Work Text:
The first Elain heard was his voice.
As warm as the sunlight that streamed through the kitchen window, and as soft as the butter she spooned into the mixing bowl, Lucien’s honeyed voice drifted down the hallway— so damned familiar and yet still so foreign. His voice was a song she ought to remember, a melody she thought she might once have heard in a dream— but still he was a stranger to her, no more solid to her than the wind, slipping through slack fingers.
Elain stood frozen, rooted to the spot, and as the string of polite words exchanged at the front door echoed, still she remained unmoving in the kitchen, static, trying to remember what it was to breathe.
In her dreams she heard that voice.
Every night when she closed her eyes she heard him speak, and in her dreams they spoke like friends, like lovers, like they had known one another forever. In her dreams he laughed, his tongue sharp and wicked, and in her dreams she blushed, smiling at the glint in his eye. Every night he spun her stories, weaving tales of romance and beauty whilst she slept— but every morning Elain woke alone, her heart sinking as if yearning for the beat of his.
Her dreams were pretty, but the reality…
The reality was this— the stark truth of it laid bare as Elain remained tucked away in the kitchen, up to her elbows in batter, unable to take a single step forward. He stood only in the hall, separated from her by just a handful of feet and a few wooden doors, but the distance felt like so much more, a stretch made impassable, uncrossable, by every awkward meeting and each stilted conversation, by all those times they’d sat politely across from one another, Elain quiet in her chair, knowing nothing but his name.
Every month he came, like clockwork, to meet with Rhys and Feyre and discuss whatever it was he’d been up to in his role as ambassador. Every month Feyre insisted Elain be present, and every month the four of them sat down to lunch at the river house. Elain always made cake, and she spent every single moment of every single luncheon trying not to notice the gleam in Feyre’s eyes, the way she looked at her as if she was wondering if this might be the month that Elain would offer Lucien more than just a perfunctory greeting and a small, subdued smile.
And every month all they shared was small talk, mild pleasantries exchanged with tight, straining smiles.
Elain might have been a seer, but she didn’t think her dreams were anything but figments of her imagination, the fractured pieces of a life she might once have had. She didn’t think they were any sort of glimpse into the future— how could they be? There was simply too much disconnect between them, like she and Lucien weren’t just on different pages— they were reading from different books altogether, and it hadn’t bothered her at first, back when she hadn’t really wanted to know more than his name.
But something had shifted lately, changed with the seasons, and with the deepening spring Elain found herself with every passing day growing… curious.
She heard the telltale sound of Feyre leading Lucien into the sitting room, the door closing behind them, and questions unasked and unanswered balanced on Elain’s tongue. She thought of him— how he’d spent so long in the Spring Court, surrounded by flowers and sunlight.
What was it like, she wondered?
What was he like, when the air smelled of roses and blossoms? In the bright light of day, in the summer heat— what was he like? What did that red hair look like beneath the midday sun, and who was he, outside these walls, beyond this court? Who was he really, the man that fate had bound her to?
He was an enigma, and as she cracked an egg against the side of the mixing bowl, Elain huffed. It sent a small cloud of flour rising from the countertop, and throughout the kitchen silence reigned.
All of those questions burned within her chest— but how could she ever ask, how did she even begin, when she was only ever forced to endure tea parties and elegant lunches when he visited, with Feyre always lingering? Or Rhys, or Nesta?
It was ludicrous. Suffocating— exhausting.
She was twenty-three years old, and her every move, every breath, every look was examined and analysed like she was a debutante at her first ball, barely cut from her governess’ apron strings. It was the weight of others’ expectations sinking them before they could hope to swim, and the most ironic thing - the most infuriating - was that Elain spent every luncheon trying not to study the lines of Lucien’s face. Trying not to notice the way his lips curved when he smiled, or how he tucked his hair behind his ear when he laughed. Trying, too, to pretend she didn’t see the way he looked at her, like she was a secret he was trying to figure out.
Slowly, she drew a breath, one made heavy by exhaustion and exasperation. Maybe, just maybe, Elain would like Lucien, if only she had to space to decide for herself.
Maybe.
She gritted her teeth now, that deep breath swelling in her lungs, coalescing with something bitter, and when she cracked another egg into the bowl, the shell shattered.
