Raju hasn’t figured out whether anything has changed yet. Not in a clear enough way that he feels like it’s settled, anyway. He feels the same cooking a meal for Francis now as he did yesterday, as he had those few times he had before the terrible end to that long, dark month and what he’d learned about himself after. He feels the same… love, he realises now, it’s love with which he’s doing even something like this. He’d known that, in a way, but he hadn’t known it. Hadn’t been thinking about it as an act of devotion as clear and direct as any fighting that he’s ever done.

He feels the same doing this simple chore for this man as he ever has; the only change is that he’s thinking of Seetha while he does it, wondering if cooking for him had made her feel the same kind of warm, satisfied eagerness that he feels now, the same happiness. But they hadn’t had much time for happiness. Or maybe he hadn’t. And won’t, when he goes back, not even for someone who loves him and counts on him for it, not until his work is done.

Grim thoughts. Or, just… unnecessary ones. He hears Francis behind him and looks that way instead, away from the fireplace and the pan on it, and frowns, realising after he looks that he knows that sound, and shouldn’t be hearing it now. Not from a walk of that length, after as much healing as Francis has had — not enough healing, not yet, but some. He’s gotten better. That trip out to that damn town hall had set him back a bit, but he’d kept healing after.

“Alright?” Raju asks, ignoring the pop of fish in the pan and the smell of it for a moment so he can study him.