f!De Sardet/Vasco, 2.5k. One of the most disgustingly fluffy things I've written. Based on the thought that Constantin would totally have opinions on who you romance.
A carriage rattles along the cobbles outside, and she lies there, half-listening to it. The few mornings she can be in her own bed, she’s come to know it; it’s the ten o’clock grain shipment. Ordinarily, she’d already be in a meeting somewhere, or traipsing along a dirt road, perhaps with Kurt and Vasco at her back. But she had a morning free, and this… is not an ordinary morning. She’d been settling in with paperwork and then she’d heard the knock at her door and… well.
She should move. Probably. But her bed is so warm, and – unusually, but in a wonderful development – it contains Vasco.
This really was meant to be a brief assignation. And she was sure they were meant to be talking about… something. Potential routes for tomorrow, perhaps. She has no idea why they’re lying next to each other, words barely thought-out and… comfortable, somehow.
She says with a lazy half-grin, “’Important business with the legate’? Did Cécile actually believe you?” She’d close her eyes, but she likes looking at him too much to manage it for long. Softness suits him. And besides, the thought of him politely tipping his hat and lying to her housekeeper...
He tilts his head, consideringly. “She sent me upstairs.” But his voice is wry.
“Mm. She definitely knows.”
He sighs, that long-suffering thing she’s learned to like far too much, and says, “Try living on a ship.”
“Try living around nobles,” she counters, and laughs at his pained expression. “Exactly.”
He says, quietly, “They can’t all be that bad. Rumour is, there’s one that some Naut captain’s fond of.”
She says, “That legate’s always been an odd one.” But she presses her forehead to his, eyes sliding closed, and she feels his hand stroke through her hair.
The gentleness should surprise her – almost did, at first, coming from the frustrated, tattooed sailor who’d barked orders at his crew – but she realised soon into their acquaintance that he is gentle. Subtle as he tries to be, and much as he’d probably mutter something offhand and drily amused about it. That same sailor was worried for a cabin boy. And he was horrified at the Guard’s ghost camps, asked her to avoid bloodshed at every turn and stepped forward for his brother without a moment’s doubt. He tossed her antidotes in the middle of battle and held off beasts for her; he apologised for his early shortness, called her a good person without hesitation, argued to a Naut that the noble who’d caused him so much trouble was sea-born, and we always help one of our own. She'd dared to suspect, but still, that gentleness was far more than she’d ever have imagined, turned on her.
She’s half-dozing when she wakes up and says, startled, “Constantin." She reaches out of bed and gropes for her watch. "I’ve got a meeting in…” She flips it open, checking. “Ten minutes. Damn.”
A quiet, displeased noise from next to her, and Vasco mutters, “Can I at least get dressed before we have to think of your cousin?”
She pauses, looks back to him… and has some trouble looking away. “Don’t strain yourself on my account.”
He raises a brow, but there’s wryness lurking around the corners of his mouth.
She only smiles at him. She was aiming for lascivious, but it softens into something fonder before she can help it. She probably shouldn’t tell the truth quite so easily, what with being a diplomat, but around him it always slips out. Generally meetings aren’t such a trial, tired as she is - but generally she doesn’t have an unnecessarily handsome Naut stretched out in her bed, wild-haired and with the sunlight clinging to his skin.
She shifts across to kiss him, and for a golden moment, he responds in kind, a hand under her chin.
(She’s still not used to that. It was the sort of idle daydream she always told herself would never come to fruition, even if he was sarcastic in turn, even if he smiled at her and she wondered…)
Then he pulls away. “You should go,” he says. She suspects he's trying for gently chiding, but it lands in amused instead.
“I won’t be long,” she says, and the words come out too hopeful.
It’s not that she expects him to stay like some sort of bedwarmer, she just…
Well, she thinks, considering him again, she wouldn’t entirely mind.
But she knows he’s not made to be idle. Neither is she, normally; it was one of the reasons they understood each other, and one of the things she could tell surprised him at first, when he was used to the thoughtlessness of nobility. And she hadn’t quite meant to lose track of time, she’d just…
“I’ll meet you at the docks,” he says. “I need to check in on a shipment. The Guard are lying in the ledgers again.” He adds, in a mutter, “Not that that’s unusual.”
She nods. “Of course.” And then she drags herself away to hunt for her clothing.