It was just… impossible.
Lucien was only ever polite, but every time Elain found herself in a room with him the conversation was forced— like neither of them quite knew where they were supposed to fit together. He looked at her like she was porcelain, breakable, afraid of saying the wrong thing, and though Feyre had broken the curse and freed him from the mask he’d worn for so long, Elain couldn’t help but feel he’d merely exchanged one mask for another when it came to her. He hid, now, behind those manners and that charming smile, that devastatingly polite exterior, and she couldn’t blame him, not really.
After all, her guileless smile was a mask of its own, wasn’t it?
One she had hidden behind for years— that demure and delicate little smile, the one Greysen had liked so much, so wholly appropriate for a woman of society, meant to be seen and not heard, to be looked at and admired. She had let that smile carry her through every social season, and though she’d once thought it as much of a weapon to her as Feyre’s bow and arrow…
It was different now.
It wasn’t a comfort or an asset— it had turned her into something fragile, something to be protected, like the smile on her face somehow made her weak. She hadn’t minded so much at first - Rhys and the others had always been so kind to her - but now… it was becoming an effort to curve her lips when they held their meetings behind closed doors, as though convinced she couldn’t handle it.
She plucked up her wooden spoon now, and as she began to mix the batter in the bowl she gripped the handle so hard her nails dug into her palm, tiny crescent moons marking the soft skin. She let out a single embittered huff - the last she would allow herself - glancing towards the doorway that separated them, the hall that stretched beyond.
Lucien was just as bad as the rest of them.
He looked at her like he didn’t know what to do with her, how to approach her, like she was a startled deer in the forest. In her dreams, he looked at her like he knew every inch of her, inside and out. Like he had committed every part of her to memory, knowing her as keenly, as acutely, as he knew himself. As the timbre of his voice resonated from the sitting room, for a moment Elain wished he would look at her that way now, in the bright light of day. She wished, too, that she knew what that voice sounded like in grand halls and marble ballrooms, in small spaces and quiet corners. For a moment she wished she had the courage to find out.
Furiously, she mixed that batter.
It was a mess— everything was a mess, and she hadn’t the slightest idea of how to fix it, how to make it better.
And then—
“Hello, Elain.”
Every nerve in Elain’s body stilled.
He’d come upon her silently— or had she just been so lost in her own thoughts that she’d stopped hearing his heartbeat through the walls?
Her hand went slack around the wooden spoon, her mind emptying as that voice filled the silence that stretched through the kitchen. It was a lilting voice, so elegant it was almost musical, with the hint of an accent softening his words, rounding out the edges of her name. Elain let her eyes slide closed for the briefest of seconds, feeling those smooth tones echo in her bones, warming her right the way through like a shaft of pure, brilliant sunlight. For just a moment - spare and singular - she let herself feel the bond in her chest, the warmth of it wrapping around her ribs, dancing as he spoke her name. It almost stole her breath, and Elain caught herself before it got stuck in her throat, righted herself before she could fall. She straightened her shoulders, plastered that stiff and stifling smile onto her face and lifted her eyes, catching sight of him in the doorway.
Gods, she almost wished she hadn’t.
Her dreams might have been wide of the mark when it came to their conversations, but even they had not exaggerated Lucien’s beauty. He stood, effortless and immaculate, in fawn coloured breeches and a loose white shirt, his long hair shining like burnished amber in the sunlight. His golden eye glinted as he clasped his hands behind his back, the golden hoop in his ear winking as the sun danced across his skin. He was lovely— lithe and graceful and elegant, and as Elain let the spoon fall with a clatter against the side of the bowl, she cursed herself for being so distracted.
As though only now remembering that she was supposed to be making a cake, she reached for the measuring cups as her mouth went dry, her tongue heavy. That feeling behind her ribs swelled, tugging the way it always did, and as Elain dunked the measuring cup into the sugar, she took a breath and somehow found the will to say,
“Hello, Lucien.”
Something flashed briefly in his eye when she spoke his name, a momentary spark, but she didn’t have time to study it. He buried it, hid it quickly as he dipped his chin in a courteous, practically genteel bow, a polite smile drifting across his lips.
