#lucamri

Why, he isn’t quite certain. To confront him, be angry with him, grab him by the collar and kiss him, maybe slap him. Maybe slap and then kiss him. He shoves that last though aside immediately – too many romance novels. Spite seems to revolve around it in his mind, though.

“That Rook. Is FUN. Make hER. HIT.”

Anything might be better than how gracious she is about it. How she smiles kindly and politely that he has to look away first, and then she excuses herself. All that Crow training to withstand torture and interrogation does nothing in the face of a woman with a remarkable amount patience and the most disarmingly sweet smile he has ever seen in his life.

At least one of them is still a professional.

He continues to avoid her through the afternoon until they run into each other on the stairs in the library.

“Excuse me,” she says with a little smile, and steps to her right as he goes for his left. They pause when they nearly collide, and she laughs lightly. When that sound started to sound like music to him, he does not know. She takes a step back on the stairs. “After you.”

He clears his throat, hesitating. “Rook. If I could, I would… I’m sorry I do not know what I wish to say.”

“That’s all right. Words are hard, especially for our sort,” she speaks quietly, another little something between them. Lucanis knows he’s become a bad habit for her, however, because something in her cheery demeanor falters, the way the words scratch just slightly as she says them – tries to assure him in a voice that he’s certain convinces neither of them that the incident didn’t affect her. She really should slap him. At least once.

“FiGHT. LuCANiS.”

On this, he and the demon are of one mind.

His eyes travel down her hair, over her shoulder and he preoccupies himself with the mural to his left, unable to meet her gaze.

“Lucanis?”

He chances a look at her. Maker, those eyes. When did they become so full to bursting with adoration? Why does he want to drown in them? He needs to look away, but her shoulders tighten slightly, she leans forward, another exchange just for them, even the walls should not hear, and Maker help him, he cannot deny her this one.

“Regardless of what happened, I hope what we are remains. I’m with you, whatever you need.” Her words and voice are more even, more certain. Her smile, however, is far more fragile than the polite ones he’s been fielding from her before that, too, slowly finds its footing, rising to her eyes, filled with kindness, patience, and certainty – cordial, and painfully distant. Whatever hurt he might have caused her he can no longer find behind the easygoing persona.

A good performance.

He clears his throat. “...thank you.”

“And… I’d miss my sparring partner. He has a great sense of humour.”

He lets out a little chuckle at that. He does, too.

“Perhaps… in a few days.”

“Of course.”

---

Lucanis enters the communal baths quietly, listening for any movement.

The Crows have taken to bathing together, mostly to avoid their well-meaning colleagues’ —and their morally superior Warden— gazes filled with heavy hands of sympathy, horror, and questions about the marks that make an Antivan Crow. This time around, however, he’s also trying to avoid her, and pinning her schedule down is something he stopped bothering with when they started going together, instead looking forward to when they might be shoulder to shoulder next.

He grabs a basket from the dressing room, tosses in a few linens for himself before entering the bath. He immediately notices her boots at the threshold. Mierda.

“Lucanis?” she calls out to him. He freezes. Of course she would hear him enter.

“Apologies,” he says. She wasn’t moving at all, or his thoughts are far messier than he thought they were for him to miss a sound from her. “I thought no one was in.”

He can hear her shift, the sound of her rising from the water, seating herself on the edge. “I can leave.”

“No, no, I can–I can wait.”

“Or you could join me if you’d like. Not like we haven’t before.”

More than he can count on both hands. But things are not as they were, and he cannot act as though they are, much as he’d like to.

It’s not the skin that will do him in, even now when his mind refuses to banish the thought —the desire— of her lips on his, of that singular finger pressed against his chest in that moment in the pantry. The skin was never a factor, but the closeness of their shared baths, how they were together in every instance they chose to be alone and expose their scars to each other – the ones that remain on their bodies, and the ones deep beneath the surface. So many things in his life he never knew he could share with someone, with as few or many details as he could want, and they would know – they would understand, fully. Intimately. There are some things he did not even tell his cousin – he knows how Illario would respond.

To expose himself in such a way, to be seen was frightening and thrilling in equal measure, and he already misses it – misses her.

Were his feelings for anyone else, he would accept her offer immediately and seek her counsel on the matter. Maker, he might’ve asked her to join him instead – a first. She wouldn’t judge, laugh, or tell a soul. His friend is attentive and an excellent listener. He’s quite certain she would even offer to help —or meddle, knowing her— on his behalf, maybe conduct a stakeout or light interrogation. Her enthusiasm in all things is endlessly endearing, and he can easily picture how much time she’d spend with him to get things to work out.

How could it not be her?

Of course he shouldn’t accept.

Try as she might to mask her feelings, he knows her now – she told him almost everything about herself. He knows where to look and how to listen for the cracks, and he knows that he hurt her. She’s good – quick about it, but they’re Crows – everything is in the details, and few ever escape his notice.

He should not force her to sort through his feelings for him. On many things they are of one mind, but she should not drown in his mess with him. She has already done enough, and they’re friends – a rare and wonderful thing for their kind. That was always more than enough, wasn’t it? He shouldn’t want more. He cannot do this to his friend.

He can’t. He simply can’t. And he shouldn’t.

He’s so consumed by his thoughts he barely registers the sound of her feet padding across the stone floor, standing before him in a linen cloth that goes to her knees, covering so many of the lines he’s come to know. Somehow it feels strangely distant – careful, like he hasn’t seen her before. Like she needs to be modest. The very last thing she is, and one of his favourite things about her.

Is this how she felt when he pulled back? Walls rather than linens to cover the person she slowly came to know? Wants to know, and be close to.

