Work Text:
The room has been devoid of its usual sounds for far too long; a quill’s hurried scratch on parchment, fire’s clatter, your sighs that vary from frustration to satisfaction. Point is, something is clearly amiss.
He enters the room, soundlessly so as not to break your spell of concentration, notes the chill sensed in the air as the once lively fire has now succumbed to a dim glow confined to its hearth. He spots the untouched plate of food that rests on the floor, the crumpled parchment scattered to and fro in disarray, and his eyes finally land on you—slouched, head rested on your arm, a small pool of drool smudging ink on the paper beneath you. Was that snoring he heard?
“Meleth nîn.” [my love] His touch is tender yet firm, a hand on your shoulder and the other stroking your head, and as usual with his attempts to rouse you from sleep, you are bound to slumber like an oath. You respond with a groan, turning away from his touch in favour of delving further into the cocoon of your arm. In most cases he would forbid any and all from disturbing you from your sleep the way Eru forbids mortals to coast sails towards Valinor, but this is entirely unacceptable. Propriety permits it, you’re his beloved after all—you deserve to rest your head upon the softest of pillows in the warmest of beds (with his arms around you, of course).
It takes a soft shake (or ten) for your eyes to crack open, grumbling incoherences, casting an accusatory glare until your fuzzy vision catches sight of that signature look of concern he’s got written on his face. “I fell asleep.” You mumble, yawning while you correct your posture. You run your hands over your work in search of your quill, wince at the soreness of your neck. Clearing your throat, you cast your gaze to meet him, “Will you restart the fire for me, please?”
‘No,’ weighs heavy on his tongue, ‘you must sleep.’ Begs to depart his lips. He doesn’t understand why you willingly choose to overextend exhaustion’s presence, chalks it up as one of Ardas’s most curious mysteries. He knows not to pose the question, he’s a gentleman, not an imbecile, and if one thing is clear it’s your detest for ‘silly questions’ when there’s ‘work to do’ (your words, not his).
“Perhaps you should lay with me—for a moment.” It comes off more as a question than the gentle demand he meant it to be, he can’t help it. Your dedication (bordering on obsession) to your work is one of the many things he loves about you. The offer of his open palm awaiting your hold trumps any refusal you’ve prepared in the mere seconds that pass, and when you take his hand he smiles. “You will thank me later.” Now he’s pleased with himself, but he’s quick to bring his lips to your forehead before you can retort.
Your head hits the pillow once he’s led you to your bedchambers, and you pull the covers to your head, “You win.” You grumble, and he pulls you into his arms. You melt into him like honey on bread, and you’re far too tired to conceive a clever rebuttal, yet you have the energy to press your lips to his jaw, to inhale his scent, to bring yourself further into his warmth. You hold him tightly with the delirious hope of bringing him into your dreams.
He waits until you’ve fallen asleep to release the soft chuckle that’s been brewing in his throat. He’s certainly won, in more ways than one.