It was impossible for her to tell in the windowless whelps' quarters, but it must have been late morning when Bretagne finally awoke. No one else was around; she had slept right through morning bell and most likely breakfast. She groaned at the dim candlelight, screwing her eyes shut to hopefully alleviate some of the throbbing in her head. She forced herself to sit up and braced against the bed when the room started to spin. Her tummy rumbled; she needed to eat, but the thought of food was nauseating.
Oh gods, how much did I drink? Bretagne asked herself. Slowly, hazy images of last night's events filtered into her mind's eye. Chatting with Vilkas... Drinking with Farkas... The book...
The book.
It hit her all at once and she gasped, shooting out of bed and frantically looking for the book she had borrowed. Not in the bedcovers, not on the shared nightstand, not under the bed. Oh gods, and it was one of his favorites! If it had been her book she'd lent out, she'd be angry–but Vilkas would be furious! She knew how important those books were to him. If she didn't find it soon, she'd have to face the wrath of a very pissed off warrior.
Bretagne scrambled to her feet, steadying herself before hastily redonning her robe and darting out of the room. The lights in the hall temporarily blinded her, and while shielding her eyes, she bumped into Ria.
"Sorry…!" she muttered, shouldering her way past.
"Bret...?" Ria looked back at her, confused.
Bretagne paid her no mind and dashed down the hallway as fast as she could, ducking around corners to check every cabinet and table downstairs. Eventually she stopped in front of Farkas' rooms. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves before knocking once, the door opening slightly under her knuckles.
She poked her head in and saw Farkas sitting on the edge of the bed, lacing his boots and getting ready for the day. He looked up at her worried face and frowned. "Bret? What's going on?"
"The book..." she whispered. "I can't find it."
"The one you borrowed from Vil?"
She shushed him. "Not so loud!" She looked around nervously.
"Relax, he's upstairs. But he'll be down in a minute." He knotted the last lace and stood up. "I left it under your bed last night."
"It wasn't there," she said, shaking her head ruefully. "I checked. And the table. And the chest. And all the hallways." She paused, thinking. "I don't remember going upstairs, so it's got to be down here somewhere."
Farkas took a few steps forward, his frame towering over her, his posture intimidating but his expression sympathetic. "I could help you look, but it sounds like you got all the main places."
Bretagne covered her face with her hands. "Gods, he's going to kill me!"
He reached out a hand to pat her on the shoulder. "No, he's not," Farkas said reassuringly. "He'll be angry, sure, but it's gonna be worse if you try to hide it. Just be upfront with him about it." He gave a small smile, trying to encourage her.
Bretagne sighed shakily, running her hands through her hair. "You're probably right. I'll go talk to him."
He smacked her on the back, a little harder than she had expected, making her stumble forward. "There you go."
.
.
There was nothing she could do.
Bretagne had gone back to check the whelps' quarters a second time, and then snuck upstairs to do a quick run-through. Somehow, she had missed Vilkas (thank the gods) but still kept looking over her shoulder, expecting him to be there, scowling and folding his arms in disapproval. She looked in practically every nook and cranny in Jorrvaskr, but to no avail–the book was nowhere to be found. She had no choice but to pay the piper.
Downstairs, she knocked hesitantly on Vilkas' door, but without the innocence of the night before. She was guilty: he had entrusted one of his prized possessions to her, and she promised to keep it safe. She was not one to break her promises, but this time it couldn't be helped. The book was gone.
The door creaked open under her light knock, so she slowly pushed into the room. "Vilkas," she began hesitantly. "About that book I borrowed…"
He was sitting with his feet up on the desk, leaning back casually, reading from–
"Oh, you mean this book?"
Bretagne gasped as he closed it and stood up. "How–how did you–"
"It was in the baths, of all places. Apparently, someone"–he waved the book in her direction–"can't hold her liquor and misplaces other people's belongings."
"I didn't mean to! It was an accident!" She racked her brain, trying to remember when she had left it there. She couldn't imagine taking someone's precious book anywhere near water! Although, she had been pretty inebriated… Maybe she did get up once to use the loo, but couldn't be certain.
"Spare me. You're lucky it wasn't damaged," he said, inspecting its spine. "I'm revoking your borrowing privileges."
"What? No, you can't do that!" Bretagne pleaded. "I didn't mean to lose it; I won't do it again! Please, please forgive me." Her puppy eyes might have worked before, but they didn't seem to be working now.
Vilkas remained silent, flipping through the last of the pages. The book hadn't sustained major damage, aside from a few crinkled corners, and wasn't waterlogged like he had expected it to be. For all that happened, Bretagne had taken surprisingly good care of it.
She waited in the painfully long silence as he perused the pages. Looking up at him hopefully, she held her breath, lest she blurted something out, and clasped her hands together tightly. Vilkas seemed to be considering something, before setting down the book and crossing his arms.
"...Fine," he relented.
"Really?" Bretagne asked hopefully.
"On one condition," he said. "The books you borrow never leave this room. If you want to read, you'll do it here. And only when I allow it."
Bretagne thought about this. It would be inconvenient to have to read in his room, rather than in her own, or out on the porch, or down by the Gildergreen–anywhere she felt more comfortable. It might be awkward or strange if he happened to be in there, as well. And it might look unsavory if she, an unmarried woman, were to be spending her nights in another man's room.
But he seemed trustworthy enough to not try anything, and definitely not the type to bother someone whilst they read. And he had such a collection of books she'd never even heard of before…
"Alright. I accept," Bretagne said, smiling. She held out her arm, and he hesitated before taking her tiny wrist in his strong hand, sealing their deal.
Maybe her puppy eyes did work, after all.
.
.