Polite— he was always so damned polite, and though Elain didn’t doubt his manners for a second, sometimes she wished he would let his composure slip— let her see the sharp-tongued fae who had, by all accounts, suited the fox mask he’d been stuck in for half a century.
Silence crawled back into the kitchen, settling thick as Elain dumped the sugar into the mixing bowl. She was all too aware of his presence at the door as she added another cup, her eyes flicking up to find him watching her intently, following her every move.
“Do you need any help?” he asked.
She shook her head, biting her tongue as she filled another cup with sugar. She forced an easy smile on her face, accommodating and bland, the kind her mother had always told her worked well in high society. Lucien nodded, and Elain poured the sugar in the bowl, trying to remember how many cups she’d already added.
Was that the second cup? Or the third?
She couldn’t remember, his presence in the doorway a distraction so complete she couldn’t remember anything from the past five minutes.
Lucien cleared his throat. “Well, then,” he said, unlinking his hands from behind his back. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Elain nodded, wiping her hands on her apron as he gave her a long, searching look before turning on his heel and heading back to the sitting room. Once he was gone, Elain let out another disaffected sigh, one that was heavy in her lungs. She looked at the doorway, at the space absent of him now, and felt something like regret curling uncomfortably within.
Cursing softly under her breath, Elain huffed sharply and added another damned cup of sugar to the bowl.
***
Too much sugar.
She’d put too much sugar in the cake.
Elain’s hand tightened around the silver cake fork, one so dainty, so tiny, it was a wonder it didn’t snap. The cake wasn’t… bad. Not exactly. It was just…
The icing was too thick, the sponge far too dense from where she’d over-mixed it, and sweet, it was so, so sweet.
Lucien’s fault, she thought as her entire body recoiled from the sweetness on her tongue. It was his fault— him and that stupid smile of his, that stupidly lovely face that had seemed to glow in the sunlight. She’d lost count of the sugar she’d put into the bowl and just added another three cups anyway, and now there was a cloying taste clinging to the back of her throat, making her teeth ache and her gut twist, and as she did the maths… Oh gods— there were six cups of sugar in a recipe that called for three.
She glanced around the table, gritting her teeth as Feyre swallowed, pasting a smile on her face as she took another bite. The cake was terrible, and yet they wouldn’t tell her— too afraid of upsetting her, like they didn’t think she could handle it. Feyre practically winced as she closed her mouth around her second bite, and Elain glared down at her fork.
Lucien seemed more interested in his tea than in the cake that he had delicately taken only a small bite of, but Feyre smiled blandly as she forced a swallow, and at her side Rhys cleared his throat, silver fork cutting through the icing Elain had done an inch too thick— the glaze she had made whilst trying not to think of the look that had flashed in Lucien’s eye, wondering what it was and why he’d hidden it.
“Lovely as always, Elain,” Rhys said, masking a grimace as, with effort, he swallowed. “It’s sweet,” he added. “Just like you.”
He offered her a winning smile, but Elain couldn’t see the bright side. She half wanted to throw something. It was a joke, a comment made in jest to lighten the mood, but… she scowled. A Nesta scowl, an expression she’d seen on her sister’s face a thousand times and yet never once allowed to grace her own.
“A rose without a thorn,” Rhys finished.
And Elain… snapped.
“If it had no thorns it wouldn’t be a rose,” she countered flatly. “That’s not how roses work.”
Rhys paused, fork an inch from his mouth, and on the other side of the table, Lucien choked on his tea. Elain put down her own fork, hands lying flat on the table.
Wasn’t she allowed to have thorns, just for a day? To make a cake that wasn’t perfect and lovely? Why must she always be gentle and kind and sweet— why must she be coddled and cosseted?
Couldn’t she, just for once, make a mistake?
Vexed, she pushed away from the table.
Her chair scraped roughly against the polished floorboards, and Lucien’s teacup rattled against his saucer as he set it down, but Elain only tossed her napkin to the table, letting it lie in a pile of crumpled ivory fabric, half lying across her porcelain plate still laden with inedible cake. Honesty— it was all she had wanted, to be treated like a person instead of a child. She couldn’t bear it, and she didn’t look back at the table, at the cake half unfinished or the shock that cross her sister’s face as Elain made a beeline for the hall, for the kitchen, for the back door beyond that would take her out to the garden.Feyre called out her name, but Elain didn’t stop.
