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“You’re up late, Rook.”
Rook jolts at the sound of Emmrich’s voice – he is up, in theory. Trying to be, at least, to such an extent that he’s even gotten himself a mug of the sludge Neve calls coffee. The last time he slept, he saw Solas, and before that Treviso under fire and the imagined specters of dead friends and colleagues, and before that the realities of Dock Town, destroyed and under Venatori rule.
He’s gotten too scared of what his brain might remember next – Varric, taking a knife to the chest? The Gloom Howler? – or what worse things it might imagine. Scared of Solas sneering at him.
“Rook?”
He realizes he’s staring when Emmrich repeats himself. Rook looks up, blinking blearily as he takes in the sight of Emmrich standing near the little sofa in the common space. He’s dressed for sleep – soft striped pants and his house slippers, a rather fancy dressing gown in what seem to be a typical Mourn Watch motif, a rich plum with gold trim. Emmrich’s hair is soft and looks a bit damp as if it’s freshly washed, falling over his forehead.
He’s staring, still. “Yeah, just.” Rook pats around with the hand not clutching his mug for dear life, scrambling to find the book he’s been pretending to read for at least two hours. His hand closes around something, and he waves it at Emmrich with a bright smile, the kind that normally warms people to him enough to make them feel safe leaving him to his own devices. “You know. Enjoying a little light reading.”
Rook clocks the cover. One of the suspiciously numerous copies of Hard in Hightown floating around. He smiles at Emmrich again, and tucks the book quickly under his thigh, though if the hint of a smile playing at the corner of Emmrich’s mouth is any indication he’s already noticed it too.
“I do enjoy a bit of light reading before bed. I thought I heard someone out here last night as well.” Emmrich takes a step closer, watching Rook with his usual shrewd curiosity. Normally his chronic inquisitiveness is charming, but there’s a weight to his gaze that makes Rook squirm a bit on the worn cushions. “And Manfred seems to have picked up an unusual amount of trivia about Antiva City, in recent days.”
Ratted out, and by a skeleton no less. A skeleton, who doesn’t even have a functional tongue. Rook feels his face heat up and turns his attention back to the book, glancing down at where the spine is sticking out from under his leg and tracing his fingers along it. “He’s pretty good conversation, all things considered. Wish I knew how he got so good at rock, paper, scissors.”
Emmrich arches an eyebrow and glances towards Rook’s mug of questionable coffee. A moment of silence hangs between them, then spirals out until Rook sighs. “And maybe I don’t want to sleep.”
Another beat, and Rook waves a hand towards the spot next to him on the couch. He tries not to feel disappointed when Emmrich settles a respectful distance away from him – not quite enough for another person, but too much space for Rook’s taste all the same. He tilts a little, facing Rook, relaxes enough that the collars of his dressing gown slump open just enough for Rook to process he’s not wearing a shirt.
“You know Bellara or I would be happy to help,” Emmrich offers, voice as gentle as it ever is when it’s just the two of them. Sweet, inviting, a host of other things Rook still isn’t entirely sure he’s not – projecting. Hoping. Inventing in his own mind.
He tears himself away from thinking about the pale, lean expanse of Emmrich’s chest under fine silk and the smattering of salt and pepper hair he’s sure he can see here under the glow of the astrolobe. “Not wanting to is different from can’t,” Rook says dryly. “I probably could if I tried.” He looks to the book again. “I just, you know. Would rather not.”
“Ah.” There’s a weight to that too, and when Rook looks again Emmrich is watching him intently. At the very least, there’s some understanding in his expression. “You do have a lot on your mind.”
“So does everybody else,” is Rook’s reflexive response. “But nobody else is…” He gestures around at the empty chairs with his mug. “I guess except Lucanis. And Manfred.”
He glances at Emmrich, who arches an eyebrow, and Rook huffs out a faint laugh. “And you, I guess.”
“Please, try to contain your enthusiasm,” Emmrich replies dryly. “I guess.” He extends a hand for the mug and takes a sniff when Rook hands it over, before immediately handing it back over with a distasteful expression. “Are you truly so desperate that you’d stoop so low? Based on Lucanis’ opinion of Neve’s brews I rather thought you’d find it a personal affront, as a fellow Crow.”
“Not every Crow’s as intense about coffee as Lucanis is,” Rook laughs, but he does sheepishly set the mug aside all the same. “Besides, I think hers works even better than Lucanis’ does just because it tastes so bad.”
