#this is like. in my head a few months/years after the church of the doodler

[kaseyskat]

hi hello so the oak family makes me soooo fucking emo and i thought a bit too hard about lark and henry's relationship this week and this is what came out? it's also my first time really trying to tackle lark's pov so be kind to me sdhfkhdsf

~~

The nighttime has always been Lark’s favorite. 

In the Before, this was mostly because he and Sparrow used to sneak out of their rooms and down to the home computer. Sparrow would disable the parental controls, because he’s smart like that, and Lark would pull up the wikipedia pages of movies, and they would sit together, sharing one chair like they share everything else, consuming to their heart’s desire. 

Sleep, or the lack thereof, used to come so easily to them, Before. 

Lark only frowns in the memory of his own immaturity, now. 

Now, the night is a quiet peace, a moment of respite– and besides, when his dreams are drenched in black miasma and static, he much prefers when his brother is sleeping in bed and his parents are locked in their bedroom and Lark can be alone. 

Except for tonight, as he creeps into the kitchen only to find the light on, the sound of familiar humming brightening the space. 

There was a time when that humming was a comfort to Lark, in the Before. He remembers being small – smaller, anyways – and wanting to stay awake, stay awake! but being trapped in the arms of his parents, swaddled in blankets. He remembers a day where he had been sick with the flu, and his father had held him and sang to him while he cried and squirmed, the same song that he is humming now in the kitchen as he works. 

This Henry, Lark notes, is nothing like the apologetic but firm father that he’s been angry with for what has felt like his entire life. His father’s hair is tousled, his glasses hanging crooked, and he’s kneading dough as he hums to himself. 

Awkward. Lark swallows, and he steps into the light, teeth gritted. The fury that writhes under his skin starts to boil over once more, because the night was his time, of course his father would steal this from him too, he always ruins everything– 

“-oh hello, Lark,” said father interrupts Lark’s thoughts, and when Lark focuses back on him, he has a tired smile on his face, one that looks just a bit less strained than the fake plastered smiles he usually holds on their missions. “Did you need something? Don’t let me stop you.” 

I do need something, Lark wants to say, I need you to Leave. But he doesn’t say this out loud; he and Sparrow have been talking, and he has seen the wear of the fight between himself and their father on his brother, and enough time has passed since he was the afraid little kid who released the Doodler of his own volition that the anger that sits there in his head has simmered down to a slowly cooking roast instead of the boiled over mess of a person he had been. 

So he swallows his anger and forces it into his stomach and he steps into the light of the kitchen, his nose wrinkling. “What… are you doing?” 

It should sicken him, the way Henry’s eyes light up at the question– this, too, is familiar, the enthusiasm that his father holds for even the smallest joy of describing his hobbies to his sons. But it doesn’t, and the lack of the emotion has Lark’s stomach curling, his head pounding in tune. 

“Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I like to bake,” his father explains, and he gestures at the dough. “My mom taught me; she thought it would help me to have an outlet, a way to feel my emotions. It’s very soothing, and yet you have to be so precise with the measurements that it requires–” 

“-forget I said a word,” Lark interrupts, rubbing his fingers against his temple with a groan. “I had forgotten your conversation skills are sorely lacking. Just… I just need some water.” 

His father’s smile does not waver, and he inclines his head at the fridge as he continues to knead. 

The smell of baking bread wafts through the kitchen as he treks across it, and his stomach, unwittingly, growls– and his father is still humming that song, the one from his childhood, and it melds with the bread, and the anger that simmers in his stomach feels a little less abrasive, and maybe it’s the vulnerability of the night or the pain radiating from his head but for once, Lark doesn’t want to fight. 

He’s tired. 

“Is the bread recipe one given to you by Grandmother as well?” he voices, tentatively. “It smells more appealing than anything you or Mother have ever deigned to serve to us in the past.” 

“My cooking is usually pretty bad, isn’t it?” his father admits, and he laughs. “Do… would you like to learn?” 

No. 

“If you are suggesting, Father, that I would like to spend my perfectly fine night with you in the kitchen learning how to bake bread, which I will never use…” Lark trails off as he turns back around, water bottle in hand. 

Henry is looking at him with something that Lark almost recognizes – is it pride? – as he holds up a piece of dough. With dried fruit and nuts, it has turned into a crude replica of his own face, right down to the sad little smile and the droopy eyes. “You can punch it,” he says, waving the little dough-face around childishly. 

For all that his father knows nothing about him and never will, he does know how to entice him to a task he previously had no intentions on completing. Lark groans, and he marches right over to where his father is standing, snatching the doughy face out of his hands. 

“I do not understand how you plan on teaching me when the dough is already made,” he snorts with a roll of his eyes. “I don’t think you thought this through very well, per the usual.” 

“I really just needed the help kneading,” Henry confesses, though Lark suspects his father is, once again, telling him a partial truth. “My hands are not as strong as they used to be, but yours are only getting stronger.” 

Lark remembers the last time he had thrown a punch at his father in anger, and the way he had been bruised for weeks, the marks dark and irritated. It had satisfied the chaos inside of him in a way he hadn’t been able to voice, the physical proof of his emotions, his rage. And still, Henry had not scolded him, had not raised his voice; he had taken it, like he had given up on trying. 

Lark does not want his father to keep trying, but somehow the idea of his father giving up on him feels worse. 

“I will take over then,” he says, evenly, and he steps to the pan Henry had been working with, cracking his knuckles. The dough is littered with nuts and fruits, and with some already in the oven, truly he does not quite understand why his father insists on making more… but he’s already here, isn’t he? 

He curls his hands into the dough, and he kneads. 

It… is soothing, in a way he hadn’t been expecting. Kneading dough is just punching it and punching it and watching the way the flour and yeast mixture yields to him has Lark feeling like he is younger, punching trees and stripping off the bark just to feel powerful. 

And Henry watches him, that smile still curling at his lips, fondness in his eyes. 

“I have the recipe written down,” he finally says, breaking the silence just as Lark steps back from the dough. It’s smooth, not sticky anymore, and even Lark in his inexperience can tell that it is finished. “If… you are willing, I really can teach you sometime.” 

“I have no use for bread,” Lark immediately bites, but as he washes his hands and watches the way Henry folds the dough and preps it for baking, he thinks he understands the appeal. His grandmother had called it an outlet for a reason, and while Lark is hesitant to admit it… 

…maybe, just maybe, he does need this. 

“Besides, who knows where we will be next week,” he continues, gesturing to the windows that show a darkened sky– not from the moon, but from the Doodler, which Lark has sworn he’d kill. “But… I will allow you to show me the recipe. Perhaps Sparrow would like to learn in my stead.” 

It is, he thinks, about as good as he can offer. 

“Perhaps he would,” Henry agrees, and he yawns. “Well, thank you– for thinking of Sparrow. I hope you sleep well.” 

I won’t, Lark thinks, but he bites the comment back and scatters quickly, before he can be drawn into anything else against his will. This… was stupid, it’s all so stupid, and he wants to bash his head into a wall, or scream into his pillow, or… or learn his father’s stupid bread recipe because he, too, is just tired. 

And it isn’t much, but it’s a start, isn’t it?