“Bellara and Neve typically come in together in about forty-five minutes,” she says quietly. Mierda. She did catalogue their colleagues’ schedules and habits. He’ll need to start keeping track of hers. “I can leave. It’s no trouble.”

“You just got in, didn’t you.” It’s not a question. She smiles sheepishly – he knows her. “I’ll wait.”

“Our mages sit in here for over two hours. We could split, but if anyone needs to soak and relax, it’s you,” she says pointedly, but her voice, Maker help him, is impossibly gentle. “Join me? I won’t try anything funny, I promise.”

She does like making messes.

Against his better judgment, he agrees.

---

“You’re staring,” she says, not opening her eyes as she rests her head on her arms along the edge of the baths.

“I… do not know how you can be so comfortable with me here.”

“Is that what it looks like?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I am the better pretender between the two of us.”

He scoffs at that. He’s missed their little jabs, and it’s only been a few days. “Are you now.”

She cracks one eye open, burying the lower half of her face in her arms, but he can still see the smile – teasing and pulling him in. Was she always like this? Perhaps. Or perhaps he failed to fall prey to her wiles until recently, and now he simply drowns in them like any other soul he imagines she decides to attach herself to.

“Fix. The QUIET. With. RoOK.”

He liked it better when they bored Spite enough that he would wander off.

The demon grumbles, moves away from Lucanis and seats himself around Rook, limbs passing through her as he drags his nose up the back of her neck, taking in her scent. Lucanis does not know how to feel about seeing a version of himself do that.

“FiX. IT.”

“Are you?” he asks, voice surprisingly raspy. She opens both eyes at that, resting her chin on her arms as she studies him. “Pretending, right now, I mean.”

“Do you want me to?”

Her question comes without hesitation as she looks him in the eyes, forcing his gaze to stay. Out of respect of their bond, however, the words are spoken with a tenderness that cuts deep, claws at the longing and affection he tries so desperately to smother. When Rook is herself, when she isn’t playacting, trying to endear herself to a stranger and downplay their shared profession in the process, make herself smaller, fun, and likable, she is worn and unsteady – tired, most of all. There are kernels of truth in the role —the character, really— of Rook – the friendliness, the love of puns, the approachable nature, but when she is with him, she puts down the mask entirely.

No one knows a Crow quite like another Crow, after all.

Her gaze now is neutral, as to not try and sway his decision one way or the other. Merciful, but no less painful, because he knows his friend – warm and playful, and at times insufferable. Broken, in many of the same places that he is. How she feels, how he hurt her, because he saw it, if only for a few seconds – she tucks it all away, just for him.

She really should slap him.

He needs to say yes. He swallows. Spite growls at him in frustration as he crawls on all fours around Rook, watching him, glaring at him. He can’t. With everything going on with his family he should not trouble her with more of his issues. Although if anyone would understand complicated Crow family matters, it would be her.

But he can’t.

She would still help him – as colleagues, and perhaps whatever remains of their friendship. No doubt she could grow to deliver a flawless performance – he got to witness some of it earlier in the library. Considerate, pleasant, measured, and perfectly constructed, all the way up to her eyes.

No more leaning against his arm, no more conspiring together to irritate their Warden. No more jabs between them. No more playing chicken, challenging each other. No more shared baths and lining up their scars.

Bitter and sweet, like a kiss goodbye.

With whatever is going on with his cousin and house, once the matter is settled, once the contract is over, she needn’t bother herself with him. She deserves more. He will deal with things on his own. If he must, he might ask Teia or Viago for help. Of course, she is a de Riva.

How terribly inescapable. They really weren’t a good idea.

“I... don’t know,” he admits. In typical Rook fashion, she just smiles. Again and again, all she does is smile at him, wearing the sting with unfathomable grace.

“I don’t either,” she says softly. An awkward, quiet laugh leaves him – always so closely aligned.

Her gaze falls downward and she unfolds her arms, reaching for his hand beneath the water. He should pull away, but finds he cannot. The connection is distorted, vague, and distant, but reached all the same.

“I miss my friend, though.”

"The tail feathers were individually carved," Lucanis says. He holds up his left elbow, runs his middle finger up the skin in search of a scar until he finds it, a curved line, upside down from how his arm is positioned. "I was turned just slightly, and he threw it. One of the feathers broke and lodged itself into my skin. I did not notice until the contract was over."

"And it got through your shirt somehow. Wow." She grimaces as her mind paints the picture. "Did it hit your funny bone?"

He nods. She lets out a horrified sound. Somehow that hurts more. Well, at least hearing about it. Lucanis chuckles.

"And you?" he asks, leans back against the edge of the baths where they sit. "What strange object left its mark on you?"

She snorts, running through her memories and whatever object her former master had on hand to throw at her or beat her with that stayed. Expensive and ornate shoes, nail guards, hair sticks, mage staff, perfume bottles, candelabras, gardening tools and cleaning supplies, a doorknob. What hasn't left its mark on her would be the better question. But Lucanis's wooden duck comes from a contract, and if she thinks about any she's been on…

"…an Orlesian mask."

"An Orlesian mask? Interesting." He hums. "Those do not usually come off."

"No, they don't. It was—it's kind of a story."

"Rook, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"No, no. We're friends."

"Are we, now."