“I’m shocked you can taste anything at all, after a cup of that.” Emmrich lets out a disdainful sigh, and Rook can feel Emmrich watching him again. “Would you like to…”
The hesitation in his voice makes it immediately clear what he’s asking, so Rook doesn’t worry too much about offending him with his immediate, brusque, not really. Talking will just put everything at the front of his mind again, easy pickings for whatever it is that drags him into the dreaming world.
Maybe it would be polite to explain, at least. “Sorry for bugging Manfred, though. I just…” Rook shoves a hand through his hair with a practiced, light laugh. “I should have picked a different place to meditate, when I need to talk to Solas.”
Or maybe he’ll talk about it. He grimaces and yanks at his hair a little, til Emmrich reaches out to touch his arm, just briefly. “Manfred enjoys your company,” Emmrich offers in return, his hand dropping to the couch when Rook finally lets go of his own hair. “He does worry, though.”
“Is that you, or is that Manfred?” Rook’s own hand drops to the couch, their fingers nearly brushing. He could move a little more, if he wanted.
He digs his fingers into the cushion, restless, and flashes Emmrich a practiced, disarming grin. “You fret over everybody.”
“Perhaps,” Emmrich retorts. He drums his fingers on the cushion. “Who wouldn’t, in these times?”
“Fair enough.” Rook thumbs at a loose thread, then stretches his fingers just a little to toy with another one closer to Emmrich’s hand.
Emmrich’s hand stretches a little too, and then moves, just enough for their fingertips to brush across worn-out fabric. “We don’t only share the fretting, you know,” he says, and the Crow in Rook – the de Riva, for all he’s no longer using the name he used at home – immediately recognizes the careful practiced edge to Emmrich’s voice too. “Perhaps I could at least offer company, if not conversation.”
Rook blinks at him. “What, you’d just sit here?”
“Oh, no, of course not, if you’d rather be alone.” There’s practice there, too, the careful friendliness of not taking it too personally. Emmrich starts to draw his hand back. “I do apologize for interrupting –”
Rook grabs Emmrich’s hand before he can stop himself, and stares at it, and then stares at Emmrich’s face. Emmrich’s eyes are a little wide, his lips parted, his cheeks faintly pink, startled the way he is sometimes when Rook tries his luck with a flirtatious line.
“No,” he says quickly, and he feels his own face heat up a little at the way Emmrich’s expression softens into hesitant excitement in return. “I – no, that’s not what I meant.” He clears his throat sheepishly, looking anywhere on Emmrich’s face except his eyes. “I just… if you wanted. I wouldn’t… I’d like that. Company.” A shy pause. “Your company.”
“Oh.” The way it slips out of Emmrich, it feels more like a sigh than a word, and Rook files it away to think about later – oh, sighed as Rook kisses him, skirts his fingers along the enticing flash of skin at the collar of his robe, tugs him down into a soft mattress. Emmrich tangles their fingers together, and smiles so tenderly at Rook when their eyes finally meet again that Rook feels his heart skip a beat. “Of course,” he murmurs. “If you’d like.”
“Please.” Silence hangs between them for a long moment, and Rook huffs out a laugh. “I uh – admittedly I’m not… great, at just sitting.”
“Why don’t we read?” The panic on Rook’s face must be terribly obvious, given the little chuckle he gets from Emmrich. He lets go of Rook’s hand – reluctantly, Rook is pleased to note – and stands, heading to the shelves. “I’ll leave that with you, in case you change your mind.”
A few moments of searching and a delighted little ah! later and Emmrich returns, this time leaning against the arm of the sofa as he examines his prize. “I haven’t seen this in years. Through the Gilded Lamplight. Quite a popular play, when I was much younger.”
Rook shifts a little across the couch, uncertain, til Emmrich finally extends a hand. Rook takes it and, after a moment, lets himself be drawn closer.
“If you’d like,” Emmrich says, a little quieter.
He shifts a little, making a bit of room between his side and the back of the sofa, and Rook tucks himself there, letting their legs tangle as Emmrich draws his up to stretch out across the cushions. “What’s it about?”
“A romance about a young mage apprentice and the nobleman’s son she fell in love with, watching him through the lamplight of his window.” Emmrich falters for a moment, then slips one arm around Rook’s shoulders as he sets the book on his thigh and opens it with his other hand. His brow furrows slightly as he thumbs over an inscription inside the cover. Til we escape the lamplight to be free beneath the stars, accompanied by an unrecognizable signature. “A strangely personal thing to find here.”
“Maybe someone left it,” Rook offers, reaching out to chase the tail edge of the scrawled name. “Last time people were using the Lighthouse.”
