The Weight Can Wait - Fluffy Version

The night, by all accounts, should have belonged to winter, but autumn still claimed it. Outside sleet mixed with the last of the season's falling leaves, the wet debris plastered itself against the leaded glass, occasionally sliding down the ancient panes in russet streaks that set Isemay's nerves on edge. She had spent every hour since sunset sequestered in the battered chair opposite Lavan’s desk, ringed by an ever-growing perimeter of Council correspondence, reports, and unfiled affidavits. She had arranged them by urgency, then by date, then by degree of humiliation they might cause if left unanswered. None of it helped. The work did nothing to stem the cold that had taken up residence under her skin since Maya’s murder, nor the guilt that gnawed deeper every time she caught herself thinking of Selaney, and the scars that now crisscrossed her body.

Lavan’s rooms in the Tower were, strictly speaking, for research and sleep. He’d kept his Tower rooms despite spending nearly every night for the past decade at Misendris Manor with her. Now, she was staying in the Tower, even after the disappearances had been resolved. It was safer, and Lavan felt better if she was close and under Hallione’s (and his) protective watch.

He had insisted that the late-night work at the offices come to an end, not wanting her out alone after dark in the increasingly dangerous city. She had compromised by bringing the work with her.

Tonight, he had left her to her own devices, promising to “check on a thing in the sub-basement” and “not return until you’ve finished at least half of that.” She’d scoffed, knowing he would be back in twenty minutes or less, and that he’d return with an elaborate blend of restorative tea and some new, horrifying gossip from the Tower’s rumor mill.

The clock above marked its progress with a slow, passive aggression. At three hours past midnight, the pile had not diminished so much as metastasized. She was so deeply ensconced in a particularly gruesome series of Watch reports, a spate of unexplained deaths in the Midtown, all of them with the right political connections to make the situation sensitive, that she didn’t notice the door open.

Lavan moved quietly, but not stealthily. He wore his research robes, singed and stained and reeking of sage and the faintest undercurrent of ozone. In one hand, he carried a heavy, chipped mug; in the other, a battered tray lined with thumbprint cookies and a teapot that steamed despite the lack of a visible heat source. He set the tray on the desk with a clatter meant to disrupt.

Isemay did not look up. “If you’ve come for witty conversation, you’re too late. I’m already dead inside.”

Lavan smiled. It was not an attractive smile, too lopsided, too quick to fade, but she liked it for its lack of pretense. “Only here to check your pulse,” he said. “And to see if you’ve noticed that you’re wearing my shirt again.”

She glanced down. She was, in fact, wearing one of his old tunics,  the collar so worn it had achieved a kind of permanent flop. She shrugged. “It’s warmer than anything I brought from home.”

He leaned across the desk, pushing the stack of affidavits to one side with calculated disregard. “You’re not even pretending to work at this point. You’re just hibernating.”

“That’s what you think,” she said. “I’ve answered six Council missives, three budget inquiries, and written two letters of condolence for people I never met. This—” she jabbed at the next report “is the only thing keeping me from thinking about what’s waiting for me on the other side of this desk.”

He poured two cups of tea, the second one for himself, then handed the first to her. She accepted it with the automatic grace of a career bureaucrat, but did not drink. The warmth in her hands was enough.

He waited until she set the cup down, then ran a finger along her forearm, just above the line of the Friendship Symbol. “You’re hurting,” he said, softly.

She laughed, dry. “You say that as if it’s news.”

“I say it because I want you to stop pretending you’re not,” he replied, voice flat. “Or at least stop punishing yourself every time you’re alone for more than ten seconds.” He kneaded her shoulder with his thumb, just so, and she realized with embarrassment how tightly she’d been hunched. 

He moved behind her, hands bracketing the tops of her shoulders, and worked at the knots with a skill that could only have come from years of tending to his own. She tried to resist, but after a minute, the urge to relax overpowered her sense of duty, and she let her head fall forward, her braids curtaining the paperwork in front of her.

“That’s cheating,” she said. “You know I can’t focus when you do that.”

Lavan said nothing, only increased the pressure, using the heel of his hand to roll out the tension. She could hear his breathing, slow and even, the kind of calm that used to drive her mad with envy when they were students.