"Well I don't invite just anyone with me to the bath," she says playfully, but it's true. Many a de Riva back home in Salle, in their house's communal baths, soak with one another to catch up, or in the case of fledglings: roughhousing. But to be in the bath with another, to leave blades outside, discard armour and clothing, to be vulnerable with another? A sign of closeness — of trust. And here in the Lighthouse? He's her favourite. A little piece of home —of Antiva— that talks to her, and one she gets to learn about — familiar but new. She leans in slightly to brush her shoulder with his as they sit side by side. She's glad he said yes when she asked him that first time, after their training session. De Rivas and Dellamortes are quite different, she's come to learn. Where she grew up with noise and footsteps down every hall, his home was quiet — solitary. But even so, Lucanis understands in a way their other colleagues and friends do not. "Or share scars with them."

He's quiet for a moment before speaking. "Nor do I."

"And I like talking to you—I can talk to you. And I don't have to… omit details," she says. She looks at him, his gaze a touch more serious as he nods once. He knows — it's one of those stories. She runs her thumb across her collarbone in search of the scar, turning her body slightly to face him. He nods when he sees it, and she retraces the mark before pulling her hand into her lap, clasping it. "…I got this one during one of my former master's contracts. We were told to lure several members of a gentlemen's club away. Me and some others, I mean. We were the distraction. The bait."

Something in his posture shifts at the last word.

"Were you still a fledgling?"

"Yes."

"...How old?"

"Thirteen." It's common for fledglings to act as spies as young as seven, although giving them a few years of training is typically the wiser course of action. She started at nine, a common age, but she was only the second youngest of her group. She wonders if Lucanis's grandmother ever pushed him or his cousin out to entertain their marks or her associates, to spy on or eliminate them, or simply just to please them. Was he ever anyone's favourite? Did he frequent someone's home the way she had? She tries to picture what he was like at thirteen — the same nose, eyes, and brows, but softer. No beard, and maybe shorter hair. Brighter, greener, with the light of youth, or maybe that was discarded early. "It was a lot of firsts — first contract in Orlais, even if it wasn't mine."

"Was it also your first…"

"My first sexual experience? Yes." Her response is a well-trained one she can't help: she smiles at him, soft and courteous, though there's something in her that's a little amused. Lucanis looks a little uncomfortable — the Demon of Vyrantium, unable to fully stomach something. She takes a breath, slow — lets her face relax, lets the smile fall past her shoulders, into the water below her, looks down at the person there. "It was also my first kill on a contract. I enjoyed that a little more."

"Only a little?"

"He was bigger than me. Twice my size. And we weren't allowed any weapons, disguised as performers, so it was hard," she says. She remembers, for whatever reason, even if subsequent jobs blurred together —similar objectives— how he left bruises in his wake. Her wrists, her jaw, her neck, her legs. The path his hands took. How he held her against his thigh and pressed her back against the wall. It wasn't just the scar. "While we were struggling he tried hit me with his head — used his mask as a weapon. His was inlaid with red sapphires, I think. So it left a mark."

"One that hasn't faded."

"No. Something to remember him by." She leans back, eyes travelling along the arches of the bath as she absently grabs for the washcloth next to her, scrubbing her collarbone. "…I hope your first time didn't have you walking away with any unwanted scars."

"No, I haven't had the… opportunity," he says quietly.

"To murder someone in the middle of sex your first time…?"

"…To be intimate." He clears his throat awkwardly. She looks at him, raises a brow, not quite following. "With… anyone."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to corner you like that." He looks so uncomfortable.

"No it's—you told me yours. I appreciate that you trusted me enough to share that with me," he says. He knows, just as she does, how terrifying everything was at that age. She looks at him, at the seriousness, the sincerity, as he considers his words. "Many of the stories we share are alike but…"

"…Not this one."

"No, not this one." He pauses, hesitant. "I cannot imagine it was an easy job so young. Any of it."

"It was a long time ago. And… telling you was kind of easy." She bumps her shoulder with his. "But only because it's you."

Something in his eyes softens at that.

"I am sorry, though, Lucanis. I didn't mean for you to feel like you had to share something."

"It's fine, really." He leans back against the ledge, turns his gaze to the ceiling. "You did not laugh or tease."

"Why in the world would I laugh? Or tease?"

He shakes his head, looks at her from the corner of his eye before turning his attention away again. "You wouldn't."

Despite their words, something feels off — awkward. It means something to him, and she knows very well how complicated Crows and intimacy can be, of image and assumptions, expectations and a lack of choice. She doesn't like seeing him uncomfortable, not here, not when they're alone together — honest and themselves. She follows suit, leans back and stares at the ceiling with him, and they sit in silence for a few minutes.

"For what it's worth, I envy you."

"…And for what it's worth, I don't envy you." His voice is quiet. She laughs, catches him watching her in the corner of his eye again before turning his gaze back. "…Telling you was also not too difficult."

"You're my friend — you can tell me anything you want. That's what friends are for."

"…So I'm learning."

She grins at that, feels the way he watches her briefly once more before looking away again. Another small handful of minutes pass between them.

"I do… sometimes wish that I could have chosen. Who and when, I mean," she says quietly, slowly, as though the words don't quite feel right. He turns his head then, eyes clear and attentive. She offers him a little smile. "If at all. To be how I am now, maybe? Thirty and not thirteen? Could've been different."

"In what way?"

"I might've… I don't know. Said no?" She feels herself frown. "Maybe I would've known more, and then went along with less? Or had some—some control."