Emmrich sighs as he turns the page. “I hope they were together at least,” he murmurs, and he tips his head, almost absentmindedly, to press his lips briefly to the mess of Rook’s curls. “I’m sure you won’t be surprised to know I saw this every time it came to the theater, when I was a student. A dark stage, a single lamp and a window frame looking into the sitting room of the Lord and Lady Belanger…”
He’s not entirely sure when he drifts off to Emmrich’s low, even voice. Some time after he drops his head to Emmrich’s shoulder, surely, one arm wound around his waist, and after Emmrich’s fingers tangle in his hair, petting idly. There’s a blanket over them, when he wakes up from some minutes or hours of blissfully dreamless sleep, one ear slightly bent where his face is smushed against Emmrich’s collarbone.
Rook is used to waking up in beds with people who aren’t meant to wake up, and he keeps himself still, trying to ignore the furious blush that creeps to his cheeks as he assesses the rest of the room.
Manfred, off to the side, mimicking Emmrich’s dozing in the chair usually Emmrich’s sits in. His head tilts a little, mood as inscrutable as it ever is with nothing to give him away. Rook plucks at the blanket, and he gives a careful hiss of acknowledgement.
“Emmrich’s really raised you to be a little gentleman,” Rook mutters, netting him another pleased hiss. He tries to extricate himself from Emmrich’s arms, only to find himself hopelessly tangled – legs twisted up, Emmrich’s arms around him. “Emmrich,” he tries, giving his shoulder a gentle shake. “Emmrich – I’m really sorry –”
Emmrich, clearly, is less accustomed to trying not to disturb someone. He starts a little, and Rook has to grab him by the waist again to keep him from startling off the sofa. “I – no, I’m sorry, I only meant to let you rest for a bit.” His robe’s fallen open, and instinctively he goes to tug it shut as if he’s done something to offend Rook’s delicate sensibilities. “I hardly meant to… I never would have… not without asking.”
“To sleep together?” Rook stares at him for a long moment. “I mean – to sleep?”
“If you didn’t want company,” Emmrich replies, sounding a little offended by the question. “I do try to be a gentleman, Rook.”
Rook laughs, before he can help himself, and then quickly tries to swallow it as Emmrich’s eyes go soft and a little sad, his expression so endearingly sheepish. “No, I – no. I’m not…” He huffs out another chuckle before he can help itself. “Nobody’s… people don’t usually…”
Something in Emmrich’s expression suggests this train of thought is the sort of thing that’s less funny to people who didn’t grow up the way Rook did, as is often the case with a lot of Rook’s trains of thought. He tries again. “You’re a perfect gentleman,” he says finally, reaching up to tug his dressing gown closed a little more and then to brush away a lock of hair that seems stuck to his temple. “Nobody’s ever been so worried about asking me if I want to take a nap. It’s cute.”
“I am entirely too old for cute,” is Emmrich’s instinctive retort. “I fully intended to put you to bed –”
Rook arches an eyebrow, and Emmrich scoffs, aiming for derision despite his sheepish expression.
“Your bed,” he continues, “Before retiring to mine.” He processes the blanket, finally, and glances to Manfred with a paternally proud smile. “Ah, you are too kind, dear Manfred.”
“You’re a good influence,” Rook offers, and his stomach lurches when that pleased smile is turned on him instead. “You’re…” Too cute, too kind, so warm to the touch. A comforting presence. So disarmingly handsome, mussed from even a brief sleep. If he thinks about it too long, whatever winds up spilling out of his mouth will be too embarrassing to face. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” Emmrich replies, without hesitation. He reaches up then seems to reconsider, resting his hand at his collarbone instead. “I… of course, Rook. I meant what I said, about enjoying your company.”
“I like yours too,” Rook replies, before he can second guess himself. He falters for a moment, reluctant to move. “And – I mean, if you wanted… I wouldn’t mind, uh…”
Emmrich, patient as ever, gives him a moment to sort himself out. His fingers flex at his collarbone, and when Rook continues to stammer, he reaches up to cup Rook’s cheek.
Rook struggles against the urge to tilt his head and press his lips to Emmrich’s warm palm, but he does tilt his head into it, just a little. “I could use some more sleep,” he says quietly.
Not the usual way he goes about coaxing people into bed, but, not the usual reason, either. He stares at Emmrich, aiming for something more sincere than the wide-eyed, sultry pout he usually employs in similar situations, and wherever his face lands nets him a look so tender in return it makes his chest hurt. “We’ll bring the play,” he says fondly. “Whatever you need, dear Rook, you need only ask.”