give Manfred a break.”

“We'll do that.  Bellara, too.”  Lucanis hooks his chin on her shoulder and sighs.  He could stay here for hours, he thinks, just like this, and not count a second of it wasted.  Even Spite grows quiet if it means listening to the sound of her heart.

Still: “Come now, querida.  I know you must be starving.”

He can feel her smile against his cheek.  “You knew what you were getting into when you signed up to feed me.”

“I believe House Dellamorte is up to the challenge.”  With the greatest of reluctance, he unpeels himself from her back, and offers her once more his arm.  “Shall we?”