She wanted her garden— wanted the peace and quiet of her garden, the only place she ever felt at home, but—
The breath sawed from her throat as she pushed open the door, gasping as the air kissed her cheeks.
It wasn’t hers, was it?
It was just a plot she tended in Feyre’s garden. In Rhys’ garden. It wasn’t hers, even though she’d cultivated every single bloom in every single bed. She could lay no real claim to it, no ownership, and as she breathed in the fresh air, drawing it deep into her lungs, Elain felt part of herself splintering, cracking beneath the pressure.
At the roses, she stopped.
She came to a halt, looking at the flowers - at the thorns - and reaching out, she traced one with her finger, feeling the sharp edge press against her fingertip, knowing it would take only the slightest bit of pressure to break the skin and bring blood blossoming.
Regret fluttered in her stomach.
The irritation she’d felt turned sour, and as her heartbeat calmed… Elain knew she ought to apologise to Rhys for snapping. To Feyre for ruining her lunch. To Lucien for… everything. For being so stand-offish, for closing herself off when all he’d ever done was try and get to know her.
But how could he ever succeed, Elain thought bitterly, when she didn’t even know who she was herself? She’d been lost— whoever she’d been before having vanished with the cauldron, dried up when she came out, dripping and freezing on the cold stone floor. Lucien had given her his jacket then, and ever since she’d plastered on that unassuming mask, only to find that, like poison ivy, it had burrowed its way beneath her skin and wound itself tight around her veins.
Who was she, without that bland little smile?
She didn’t know anymore— the answer always escaped her, snatched by the wind.
As if she’d conjured him, Elain heard footsteps on the gravel path behind her. Instinctually, she knew who it was. It wasn’t that she recognised the tread— no, it was the way the thread behind her ribs began to vibrate, to tremble, and she knew without needing to turn that Lucien had found her.
She turned, expecting to find a face lined with concern— but instead his expression was calm, like the afternoon sky after a morning storm, and he looked at her with a kind of ease Elain had never seen before. He stood with his hands so casually in his pockets, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. His head tilted an inch to the side, and Elain had never once seen him so… relaxed. He gave her a small smile, and for the first time it didn’t seem contrived. His eyes were alight - both the russet and the gleaming gold - a fire beneath the afternoon sun, and when that smile turned wider, showed teeth, for the very, very first time he wasn’t looking at her like she was some dainty, fragile little thing.
He didn’t look afraid that she’d break.
And for the first time he didn’t look like the kind of man who would buy her gardening gloves. No— he looked like he’d let her get her hands dirty, let her feel the earth, and sit right beside her as she did. His golden eye shone in the sun, and as Elain dragged her gaze over his face, the look he’d buried earlier in the kitchen flashed again, a flare in his single russet eye, and this time Lucien didn’t bother to hide it, to mask it. This time he let her see it, and Elain found… interest there, sharp and glinting, mingling with appreciation, with something that seemed an awful lot like attraction.
He looked at her like he wanted her, and Elain suppressed a shiver.
“I’m sorry,” she said, turning her gaze to the roses, to the thorns. “I shouldn’t have—”
“No,” Lucien cut in, interrupting her. He’d never interrupted her before, always let her finish. Elain suddenly felt like some pretence was dropping away, both his mask and hers eroding at last. “Don’t apologise."
“I shouldn’t have snapped.”
Lucien snorted, taking another step closer until he was there looking at her roses too. He reached out, brushing a finger along the petals, velvet soft. Elain wondered what that touch would feel like against her skin, the drag of his hands on her waist.
“For the record,” he said softly, his voice carrying the hint of smoke, like he knew where her mind had gone. “I like roses.”
There was something heated in his gaze, his eyes lowering as for the first time he let himself look at her, really look at her. He dragged his focus over her cheekbones, across her jaw, lingering on her lips, so blatant and brazen she almost couldn’t believe it. Oh, Lucien was a gentleman, of that she was sure— but not all the time. There was a streak of something else in him too, something a little bit rakish, a shade of daring, and here it was at last, coming out to play as they stood between the roses.