When it was work, when her master commanded it, there was nothing else to say but yes. She had to nod, smile, and agree to whatever someone two or three times her age would want. When she was little, she remembers feeling uncomfortable, often in pain, until eventually her mind was somehow able to cut off, her body numb and unfeeling. Her mind would wander elsewhere, focus on her surroundings, the job, her fellow brothel-bought fledglings —her sisters— or nothing, even. And then when they were done, she would return rather abruptly. She would have to smile, lean on them, touch them, and play pretend. Sometimes she would kill them, if that was part of the job. Smother them in their sleep, drug them beforehand and wait for them to fall unconscious or lose most of their faculties before slitting their throats. Sometimes she would have to fight them for her life if she wasn't quick about it.

"Not with work," he comments. She nods, humming.

"Not with work, no. Not when I was little." When she was older and had more skills under her belt, she could adjust her approach, and thanks to all the time she spent with Viago, she knew how to make her own drugs. Psychoactives in particular changed her evenings — she got to spend more nights keeping a loose eye on a grown adult having whatever sort of experience she chose on their own while she rifled through their letters and documents, reducing the number of smiles and touches considerably. If she was lucky, she got to kill them at the end of the night for the trouble. "Lucanis?"

"Yes?"

"Did you ever try to… be something else for someone?" Her words comes hesitantly — the question is personal, and she hopes she isn't prying or cornering him again. "Not with work. Not with family expectations, but…"

"People?"

"Yeah." She nods. "You don't have to say much. Or answer, if you don't want to."

"With certain things, yes," he says quietly. "…Do you remember that one you told me — you said you'd opened up to two friends and a former partner about everything, and then you spent the entire evening after just… reassuring them that everything was fine?"

"Yes." She grimaces. "Was it that?"

He nods, lips pursed in a line. Omitting details or changing them entirely, painting a softer picture of what it takes to be their age in their line of work. She has no clear idea of what the Dellamorte method is like, but considering how formidable his house is and how much they have in common, she's certain it's torture. "After a few… uncomfortable attempts at sharing the full truth."

She leans closer, shoulder pressing against his. He does not pull back, but gently returns the gesture.

"Half truth, then?" Maybe even a quarter of the truth.

"Many, many details omitted after." He nods. "…with the small handful of people I… failed to truly open up to. Though that was probably why."

She debates with herself, then, on what to do or say. The admission feels painfully self-deprecating. Lonely. That something earlier that bothered him. A hint of shame, too, maybe. She decides then, to push closer, the length of her arm slowly closing the distance between them — elbow, forearm, until the sides of their hands, resting on each of their respective knees, meet. She adjusts the position of her hand, inching it forward lets the scar on the side line up with the large one spanning the back of his, continuing its course from her to him rather than around her palm. He hums.

"No one will hear it from me," she offers. "If it's any consolation."

"…It is." He's quiet for a few minutes, eyes on the line that travels between them now, before he speaks up again. "…My cousin dragged me to brothels on numerous occasions, even pushed me into rooms full of courtesans, all paid for, and I just… couldn't."

"Too transactional?"

"…Perhaps," he says. "There was no… connection. I never did understand being so struck by someone suddenly, so that wasn't something I felt, either."

"What did you do?"

"…I left."

"Did you at least tip?"

"Generously."

"Good man." She grins at him. "I wish I did that."

"Leave abruptly or tip generously?"

"Oh, I always tip generously. I wish I left when something didn't feel right. I never did learn my lesson when it came to personal relationships." He looks at her then, eyes just a fraction wider. She nods. It certainly would've saved her a great deal of trouble if she'd been able to just leave immediately. If she knew she could. "Not until much later, anyway. Far too late, I think."

At the very least, she learned —like him— rather quickly not to tell the whole truth about herself — about everything she's been through, the things she's done. Not with civilians, anyway. Outsiders. She thought, at a young age, that to be known was to be loved. That to be seen by someone in full was the most intimate way to connect with another, scars and all. That love —true love— was unconditional and accepting. She did not know affection had its limits. And an insufferable amount of moral superiority. She knows better now.

Every significant milestone in her life changed entirely when opening up to new friends or potential partners. She was now eighteen instead of thirteen during her first contract kill. A new, fictional, first sexual experience happened when she was sixteen with someone age-appropriate and was entirely consensual. Her first kill was at seventeen and not eight, and the person in question was a criminal and not a fellow fledgling — someone close to her. She was fully trained and ready before she did anything questionable by the morally superior's standards. She always wore an easy, carefree smile when telling her lies, all the way up to her eyes. Cleaner, palatable — more likeable and easier to stomach. In return, there were fewer horrified reactions, less indignation on her behalf or accusations of heartlessness. Not as much yelling about something she had no control over, which only made her feel guilty and responsible for whatever reason. No look.

She wonders if Lucanis also has a cleaner, modified version of himself ready and perfectly memorized to fill the half-truths out. Or maybe he simply says nothing. He's much less concerned about presenting a more likeable, less violent version of himself than she is, but she does have to do more of the talking. And people always have some issues with killers for hire.

She does quite envy him — wishes she could have had what he had. To have been able to spend more time with herself, to know herself, to leave at the slightest sign that things weren't to her preferences, to have preferences —boundaries— rather than cater to the wants of others instead. To understand the mortal experience outside the framework of a job — the satisfaction of the other as the primary purpose of the connection, orders on a missive. Maybe if she had, there would have been fewer disastrous relationships, fewer instances of devastation, and fewer bad decisions.

Maybe if she knew herself, she wouldn't have needed to craft a cleaner persona, and through that, draw only a certain type of people her way.

"…A lot of them found the idea of being involved with a Crow attractive — dangerous and exciting." The words are quiet, and because they're alone, they're also openly bitter. They can be, with him. She likes that. "Up to a point, of course."

He scoffs. "What point might that be."