She can feel him watching her; it prickles up her spine, a certain warmth that’s growing familiar. She should probably be more self-conscious. She was often teased about her lack of delicacy, growing up in court. She’s about six feet of lankiness and leg – excellent for her reach with a rapier, but not ideal for a court lady. Also, since she’s come here, new scars, and lean muscle that some would say makes her look like a labourer. But he’s called her beautiful more than once, kissing the word breathlessly into her skin, and somehow, she believes him. She certainly believes the way his eyes linger. She looks over her shoulder and his gaze meets hers, without a hint of shame. Then he rolls out of her bed, too.
She’s buttoning her doublet when she feels his hand against hers. She looks down, and takes her hat from him with a nod of thanks. He half-smiles at her, with the ruefulness that comes from having to snatch these moments while they can, in between governors and dantrigs and narrowly-averted civil wars. She places it on her head, idly watching him re-tie his hair and start to re-don the mantle of the quiet, hawk-eyed shadow at her back.
She tries not to be embarrassed. Neither of them is entirely used to this, not yet. They’ve only managed perhaps three occasions where the world has relented enough to give them any time together; they’ve only had one night sleeping in the same bed. And her previous dalliances were at court, not with a friend who knows her, who looks at her like… that. Not with a man who read her poetry and actually seemed to mean it.
She can’t help but step forwards, pretending to pull up the collar of his coat, adjusting a buckle. Absolutely because they’re trying for some measure of discretion, and not because she’d like to touch him again, for as long as she can.
He knows, of course. He’s spent long enough watching her back, and he’s always been good with people - differently from the way she is, but good all the same. When she looks up from her work, his eyes are warm and a little amused on hers.
And then he’s pulling her in, gently but inexorably, and kissing her. It’s a slow, lingering thing that makes them both breathless, and he holds her there, a gloved hand smoothing down her lapel. Suddenly she suspects she isn’t the only one having trouble tearing herself away.
When they part, he stares at her for a moment, dark-eyed - then reaches up and swiftly adjusts her hat where it’s been knocked askew. She can’t help grinning stupidly at him.
And then he takes his own tricorne from her bedside table and pulls it on, and they leave the house with the ease of their usual missions. She pretends not to have a spring in her step. And she certainly doesn’t look over her shoulder when they part in the square.
-
Constantin is, for once, not holding court. She finds him in his office, he greets her - as usual - as if she’s just come back after being thought dead at sea, and they make an itinerary of which higher-ups she’ll have to meet in Hikmet.
All in all, entirely normal, until she says, standing, “Well, I ought to be off. I’ll take Aphra and Vasco; they might be useful.”
And Constantin smiles at her and says, “Of course. Take care of yourself! And give my regards to your Naut.’”
She freezes mid-way through reaching for her hat.
Their eyes meet. She carefully doesn't say anything.
Then she breaks. “He’s not my - “
He’s lazing in his chair, with the smugness of victory. In that obnoxiously cheerful I know something you don’t way, the one that makes her fingers itch to push him out of a tree.
She raises an eyebrow. “Should I ask how you know?”
“Oh, no,” he waves a hand, “you were both being very discreet. You remember the time I asked you if you wanted to go out drinking?”
She sits down, slowly, and tries not to feel like a mouse lowering itself into a trap. She says, with gentle understatement, “There were a few.”
“Yes, well. The most recent one. The one where you refused, because you had terribly important business to attend to.” He looks like some sort of painting of innocence, and that’s how she knows she’s damned to never, ever live this down. “You might have left his poisons belt on the bannister.”
She’s too court-trained to blush, but she feels heat trying to crawl into her face all the same. “There’s more than one poisons belt in New Serene.”
“Only a few with a Naut’s compass carved into them. And what were you talking about a few weeks ago? Your painstaking modifications…”
She tries to regain her equilibrium. “I… We’re Merchants. We give gifts.”
“I know, cousin, and I’m very grateful for my last two hats. The feather was a lovely touch.” He leans his chin on his hand. “But the last time I saw you, you were inexplicably cheerful. Normally I like watching all the longing gazes, while he stares nobly elsewhere or prepares your maps. It’s the best entertainment I’ve had in years. Only, all those had stopped, and suddenly you were studiously trying not to look at him.” He tilts his head, and grins like the cat that’s caught the canary. “And you’re blushing. Adorable.”