“You deserve a break,” he said, eventually. “Or at least a night where you’re not saving the city with one hand while holding yourself together with the other.”

She grunted, a noncommittal noise that she hoped would end the conversation, but instead, he leaned down, lips brushing the crown of her head, then her ear. The sensation was electric, her entire scalp prickling. He nipped gently at the tip of her ear, a move he knew was both dangerous and unfair, given her elven heritage.

She squeaked, involuntarily, the kind of high-pitched noise that would have mortified her if not for the fact that it broke the impasse between her mind and body. Her entire body flushed with warmth, a pulse of something other than pain or anger or guilt. She shot him a look, half offense and half arousal, and tried to bat him away, but he was not deterred. “There’s my favorite mouse,” he teased.

“You’re a monster,” she muttered, but her voice lacked conviction.

He smirked, then shifted his assault to the back of her neck, biting lightly, then laving the spot with his tongue. She bit her lower lip, determined not to show just how quickly her resistance was evaporating.

“You’re not going to stop, are you?” she said, her voice huskier than intended.

“Not unless you make me,” he said, and the hands that had been massaging her shoulders slid down, bracketed her waist, and pulled her flush against his chest.

She stiffened, but it was a lost cause. He slid one hand under the hem of his own shirt, her shirt, for tonight, and stroked the bare skin just above her waistband. She shuddered, the stress of the last week slipping away with every inch of contact.

“Lavan,” she said, as much a warning as a plea.

“Hmm?” he replied, lips still at her neck.

“I have to finish this,” she protested, voice barely audible. “If I don’t get these filed, the Council—”

He kissed her, slow and deliberate, and she felt herself unspooling, the pile of paperwork forgotten, the cold that had been her companion for weeks replaced by a heat that was equal parts longing and resentment at how easily he could undo her.

“You need to rest,” he said. “You need to let someone else carry the weight, just for a night.”

She wanted to argue, but her brain was losing its hold on the narrative, surrendering instead to the biology of touch and scent and the memory of how it felt, in the darkest months, to have someone want her for something other than her utility.

“Just for a night,” she repeated, the words a surrender. He turned her in the chair, then pulled her up so she was standing, pressed against him. He was taller than her by nearly a foot; she tilted her head and their eyes met. She let herself fall into his gaze, the certainty there, the hunger.

He kissed her, properly this time, his mouth warm and open and insistent. She kissed back, her hands fisting in the front of his robe, yanking him closer. For a few moments, the world was only the friction of mouths, the slide of tongues, the way his teeth grazed her lower lip.

He broke the kiss, then, and, without warning, uttered a brief spell under his breath. The world went slick and insubstantial for half a second, and when it resolved, they were in bed, the covers already thrown back, the stone walls of the Tower radiating a muted, residual heat.

She stared at him, incredulous. “Did you just use a fourth-level spell to get me into bed?”

He grinned, unrepentant. “Some things are worth the cost.”

Before she could protest further, he swept her down onto the mattress, the press of his body as solid and immovable as the Tower itself. He kissed her again, and this time, there was nothing gentle or teasing in it, just the urgent collision of need and desire that had been banked for far too long.

***

He collapsed onto her, breathing hard, his face pressed into her shoulder. She laced her fingers behind his neck, drawing him close, letting the sweat and heat of their bodies blend in a slow, sticky afterglow. The room was silent except for the sound of their breathing and the faint, residual hum of magic in the air.

For a while, neither of them spoke. He stroked her hair, his hand a metronome against her scalp. She let herself drift, the aftermath warm and soporific.

“You deserved that,” he murmured, eventually. “More than anyone in the world.”

She snorted, but the sound was soft, contented. “You’re impossible.”

He shrugged. “You love it.”

She considered, then nodded, already slipping into sleep. “Maybe. A little.”

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight, and she felt, for the first time in days, the edge of her panic recede.

In the morning, the paperwork would still be there. The city would still be a disaster. But for now, she was warm, and safe, and the weight of the world could wait another night.

As she drifted off, Lavan pressed his lips to the mark on her forearm, then whispered something she didn’t catch.

She didn’t need to. The feeling was enough.