"…A good handful of years ago," she starts, laughs momentarily at her own foolishness, "I'd met this utterly captivating young woman — a lady. Smart, witty, courageous. Kind."

"What happened?"

"A man she rebuffed sent some people to compel her to give him another chance, and I was with her," she explains. "I stopped them, and then I questioned them." Lucanis presses his pinkie into hers, brow arching just a fraction at what she knows he already knows. Still, she nods once to confirm. "The best part was that I thought that it was love. She stuck better than others. Stomached things better than them, too, or maybe I just hid just the right amount that nothing quite bothered her enough. Anyways, I was intent on telling her that night that she was everything to me."

"I take it you didn't."

"No, she beat me to it, in a manner of speaking." She laughs awkwardly, at her younger self, at how, if she were telling Viago or any of her sisters they all would've already rolled their eyes at her naivete. Or stupidity, depending on who she was with. That she immediately folds at the slightest bit of attention. Classic Amri — always so desperate for connection. Not Lucanis, though. "After I handled the situation the way our sort does, she called me a monster, and then told me she never wanted to see my face again. She was right, obviously, but still."

"Obviously." He smiles wryly. "I take it she was not the last?"

She sighs. "No, definitely not the last, but probably the one that hurt the most." She gives him a flat line of a smile. "I don't blame you in the slightest for just… moving that part to the back of the shelf."

"Is that what we're calling it?"

"Well if you come up with a better one we can use that, but for now? Back of the shelf. The very back, in fact."

"Top shelf?"

"Even better."

Like the old empty bottle of ethanol on Viago's shelf, coated in a layer of dust. She wonders if he's cleaned it out and used it for anything, hidden next to an old mortar and pestle. Still good, just unused.

"Sorry, I shouldn't presume you've written that off like me," she corrects herself.

"…You think you're done?"

"Well, no one ever chooses a de Riva. And with my remarkable track record? Probably for the best." She shrugs. "If you met any of them they'd all tell you I'm insane, so I must be the problem."

And in a way, she knows she is. She won't deny it. How many times did she read someone's feelings as goals to meet? That to make them happy was a target objective, like they were no different from the people her master sent her off to entertain and spy on? Even when she knew better, she couldn't help it — it's just how she was built. How many times did she stay closed off? To save herself the trouble of yet another uncomfortable discussion about her life, her upbringing, her personality, her lack of morals because she knows how they'll react? It's always the same. To avoid another lecture about how much of a horrible person she is because she's a Crow and they're so pure and righteous and fucking morally superior, and if she truly loved them, she would abandon her house. Her life, all she's ever known. Her family. And she would reform. Because that's easy, because she never thought of what life might've been like had she not been bought, and because she doesn't know what an ultimatum is. Really now.

And then, because of course she would attach herself to all the worst people, there were the ones who only pursued her because they wanted her to deal with someone for them. Because if she loved them, she would do it. For free.

She didn't, of course. She wasn't that dumb.

"Would you take any of them back?"

"I don't know. Maybe," she admits. "I suppose I learned something from all those messes, regardless of how insignificant."

She knows better now. It only took years.

"They couldn't all have been messes."

"No, they were." She shakes her head. Apparently she quite likes messes, or she can't help but attract them. "I did everything I thought would please them and whatever they wanted within reason because that's how I've always understood people and feelings and intimacy, in a way. And you already know what it feels like to open up to someone who doesn't understand. I learned that I couldn't talk to them. Not truly — not like I do with you. So much of my life is being a Crow, and none of them couldn't stomach that. They might act like they can but… well, you know."

"There's always a point." He nods. She returns it.

"And if I omit everything I was built to be, what's left?"

"You didn't pursue any relationships with others Crows?"

"Oh, no. I did. Should've killed one of them." If she survives this contract? It's at least in the middle of her list of priorities when she goes home. If she gets to go home.

"Is that so?"

She lets out a single dry laugh. "I'm not drunk enough to tell you about either of those."

"So I only need to ply you with alcohol?"

"Maybe dessert?"

"I made that flan you were pestering me about."

"That's why you're my favourite."

"Very unprofessional of you to have favourites, Rook."

"Excuse you, I only have the one. And you won't tell." She pulls her elbow back before ramming it into his. Only slightly roughly. He returns it with just a fraction less force. "Have you tried? Connecting with another Crow, I mean."

"Aside from the one next to me? You will actually have to ply me with alcohol for that, and nothing less." Dodgy and particular. Although if his was anything like hers? Completely fair. "I think I might be too old now, anyway."

"Oh, you're never too old for anything." She takes her free hand and flicks some water at him. He makes a face, but she sees the way he considers retaliating — never too old. And in their line of work? Best to live their lives as well as they can while they still have them.

"Says the woman who's putting herself at the very back of this apparent shelf."

"Well you're not me, so you've already got that going for you."

"You aren't that much of a handful. But I am a Crow," he counters. "And you don't make any of it sound worthwhile."

"No, but I've gotten to know you," she says, "and I think that's worthwhile. I'm glad you let me."

He presses his knee to hers, the scars on their legs nearly lining up. "I don't think I'll ever know anyone like this again, never mind something…"

"…More?" She offers. "I won't be offended. It's what most say."

"Different." His correction is steadfast. "I'm a little offended now."

"Well, I'll be around. You'd never lose anything here."

"You speak as though I have admirers waiting."

"You do. Taash keeps score."

"And that things will not end the way they always have."

"Well, whatever you do, I'm entirely on your side. Birds of a feather and all that."

"And if I decide to join you at the back of that shelf?"

"I'd welcome it."

"Birds of a feather and all that?"

"You catch on quick." She grins at him.