“Constantin...” She attempts to hide from the onslaught, but there really isn’t anywhere to go.
“I only wanted to offer my congratulations.” He stands, as if propelled from his chair by the force of his own smugness. “My father would kill you, of course. It’s rather marvellous, really. You were always the one he never had to worry about. I was so certain you’d end up single, or with one of those dreadfully dull nobles from a court somewhere.” He pauses like he’s just remembered she’s there. “Nice, of course, and as long as you were happy – But to think, a Naut! Usually I’m the resident disappointment. Was it the tattoos? They are so very fascinating...” And then he must catch sight of her face, because that pulls him to a stop. “I’m sorry. I’ve got ahead of myself.” And he sits, just a little deflated.
“He’s not some scandal,” she says, quietly. “He’s my – He’s Vasco.”
He’s sober, now, watching her softly. “I know. And I really am pleased for you both.” He looks back to his own papers. “You may have to be subtle, to prevent accusations of favouritism for the Nauts, but… you certainly don’t have to hide it from me. I’ve seen how he looks at you. He’s almost worthy of you.”
She squints at that. “How does he look at me?”
“I thought you’d have noticed! That said, he is rather subtle, isn’t he?” He grins at her. “Hmm… Like a man who’s been hit about the head with something heavy. That sort of not-quite-dazed look. He looks” – and he considers the bookshelves, mouth a theatrical moue of contemplation – “like a man startled by his own luck. I’ve seen enough winners at cards. Only the odd moment, of course, and then he wipes it away and pretends to be very solemn and businesslike.”
She stares, warming at the thought despite herself. “I… he does?”
“He's not bad. I’m sure anyone else wouldn’t catch it. But we, dear cousin, were raised at court.” He looks at her - incredulous, delighted. “And you call yourself a diplomat!”
“I was… busy.”
“Yes. Throwing him your own adoring looks.”
“Being a diplomatic envoy.” She’s quite sure her shade of purple is clashing violently with her coat.
He ostentatiously checks his nails. “Do Nauts marry, perchance?”
“So help me, Constantin, I will leave your court and never come back - “
And then he’s laughing, rich and uninhibited, and it rings like a bell off the high ceiling. It’s been too long since she’s heard that.
-
“Constantin knows,” she announces, when they’re in a camp a quarter of the way to Hikmet, and Aphra’s left to answer a call of nature. “And he’s laughing at us both.”
Vasco’s brows raise, and then he says, flatly, “I’m not surprised. The man’s been smirking at me in the throne room for a month.”
“I…That’s just his face.”
“To you, it might be. He’s worse than my crew.”
“I... think he’s threatening to buy you a drink.” Grimacing, she admits, “I might have fled before he finished talking.”
He considers her, sharp-eyed and face carefully straight, and says, “I could poison him, if you like.”
“Please don’t. They might make me governor.”
The facade cracks, and he smiles at her, broadly and all sharp teeth. Then it fades. “Do you mind him knowing?” And his voice is quiet, that sort of carefully brisk that means he’s trying to bandage being businesslike over potential hurt. The same tentativeness she saw when he asked her what she thought of the poem, as if he had any hope of hiding what he really meant.
Her first instinct has always been to try charm, and when words fail her, to joke; that’ll end with her in a duel someday. “That I’m with a brave, dashing captain who’s one of the best in the fleet? No. I was just trying not to make him jealous.” She says, with her own uncertainty, “Why? Do you mind him knowing?”
He looks surprised at the question – and then thoughtful, and more than a little fond. “I’ve weathered worse than a bit of scuttlebutt,” he says, stepping forwards to close the distance between them, his hand drifting upwards to map her jaw, her cheek. He smiles when she leans into it, and then he’s kissing her, gentle and far too sweet for a man who can terrify bandits. “My tempest,” he says softly, against her skin, resting there.
A man startled by his own luck.
And now she’s certain her smile must make her look like a fool and would have her pilloried at court, but she can’t bring herself to care. She just lets the silence grow for a moment, and leans into the warmth of him.
Even so, she can’t quite help herself: “I’ve changed my mind. You can poison him, if it would make you feel better.”
He laughs at that, one of her favourite sounds in the world. But he doesn’t let go of her.