He gave her a knowing smile, a sidelong glance that had the bond between them thrumming, alive in a way it had never been before, and Elain didn’t pull away or put space between them, even though this was the closest they had been since she’d been tipped out of the cauldron, when he’d draped his jacket over her bare shoulders. He was so close now that his arm was brushing hers, and when she breathed she could smell him— could feel his scent being pulled into her lungs as though it were the only kind of air she needed. It was something sweet and warm with a sharp undertone, and in her rose garden it was delectable, all sugar and spice and crackling embers. He was so close, all she’d have to do was tilt her head and—
His hand fell away from the flower, and he canted his head to the side as Elain looked up at him, suddenly feeling the world narrow until it contained nothing but this little square of the garden. His eye sparked, and as she watched… Lucien winked.
There he is, Elain thought. There’s the man Feyre told me about.
“And I like my roses with thorns,” he added in a whisper, almost conspiratorial.
Elain let out a surprised laugh as her heart kicked in her chest, and with the way his eyes widened, it shocked him almost as much as it did her. His eyes glinted as his lips split into a bright smile, and it was… lovely. Gods, how had she not noticed before, how utterly lovely he was when he smiled?
“And did you like my cake?” she challenged, raising an eyebrow.
It was Lucien’s turn to laugh now, a shocked bark escaping him as he shook his head, auburn hair cascading over his shoulder.
“No,” he said, apologetic. “No, I didn’t.”
“At least you’re honest,” Elain sighed. “I didn’t like it either.”
Lucien laughed again, softer this time, and as he dipped his head his hair fell across his face, masking the scar and the golden eye.
“Apologies, my lady.”
“Don’t call me that,” she whispered.
Not now— not yet. She wanted him to call her my lady when his lips were against her skin, wanted him to whisper it against the crook of her neck as his hands roamed. In her dreams, the only time he called her my lady was when he made love to her. Now— now it was only another barrier between them, a formality she couldn’t stand.
And she’d had enough of formality.
Suddenly Elain wanted to push that hair back, wanted to see his face— the face of the only one who had given her honesty when she asked for it. She wanted to run her hands through that hair, burnished by the afternoon sun. Wanted to see how warm his skin was beneath her fingers, how soft, and something began to build inside her, some kind of desperate anticipation, and even though she knew she should probably keep her hands to herself…
Tentatively, she lifted her hand, eyes growing wider as her heart began to hammer in her chest. Lucien stilled, his smile falling away as slowly, agonisingly slowly, Elain curled her fingers and brushed the hair back behind his pointed ear, feeling the strands between her fingers. Both of his eyes widened, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.
It was silent, but this wasn’t the silence of all their other meetings, where they had nothing to say to one another.
No— now there was too much, and Elain didn’t know where to begin.
“Call me Elain,” she said at last.
“Elain,” Lucien whispered, his eyes shuttering as though her name on his tongue was an unexpected pleasure, a delicacy he’d just discovered and didn’t ever wish to be without. His lips parted, and when he murmured her name again, it was as though he found it to be a balm to every one of his burns, spoken with a kind of wonder that made her shiver, made her feel like the world was shaking.
And gods— Elain felt the tremble in her blood and smiled.
“Perhaps,” she said quietly, barely able to hear her voice beyond the pounding of her heart, “you could call again next week and I’ll have a better cake for you.”
Lucien didn’t mask his smile this time. He met her eyes, gaze boring into hers as he held her wine-eyed stare. It started small, a soft smirk playing at the corners of his lips, but as he scanned her face it spread— like a wildfire, catching. His fingers rose in the space between them, his eyes turning bold as he brushed the back of his knuckles across her cheek.
“I’d like that,” he said, his smile so easy Elain couldn’t understand why he’d ever hidden it, ever kept this part of himself back.
She leaned into his touch, feeling his fingers against her skin warm and light, like the first kiss of sunrise after a long, dark night.
“I’d like that too,” she said, before pausing and looking back towards the house, to the windows lining the kitchen where everything had gone so decidedly wrong earlier. “But you should probably stay out of the kitchen until it’s done,” she added.
Lucien frowned as confusion flitted across his russet eye, and Elain shrugged.
“It’s your fault I lost count of the sugar,” she explained.
Lucien laughed again, and with the sound something inside Elain began to unfurl, and for the first time… For the very first time, she felt like maybe this mating bond wasn’t such a bad thing after all.