He's silent for a few beats before speaking again. "You're surprisingly agreeable."

"I'm always agreeable. That's kind of the point of Rook. You know that."

"No, I mean… you haven't told me that I simply 'haven't met the right person yet,'" he says quietly.

"I'd rather drink my entire collection of poison, and then Viago's."

"A bit extreme."

"I don't think so." She draws a finger along the scars on her leg, pausing short of reaching him. "I know, now, what my boundaries are. How I want to be around people. You've spent time with yourself — you know best who you are and how you are with others. If you never want to be with someone in whatever capacity, you've held that choice, and I think that's wonderful. I would never insinuate that you simply don't understand yourself, which is what that is."

He looks at her, searches her face for something before his eyes return to hers, digging. For what, she isn't certain. A lie, maybe? That she doesn't quite stand by what she says, but she does. There's nothing quite as infuriating as being told who or what a person is, how they should be like. She would know. "And if I would?"

"If being with someone is something you want, I hope you'll find someone who feels right. And if they feel right, if they know you in the way you want and deserve, then I think they would make you feel understood and loved, and they would be so comfortable to you that you could tell them anything, and be anything with them without hesitation or fear. Not even for a moment." She bumps her shoulder with his. "And if they do make you feel uncomfortable, or if they try to make you do or be something that you don't want, you tell me their name and where they live and—"

"Don't," he cuts her off, but she sees the way his shoulders tremble slightly, the twitch in his lips. Finally. Just a little more. "You're not going to kill someone over my feelings."

"Excuse you, those are my friend's feelings, I will defend them however I see fit," she protests. And she means it, but she can tell he thinks she's joking. Crows look out for their own, though.

"I assure you, I can take care of myself."

"Oh, I know, but that's what friends do," she says. "And who said anything about killing? I'm a de Riva — we are a house of creatives."

The hair flip —wet, and just missing his face— is overkill, but that's the point. He scoffs, swiftly taking a swipe at the water they're in, splashing her. She returns it in earnest.

"How wrinkled are your toes?"

"How wrinkled are yours?" she counters. He rolls his eyes, and she relents, lifting her foot out of the water. Quite pruny — a sign for them to get out. He stands first, wraps a linen cloth around himself before picking hers up, and offering her a hand up and out of the bath before holding hers out for her to do the same. Turning her back to him, she takes it from him, folds the sheet over her chest to keep it in place. "For what it's worth: I think anyone would be lucky to know you, however you choose. I know I am." And she means it. She really hopes he knows that.

"I could say the same of you."

"Don't. You'd be wrong. A lot of people would argue with you on that." Her Talon would probably be at the top of that list for his own reasons. "You don't know me like the lot of them did."

"No, I don't. I'd like to think I know you a little better," he says quite easily. Factually, even. "After all, you don't invite just anyone with you to the bath, or share scars with them."

"…No, I don't." That somehow catches her off-guard. She knows she shares with him. She likes to. She can. It's part of how they bond, but something about how he parrots her words back to her — to hear her actions on his tongue. The words without the playful edge — earnest. "I think it's also that they had a hard time looking past all the blood on my hands. You don't have that problem, though."

"No, I don't. Nor do you." They walk out of the bath to the dressing room, Lucanis tossing her another cloth to dry her hair as he does the same. "…Are any of your former partners still alive?"

"I didn't kill any of them, if that's what you're asking." Although she probably should've killed at least two and ruined the lives of three.

"It's not."

"So, what, are you looking to talk to them or something?"

"Or something," he muses. She grins. His words are dark and just a bit dry. His eyes, however, are warm, and she tucks her fingers under the end of the cloth around his shoulders, flicking it into his face. He pulls the one on her head over her eyes.

"I think they'd flee the country if the Demon of Vyrantium came looking for them."

He sighs at the mention of his moniker. "That's what friends do, though, is it not?"

The way he turns her words on her warms her. It's a touch playful and sweet, but Lucanis is much more intentional with what he says.

She drops a lazy hand on top of their enclosed ones, giving a squeeze. "You, too. One of these days I'm gonna kick your ass all the way to the end."

"How ambitious.”

She scoffs, gives his hand a tug, pulling him forward just a bit before bumping shoulders with him. They let go, collecting their weapons before falling into step as they head for the communal baths.

Rook is no stranger to nudity, having been raised with 'a hoard of other fledglings' since she was little, inviting him to join her after their seventh training session together to wash up before dinner. Dellamortes are solitary by comparison, but the nature of another Crow house intrigued him, and he did not want to offend, so he joined her. After all, in their line of work, they deal in bodies, and skin means nothing to him. He felt strangely normal, and very seen – though in a different manner.

Not a bad feeling.

They've since joined each other in the bath a small handful of times, Rook always starting something of a little fight, splashing him. Childish, but entertaining. Spite certainly found it entertaining the first few times, but the novelty wore off after he couldn’t touch water. He wanders off and about when they do. Lucanis appreciates the quiet.

He also appreciates her company when it comes to skin.

He's caught Emmrich observing the scars along his body on the occasions they'd been in the bath at the same time. Davrin as well, though with much less concern in his eyes. He has his own, of course, earned from fighting monsters, rescuing cats from trees, and whatever other heroic nonsense a killer for hire wouldn't understand.

Most of Lucanis's are from work. Compensated for. A fact their Warden brings up often.

The other noteworthy ones are from Zara.

Davrin has enough grace to not pry too much about those. Well, the ones he can guess. The marks magic leaves behind aren't particularly difficult to pick out, but many things happened in the ossuary. Not that Lucanis would bother to give him a straight answer anyway.

