A/N: This is completely unbetaed, so any mistakes you spot are my own and feel free to point them out.
Disclaimer: The world and characters used in this fanfiction are property of Tamora Pierce, and presumably her publishers. No profit is being made and no offense is intended.
Welcome Back, Welcome Home
By Seereth
Rosethorn admires Lark's calm. It makes her easy to talk with, easy to be around.
Rosethorn admires Lark's calm, but sometimes she wishes Lark wouldn't be, or would be less or…her reasons for feeling this way are, as far as she can tell, aren't very good ones. Sometimes she would like more than a smile or a soft laugh or the stony silence that denies tears their release while Rosethorn can see them.
Rosethorn usually doesn't feel this way for very long, simply because she will receive one of the muted smiles or soft laugh – or yes, the refusal to weep – and she remembers, or sees, the depth of feeling behind Lark's often infuriatingly subdued expression and that the tears she never sees are shed silently when they make up – and if they don't make up, her tears fall in the privacy of her room over the tapestry that Lark says she will never finish. Rosethorn sometimes wonders, hearing Lark murmur about it, which of them is more like the tapestry and she thinks that maybe if she saw it she could tell. But she's never going to see it.
For purely aesthetic reasons - reasons which she appreciates greatly at the moment, with Lark curled in her arms, her eyes still closed on sleep – Rosethorn is happy for Lark's mildness, her slight expressions. Lark's face has changed little in the years - Rosethorn has lines and lines and more lines…the consequence of a perpetual scowl.
Rosethorn likes sleep but dislikes lying abed, though she occasionally makes exceptions. This is one of them.
Lark's eyelids flutter, then stop, stubbornly refusing to open and admit that the sun is up and that soon she must be too.
"Maybe we should get an animal," suggests Rosethorn. "Not a dog, though."
Lark crooks one eyebrow and opens her eyes the minimum amount needed for her to see. "Not a cat either."
"Why not? Cats are well-behaved, and quiet at least." Rosethorn's arm is falling asleep and she adjusts it so that the blood flow returns. That it moves Lark the infinitesimal amount possible closer to her is a benefit that Rosethorn is far from ignorant of.
"I don't like cats," Lark says sleepily but firmly. "They get fur everywhere and they would ruin my weaving. They would dig holes in your garden. I would think you'd remember that after traveling with Evvy's."
"Evvy's cats," Rosethorn says, "were Evvy's. They didn't have much to do with me."
"Consider yourself blessed," Lark says and pauses. "I'm sick of birds too, I'm afraid."
Rosethorn grins wickedly at her and Lark frowns with a marked lack of severity – or sincerity. "I'd hoped you would be able to resist the lure of bad humor, Rosie. One day I will hunt down whoever implanted such and inclination in you and makes sure…make sure that none of their clothes ever fit them again."
She chuckles, and Lark – to prove her sincerity perhaps – stops the laughter with a kiss. Rosethorn had promised herself early on never to miss a single instant of one of Lark's kisses if she could help it.
"I missed you, Lark," she says when she is able to.
Lark smiles. "Welcome home, love."