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They spend a lot of time together, him and Corvo, in the months following Emily’s return to the throne. It starts because of two desperate, throbbing facts.
The first is simply that Corvo needs him; in the weeks after Campbell’s attempt on his life, he had gathered around him a cohort of like-minded Watchmen, and they are the people that Corvo (through Emily) tasks with protecting and healing the city. Theyroot out the corruption. They set the standards. There is still violence, unnecessary violence in the streets, but soon it begins to fade. Geoff knows his men. And his men follow where he leads.
The second is horribly, terribly, perfectly, that Corvo needs him. Geoff is a link to his past, to a time before the Empress’s death. Their trip around the Isles was not the happiest of trips for either, of course. Corvo had worried about Jessamine and Emily constantly, and Geoff had feared for Callista. But it had been from a brighter, easier time, when their worries were just suspicions, and not devastating certainties.
Geoff is the one person who is old enough, trustworthy enough, powerful enough (but not too much, no, not enough to threaten Emily) for Corvo to begin to trust.
And so they spend hours and days in each other’s company, rebuilding the city and some semblance of a life for their families. Corvo offers Callista a townhouse for when she needs a break from the weight of being Emily’s teacher and confidante; Geoff makes Dunwall safe for the young Empress. They work in tandem. And if, sometimes, late at night, Geoff catches himself looking a little too long at Corvo, and his tired gaze and his worn hands, and the mark emblazoned on the back of one-
Well.
Corvo never noticed on their trip around the Isles.
There are questions Geoff desperately wants to ask, things he desperately needs to say. Things like I didn’t realize it was you at Holger until after, like I spent years out at sea, I’ve seen things, you don’t have to hide, like I’m sorry I let Campbell and Burrows send me away from the gazebo that day.
That’s the one he eventually says, trying to make the words sound casual, offhand, as he drinks from a large glass of Morley whiskey. He’s standing by a window, looking out at the rising sun. “That day," he says. “I shouldn’t have left you alone."
When there’s no response, he looks over his shoulder.
Corvo is looking up from where he’s reviewing Geoff’s orders for the next week. He blinks owlishly at Geoff.
Geoff clears his throat and takes another drink. He shouldn’t be drinking this close to sunrise, but he has several hours before Callista wants to meet him for a light supper. He suspects she wants to talk about the possibility of her going abroad to expand her knowledge, and her worth to Emily. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that there’s too much catching-up to do on knowledge to match an Empress’s needs - and that Emily will either want her or not, and that it might change by the day, and certainly by the year.
He’s very familiar with adoptive parenting, after all.
His thoughts are drifting. Corvo is staring at him.
He clears his throat again, then sets his glass on the windowsill. “The day we got back from our diplomatic trip. I didn’t question why I was being steered away from the gazebo. I’m sorry."
Corvo watches him, blinking slowly with his hooded eyes, then turns back to the pages in front of him. “It’s past," he says, in a way Geoff is very familiar with. It’s past, as in, if I think about it more, I’ll be lost. We’re done here.
Geoff has said the same words with the same meaning.
He abandons his drink and comes closer, dropping into the chair next to Corvo, instead of the one across from him. “I’m sorry you didn’t get a better homecoming," he says, quietly, even though he knows he shouldn’t.
Corvo doesn’t respond, scratching a note in the margin.
Geoff scrubs a hand over his long, pinched face. He should sleep. But he hates leaving Corvo alone with his thoughts, and his guilt, and his grief. Long experience has taught Geoff that guilt and grief become weathered with time, the sharp edges mostly ground off - but that doesn’t mean he wants to abandon Corvo.
He lingers, awkwardly, trying not to look too much at the stubble on Corvo’s jaw, or the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders that Geoff knows are corded with muscle and with scar tissue.
And then Corvo says, “What do you see, when you look at me?" and Geoff suddenly can’t breathe.
He gets up and goes to retrieve his drink. He swallows until the whiskey knocks the breath loose in his chest, and then he clears his throat loudly and says softly,
"A very good man, who I am proud to know and count as a friend."
Corvo is quiet for another moment. And then the chair scrapes across the floor, and Geoff winces. Did he notice something? Or is this just whatever insecurities and self-castigations lurk beneath his quiet surface?
"Is that it?" Corvo asks, and his voice is quiet, too - and nearer than it should be.
Geoff turns his head to see Corvo standing just beside him, watches as Corvo settles his marked hand on the windowsill. He looks thoughtful instead of pensive. Contemplative instead of ruminative.
Geoff takes a chance he hasn’t taken in many years, and settles his hand near Corvo’s. He shrugs and says, “I see a lot of things. All worth seeing."
Corvo doesn’t move his hand, but he does look at it.
"That too," Geoff says, edging a finger up to tap at Corvo’s mark. “Even that. You’d be surprised what sort of tattoos I have, from my years in the navy."
And if Geoff isn’t mistaken, Corvo’s cheeks color a faint, rough pink, and Geoff smiles, testing the waters, turning to lean his hips against the sill and face Corvo. “Callista wants to have supper with me tonight," Geoff says, bowing his head forward conspiratorially, “but what would you say to a quiet, social dinner tomorrow? Just us."
"I’ll have to check with Emily," Corvo says, automatically, but then he catches himself, and his expression shifts from thoughtful to surprised to a little embarrassed. “I’ll have to check," he repeats, then looks up to meet Geoff’s gaze, “but I’d- like that."
Geoff lifts his glass in toast, then drains it to drown the writhing eels making a mess of his belly.
Tomorrow night, it is.