The assassins check each other’s injuries in the bath, as well — privately, and away from the eyes of their colleagues and friends, removed from the infirmary, where it's to be expected. Crows are very particular about patch-up work, and many of the stories on their skin are from home. Something of a sticking point.

There's always that little moment of shock, followed by... sympathy, perhaps, when someone from the outside sees them, learns who's responsible. The question in their eyes. The hurt. Sometimes horror. Sometimes they feel deeply uncomfortable. Sometimes they're overwhelmed and don't know what to say despite asking in the first place.

Sometimes there's empathy. Although they could never fully understand. They can imagine, but even the imagination has its limits.

"Spent an evening reassuring them about it all," Rook said about two friends and a former partner when the topic came up that first bath together. Lucanis himself has tried to live fully, to connect. A few acquaintances subjected him to the same. He spent time comforting them about his life. It was notably uncomfortable, to talk politely and gently — delicately, around himself, paint a softer picture, make his injuries and the truth of his life more palatable, easier to swallow to others. Less offensive, less painful. Less honest.

Rook gets it. Needs him to get it, perhaps. And he does, of course. It's why she started asking him to help her with her injuries she can't reach on her own after that first bath. Her back is covered in scars – lash marks, maybe a year old. She sat still for those. He knows the feeling.

Though Caterina never did so with the intention of drawing that much blood, much less that many lashes in one instance. Welts, mostly. Break skin, sure, but to a significantly lesser degree. To be fair, he and Illario were children. Five typically got the message across. Three, after a while. Fully grown adult Crows are a different matter.

Their colleagues and friends are remarkably understanding people, but there is always the pause. Or the look. The inhale they try to quiet, or the clenching of the jaw. The indignation on their behalf. Raised voices. Assumptions or assertions about how to feel. The brink of an argument with a perpetrator who is not present. The way the eyes widen just by a small fraction, body language shifting just slightly, thinking neither of them catch it, which they do. Obviously.

They mean well, they really do. Rook thinks it’s sweet of them, if a little tiring – not like she hasn’t heard it all before. She told him as much, strained smile on her face as she explained to him that she took to bathing alone after the first time in the baths with Harding, in the early days at the Lighthouse. She’s since cataloged the routines of their colleagues and friends, sharing with him the best time to work around the others to avoid any and all of that. Lucanis hasn’t quite put a word to it. He doesn’t really want to think about it.

They sat farther apart in the bath at first. Politeness kept them at arm's length. Now they sit next to each other, backs against the edge as they soak. Rook lifts a leg and looks at her foot, wiggling her toes.

"Getting pruny," she laughs. He shakes his head and smiles wryly. They do tend to linger a bit in the quiet, with just the sound of water and the occasional scrubbing when they recall the original purpose of entering the bath together. Just... nothing. No questioning eyes, no bored demon hovering around Rook. Well, not now. Sometimes he comes in and out, leaving just as quickly when they have neither moved or spoken since he last came in. She turns her back to Lucanis, the back of her shoulder specifically. "How's it looking?"

A Venatori got her right through.

"Better. Though it will leave a mark."

"Oh, the horror. To have my perfect, flawless skin marred by the ugliness of a great wound. Whatever shall I do? How will I go on?" Her voice is theatrical, exaggerated emotions echoing in the bath as she grins at him. He chuckles.

"I do admire your openness," he says, eyes scanning the scars on her forearms, her shoulder closest to him, the way the reddish brown, slightly raised lines reach her collarbone and run down her chest, overlapping one another. She only ever buttons up two from the bottom. He knows how the scars intersect. He now knows where and how far along they travel beneath Antivan blue.

"Oh?" She wiggles her brows at him. "Maybe I just want everyone to get an eyeful of the dashing rogue on the team."

"Not much to look at."

She splashes him.

"Harding kind of knows the story anyway, so there's no real point in making an effort to hide them," she explains. He hums. Nothing to hide, nothing to tell.

"You do look like something a wyvern mangled.”

"I really hope there's a compliment somewhere in there."

"An assessment. From the perspective of an untrained eye."

"Do I at least look fierce?" Her voice is comically hopeful. He snorts, shaking his head. "Well, there goes my self esteem."

"Your height does not help, either."

"Can't do anything about that."

"We can stretch you."

"I was already on one of those. Didn't help. Not that that was the point."

He turns to really look at her, raising a brow to confirm. She nods.

Mierda.

"Wouldn't recommend it."

"Noted."

She bumps his knee with hers, and he returns the gesture, letting the connection keep a moment longer. He's about to pull away, but she presses her thigh to his, finger hovering above their skin, drawing a line across their legs.

"They almost line up."

He observes a scar on his leg, a touch darker than the rest of his skin. He remembers one of the Venatori guards landing a hit during one of his various escape attempts. His eyes run across the length of the line until hers comes into view, just a few centimetres lower than his, stretching across her leg alongside a myriad of other scars of varying sizes. He knows how he got his. He wonders how she got hers.

"...sometimes I scrub at them," she says, middle and ring finger running along the lines on her leg, moving outward. She stops short before reaching him, folding her arms over her chest, thumb brushing absently at the scars beneath her hand. She sighs. "As if that might do anything. Wipe the feeling of her touch away. The feeling of her skin on mine. Her nails. Her smell. Her fucking magic."

He nods. Zara loved to drag a sharp nail across his body, observe her work. He could feel the magic, the little threads beneath her fingers leaving little lines of energy on his skin, digging their way in. The way his blood was pulled to follow the trail she left behind. It itched and burned and boiled.

