Work Text:
Astrid catches Essek lingering in the shadows outside of her tower when she returns from work late one autumn night, seemingly lost in his thoughts. She clears her throat, and his ears twitch, apparently more startled to see her than she is to see him. What a far cry from the perfectly polished Shadowhand he used to be. It was... endearing, not that she would admit it.
“Good evening,” she says lightly, casually, as if running into him outside her home were something that simply happens from time to time. (It's not.)
“I- ah- I apologize for disturbing you at this hour, but if I may- I have a favour to ask of you.” Essek looks flustered, a little lost. Astrid notes that he’s wrapped in chunky Empire-style wools to befit the chilly air, and it makes him look smaller, younger. As young as he actually is, for a drow, she supposes.
“Nice to see you’ve grown past simply showing up inside my office, wielding threats like daggers,” Astrid drawls.
“Yes, well, this is a more personal matter,” he replies. “I wasn’t even certain- well, you see-” He sighs and gathers himself before trying again. “That is to say, I would like your help in realizing an idea I had to surprise Caleb for his birthday.”
Astrid stares.
“He’s talked about certain foods from his childhood, and how no one in Rexxentrum can seem to replicate them, but I figured you might be the best chance at recovering his mother’s recipes. In particular, he talks about her apple cake, and I wanted to try and make it for him,” he trails off self-consciously, “if possible.”
“Let me get this straight,” Astrid says incredulously. “You, traitor to and exile from the Kryn Dynasty, are asking for a favour from me, the Cerberus Assembly’s Archmage of Civil Influence, in order to get your hands on the Ermendrud Apfelkuchen recipe, which you plan to learn as a surprise for your partner, who happens to be my ex-sweetheart from when we were teenage secret agents.”
Essek straightens and lifts his chin. “Indeed.” Without his signature flotation cantrip they are about equal in height, but Astrid can see that someone lesser would wilt under the strength of his conviction. She’s impressed.
“Alright, I’ll see what I can do.”
Essek doesn’t know how he’s gotten into this situation, but somehow he finds himself in Astrid Becke’s kitchen, covered in flour and sugar, vision blurry with tears in his eyes.
“Don’t wipe your eyes with your dirty hands, you’ll make it worse,” the Archmage in question scolds him. She’d let him borrow her apron, saying her all-black outfit was old and already stained with much worse, and Essek hadn’t felt like digging into that line of questioning. “Clean your hands first.”
Essek blindly reaches for the dishtowel she’s holding, but she jerks it out of reach. “Did you forget you’re a wizard, Thelyss?”
He bashfully prestidigitates his hands and then his face clean, but can’t stop himself from correcting her. “Not Thelyss anymore.”
“Whatever,” Astrid grumbles, but her eyes search his face and then soften upon seeing whatever she finds there. “We’ll try again, and you’ll master it in no time. You can’t be a prodigy in everything. You’ll have to practice at it like the rest of us.”
“From what I hear, you were quite the prodigy yourself.”
Astrid freezes so suddenly, Essek instinctively looks around for a would-be arcane attacker. By the time he looks back at her, Astrid has recovered from whatever had briefly stalled her. She resolutely does not look at him, and he decides to not address it if she doesn’t. In another life, he would have pushed, or perhaps filed away her reaction for later ammunition, but the threads he can put together himself convince him to simply give her the space to collect herself.
After another moment’s hesitation, Astrid grabs the papers they had been making notes on, and adds some scribbles at the bottom. “I think we overstirred it,” she says.
Essek leans over her shoulder to look, cross-referencing the several different recipes Astrid had managed to collect from various families from Blumenthal. Some were more detailed than others, but none provided enough guidance for the absolute novice bakers that they were. He is honestly not certain where to even begin looking for their error.
“Bren was the prodigy,” Astrid says softly. “Wulf and I had to work our asses off to even hope to compare. We were never quite successful.” She does so without any bitterness in her tone, as there might have been at another time. She blinks quickly, shaking off the memories. “But I doubt even Bren would master his childhood Apfelkuchen on the first try.”
“Caleb can do anything he puts his mind to,” Essek replies, then adds, “but when it comes to food, he’s hopeless. I love him, but but that man’s concept of a decadent snack is toasted bread with butter and salt.”
Astrid barks a laugh of recognition, the tension breaking. “How horrific,” she says, fondly.
It takes them three full Miresens of experimenting in Astrid’s kitchen before they are both satisfied with the result and confident that it was replicable. Three full days of Essek being absolutely bewildered at how a simple dessert could be more complicated for him to wrap his head around than the mechanics of teleporting himself and eight others across the continent. Three full days of lying to Caleb and telling him he was needed to consult at the Zadash branch of the Cobalt Soul, and wringing an amused promise from Beauregard to maintain his alibi.
Essek might have survived the political machinations of the Kryn court for decades and successfully hidden an entire scheme to steal their most prized religious artifacts out from under their very noses, but having to tell Caleb to his face that sorry no, my darling, he didn’t have time to drop by Pumat’s while he was in town (because he wouldn’t be in town at all) might have been the most difficult deception he’s ever had to maintain.
He most certainly only pulled it off because Caleb – sweet, wonderful, loving, Caleb – was overly trusting of him these days, a fact he still struggled with accepting in his low moments.
Then again, he did spend three full days in Astrid Becke’s kitchen, drinking her coffee and sharing her meals without once checking for poisons, so perhaps it was he who was too trusting nowadays.
On the third Miresen, Essek had stayed later than he had the previous weeks, lightheaded with relief and pride that they had succeeded. Astrid had opened a bottle of red wine, and they toasted each other before drinking in companionable silence, basking in their victory.