And so, it became a nightly ritual: first reading in Vilkas' room, then a nightcap with Farkas, and then bed. Sometimes one or the other would be gone on an overnight job, so her routine was disrupted. One time, they had both been gone for some job in Riften–Bret hadn't slept at all that night.
It was awkward, at first, reading in someone else's room with them watching like a hawk, but slowly she grew accustomed to it. At some point, Vilkas stopped looking over at her every five minutes, supposedly having gained enough trust after a fortnight had passed and she hadn't tried anything. Usually, they each kept to themselves: he sat at his desk, and Bretagne either sat at the small table at the other end of the room, or on the edge of his bed.
One night, he had been late to their nightly reading session, but it was agreed upon that if the door was unlocked and the candles were lit, Bretagne was allowed in whenever she pleased. It had been a particularly stressful day, so she had taken the opportunity to relax. On a whim, she climbed into his bed under the covers. It was a nice large double bed with fine furs and soft linens. Why not make herself comfortable? He wasn't there, at any rate. She would just go sit in her usual place once he showed up. She justified it to herself as she cracked her latest book open: Antecedents of Dwemer Law, a surprisingly fascinating read.
But at some point, she must've dozed off, because she awoke to someone shoving her. "Hey. Get up."
Bretagne startled and realized she had fallen asleep in his bed, her embarrassment only surpassed by her confusion that he hadn't literally kicked her out yet.
"Oh, I-I'm sorry," she started, "it just was a long day and it looked so cozy and it was warm and I was reading and–"
"Shut up and move over," Vilkas interrupted.
She realized he had his own book under his arm, and was kicking off his boots, very clearly intending to get into bed with her. But the bed was up against the wall on one side, and he and the room divider blocked the other. Unless she wanted to awkwardly scramble out the end of the bed and over the chest, she had nowhere to go; she was trapped.
Vilkas proceeded to make himself comfortable, just as she had, though right at the moment she was anything but relaxed. She sat up straight, sitting stiffly next to him as he casually crossed his legs on top of the covers, licking a thumb before flipping to the page he wanted.
How can he be so nonchalant about this? Bretagne asked herself. It wasn't the first time they had ever been that physically close, but this close in a bed seemed far more intimate than the situation warranted. She couldn't help but look at him. He was just in a cambric tunic and trousers now, evidently not having a job to prepare for. Bretagne couldn't remember a time when Vilkas wasn't wearing armor, so now she got the rare chance to see what was underneath, and she wasn't disappointed. She could see the outline of taut thighs and calves through his trousers, leading upwards to a trim waist and biceps straining against the seams of his sleeves. She figured he might be a tad slimmer and lither than Farkas but couldn't know for sure since she'd never seen him in anything so casual.
Her gaze trailed upwards to his face, eyes tracing the strong outline of his jaw, the thin line of his lips, eyes narrowed, and brow furrowed slightly as he focused on his book. If he had noticed her staring, he paid her no mind.
Bretagne half-glanced at the open book in her lap. There was no way she could focus on reading now!
Suddenly Vilkas snapped his book shut with a loud clap and looked directly at her. "Going to the kitchen. Need something?"
"N-no," she choked out in a whisper. "Ahem. No thank you."
"Alright then." Then, without ceremony, he stood up, dropped the book on the bed, and left.
Bretagne didn't even have time to think if he did that on purpose. Seeing this as her chance to escape the awkwardness, she leapt up, laid the law book on his desk with the marker in it like usual, and hightailed it out of there and into the whelps' quarters. She didn't have her customary drink with Farkas that night, and instead hid under the covers, where she would toss and turn until sun-up.
Upstairs, Vilkas grabbed himself a stiff drink from the kitchen because he felt like he desperately needed one. He took a seat in his usual chair at the banquet table and downed half the mug.
Why was she staring at me? he asked himself. They had been reading together for weeks now, and yet she was acting like she had never seen him before.
And why the fuck was she in my bed? he thought. Bretagne had never done anything like that before, so what had gotten into her? And what gave her the right to invade his personal space like that? In all fairness, he hadn't explicitly stated that she couldn't use the bed, but it went without saying… didn't it?
Questions swirled around in his head, as they always did, so he drank some more until they stopped. "I should've just kicked her out," he muttered to no one in particular. "...Looking at me like I'm fresh meat." He snorted. Like she could ever be intimidating? Not likely. He had felt her gaze boring into him, and it had taken all his willpower not to look back at her. Not like he wanted to, of course–she wasn't much to look at, anyway. Too short, too dainty, too fragile, too… sweet. Sure, she made a good conversation partner and had a level of intellect similar to his own, but there's no way she could hold her own in a fight.
That conjured up the image of her, struggling to hold a weapon two-thirds her height, swinging it around and falling on her ass. I should make her do that one day, he thought. That would be amusing.
Thoroughly soused, Vilkas stumbled down the stairs toward his room, figuring she'd have escaped by now. He was right, of course; she clearly had been uncomfortable. But why? It was ridiculous. He snuffed the candles and got into bed but couldn't bring himself to touch the side where she had laid; it was still warm, even. After a few hours of tossing and turning, he decided to sleep in the chair that night.
.
.
The next day, Vilkas had gone on a job and said he wouldn't be back until the following morning. Rather, he told Farkas to relay the message to Bretagne, because for some reason Vilkas couldn't bear to be around her at the moment, and left before she could approach him. That meant no reading, but after the fiasco the previous evening, she was glad for it. Bretagne had her one cup of appleblossom cider, shot the breeze with Farkas, and went to bed. The following night, the reading-and-drinking ritual resumed as usual. Neither the twins nor Bretagne mentioned anything, and they all acted like nothing had happened, with the exception of Vilkas being somewhat more tense and stiff around her. But that was probably just him being himself. Personally, Bretagne was just glad things were back to normal.
Or so they seemed to be.