Her fucking magic, indeed.

He could smell her on his skin at times, too, long after he was tossed back into his cell. Whatever magic kept the water at bay left him with her heavy, floral scent. Expensive. Tevinter. Absolutely disgusting. He hated it. Still does. Still remembers it, clear as day.

"Have you considered any ointments to be rid of them?" His voice is low, scratches at the last word. He knows there are countless cosmetic products in Antiva for vanity. And discretion. Crows with notable scars are easy to spot and remember, making covert work more difficult, if not impossible.

Zara cleaned up when the mood struck her, mostly on his face, shoulders, and chest. Some of his old scars vanished by her hand, too. She took pleasure in that — in playing with him like a doll. Taking the stories from his skin. His experiences. Parts of him. The truth of him. Wrote what she wanted in their place, designs on her own porcelain, making cracks and then fixing them again as she pleased.

"Kind of." She shrugs. "Viago left me some when he shipped me off with Harding and Varric. Among other first aid."

From the Fifth Talon himself? The quality is second to none.

"You didn't use it?"

"I was mad at him." She laughs, clearly at herself. "Maybe I still am."

"Oh?"

How interesting to be upset with her Talon. He does not know their history but they are closer in age compared to himself and Caterina. He never would have pinned Viago as easygoing enough to let her be as such with him, but he sees the way they are with each other, smart remarks and barbs, even petty squabbles – intimate and familiar. He notes the way she seeks him out immediately the minute they set foot in Treviso, and how his eyes stay on her once he sees her, even as she bounds towards him, checking her over. He almost envies her.

"The back are his."

Ah.

Her voice cracks slightly at the admission. Rook is a much better liar than that. Maybe she doesn't mind him knowing that she has actual feelings on the matter, perhaps even a great deal. He knows Viago, and he knows how their houses work. But they're alone, and she knows he won't tell.

“...he had to.”

Lucanis knows the broad strokes about what happened to her, courtesy of his cousin. Illario told him how the Talons organized a strike against the Antaam and her actions ruined months of planning. According to him, the Talons voted in favour of sparing her life, opting instead for a public whipping – humiliating for House de Riva. He wouldn’t be surprised if she was punished after the fact back home. He’s more surprised she wasn’t killed outright, but when he looks at the sheer amount of lines across her body, maybe there was an attempt.

"The rest are hers," she mumbles. Something bubbles up inside her — he has no idea who she’s referring to, but he knows the feeling, what with the ways the sentence leave her. He's familiar with it. A tense forcefulness, equal parts gritting the words out and biting them back. Something in his voice when he talks about Zara, like hitting a wall when he would rather cut through, and he’s left seething. "She was always so... snobby about it, too."

"In what way?"

"Scars are ugly,” she says with such a mocking tone. Words she must’ve heard countless times. “A sign of imperfection and a lack of skill of some kind. A tell. A flaw. A moment of weakness.”

He hums. Illario isn't fond of visible scars, at least not where he shows skin. His face is one of his tools.

Lucanis once cut Zara during one of her experiments in another attempt to escape. She killed another captive for their blood, patching herself up. The wound healed without leaving a trace. She made sure to make him watch.

He tries to picture whoever she is to Rook — Viago is not old enough to have trained her as a child. Someone with whom she has a long history, someone to ingrain in her the words she says with such venom, and knows in her bones. A former master, perhaps? Maybe her mother? Though his understanding is that House de Riva is not a family by blood, but by choice. Someone high ranking enough in her house to have the authority to beat her so thoroughly almost no skin is unmarked, surely. If the lashes on her back were courtesy of her Talon, who provided the rest?

Who is her Zara?

"Sorry. Do I talk your ears off? Be honest. I don't mean to. It's just... I don't know, nicer? Easier?" She babbles a little, words unsteady, waving a hand that reminds him of Viago. He appreciates the candidness. In his experience, de Rivas prepare at least somewhat in advance. She does not babble in front of the others, speaking with more intention, her voice just a bit lower. Controlled. Calm. Warm.

"Comfortable?"

Closer, maybe?

"Well it's not like I need to walk on eggshells about how things are." With their jobs. Their lives. Their homes and their families.

Their scars.

He chuckles. "No, we don't."

She grins at that. We. A deliberate choice of word. He knows, somewhat, how to make her smile, even if it's small. She likes the connection, he’s learned. She knows making a fool of herself gets him to crack one quite easily in turn. He also likes the connection. And having someone to tease.

"You do not talk either of my ears off," he says, though he is tempted to say one might have heard more than the other. He rather enjoys their private conversations. Their lives have been alike enough. "Much of what you say I know."

Intimately.

And he knows she understands precisely what he means. He likes that.

Her smile warms a bit more at his words.

"I hope you don’t mind it." He raises a brow at her. "I get a lot off my chest with you."

"Not the scars, though."

"Not the scars, no."

"You are very forthcoming."

"I don't believe in being shy, no. It's not too much is it? Viago always told me I was too much."

"No, it's... easier, perhaps. To share in some things. You're more open. A very difficult thing to be." He chooses his words carefully. They are not simple things to talk about, especially in front of others. He, after all, shares significantly less with her. Though he's rather certain she can picture the details with a fair amount of accuracy. She does press for some things with Zara, if only to help him close the matter. He wonders if she shares her scars with him as compensation – let him open up some wounds. For balance, perhaps. Fairness. He clears his throat. "...sometimes I scrub at them, too."

As if that might do anything.

She leans her shoulder against his. He presses back, the length of their arms connecting as neither pull away, and he looks at the scars on both of their biceps.