This was how Eadwulf Grieve found them, having let himself in, dropping by to see if she wanted some casual company, as he was apparently wont to do.
Astrid leaps to her feet and stumbles from the wine in her system, and Essek stops himself from instantly teleporting home to throw out a hand for her to grasp, helping her regain her balance.
Eadwulf watches this impassively, a single eyebrow rising. “Are you two plotting to depose another member of the Cerberus Assembly?”
“What? No!” Essek must look appropriately shocked, because Eadwulf’s mouth twitches into a curiously entertained smirk.
“A scheme to exchange state secrets and divulge information on the inner workings of the Dungeon of Penance?”
Astrid scoffs dismissively and sits back down, rolling her eyes.
Eadwulf’s smirk grows wider. “Well now I’m concerned. Could it be that the two of you have met up purely to enjoy each other’s company?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” slurs Astrid dismissively. “I’ve simply been helping Essek out with... a personal project of his.”
“A personal project, you say?” Eadwulf closes his eyes and takes an exaggerated sniff of the room. “Might this be in any way related to how the entire tower smells like the Apfelkuchen from our childhood?” He pauses. Takes in the notes still scattered on the table and the agenda with an upcoming certain date revealingly circled. Focuses his attention onto a now blushing ex-Shadowhand. (Blushing? Maybe’s he’s just drunk.)
“Please don’t tell him,” Essek blurts. (Okay so he’s a little drunk. Doesn’t mean he isn’t blushing.)
Astrid throws her head back and groans in defeat. She’s too tipsy for this.
Eadwulf looks as gleeful as if it were his birthday that had come early. “You know,” he says, “it’s been a long time since I’ve made my mother’s Eintopf, but I’m sure he would appreciate you learning that one as well, if you’re up for it.”
Essek looks questioningly at Astrid, who shrugs. “It’s a stew,” she explains, then giggles when Essek’s ears perk up with undivided attention. It’s a bizarre sound. But what can he say, he’s got a soft spot for stews.
And that’s how a third morally-dubious wizard gets brought into the fold.
By the time the important day rolls around, what started as Essek’s idea to surprise Caleb with a small homemade dessert has extended into an entire home-cooked meal. They buy the bread, though, because they’re not miracle-workers, come on.
Eadwulf was to be conveniently on campus to meet Caleb after his class to accompany him home and he’s just Sent to provide advance warning to the two other wizards currently frantically putting together the finishing touches in Caleb’s own kitchen.
One of those wizards hadn’t even planned to be involved beyond asking around for an old recipe, but now she was invested godsdammit, and she will be making sure this stew is perfect, and will Essek fucking stop hovering.
“I thought you wanted some more fresh pepper,” he says, holding the pepper mill. He takes a step closer.
Astrid shoots a Lightning Bolt out of her free hand, which Essek Counterspells, barely flinching. Eadwulf had warned him that she gets like this.
Essek raises the pepper mill and inches forward.
Astrid steps to the side to allow access to the pot, without looking at him.
“Thank you,” Essek says gently, “for all of this. I don’t think I’ve properly conveyed- You’ve gone really above and beyond, and I’m truly grateful.” He adds the pepper, looking to her for confirmation that it’s enough.
Astrid nods, and shoos him away from the pot once more. “I didn’t do it for you,” she snipes.
“Well I’m devastated, Astrid, I thought we were friends.”
“I’m just trying to butter Caleb up so he stops making me play peacemaker after he baits Margolin at every faculty meeting.”
“Let me know once you figure out a way to sweet-talk him into doing something he doesn’t want to do. That man is as strong-willed as an auroch.”
“You’re the one who married him.”
“That I did.” Essek grins.
“It’s not fair. Why am I the one cleaning up after him? He should be your responsibility.”
“Perks of being a wanted criminal.” Essek is still grinning.
“If he gets arrested for treason one day it’ll be all your fault.”
“Ah yes, I who betrayed my country for the Cerberus Assembly am directly responsible for Caleb’s actions and opinions in opposition to the Cerberus Assembly.”
Astrid wrinkles her nose. “You owe me a tremendous favour.”
“Yes, of course,” he agrees smoothly.
“Enormous.”
“Gigantic, sure.” Essek tilts his head consideringly. “I can make sure Jester stops bear hugging you every time she sees you.” There’s a flash of emotion on Astrid’s face that makes him raise his eyebrows and lean in closer. “Astrid Becke, tell me you don’t like the bear hugs.”
Astrid crosses her arms but doesn't back away. “I don’t like the bear hugs.” Her voice wavers, and Essek gasps.
The gasp is echoed from the doorway, and the two wizards spring apart to see none other than their guest of honour taking in the scene with wide-eyed delight. Eadwulf is a half step behind his left shoulder, quietly smirking, the asshole. Essek is suddenly aware of how he’s still in his comfiest clothes, not at all fit to host a dinner party. At least the table is already set, the bread sliced and displayed next to the spread of sausages, cheeses, and cucumbers. The lamb and potato-heavy vegetable stew next to Astrid is steaming and ready to be served, and the Apfelkuchen is waiting in the oven for later. But Essek hasn’t even taken off Astrid’s borrowed apron, and his hair is probably absolutely dishevelled. He’s wearing a hint of eyeliner, but that might be smudged too.
He locks eyes with Caleb, whose gaze darkens in a way that causes Essek’s pulse to thrum unevenly and a frisson of heat to race down his spine.
“Well, well, well,” says Caleb, licking his lips. “Happy birthday to me.”