Chapter Text
You’re inadvertently spread out before him when he arrives: by the fireside in the library, the thick, velvet cushions of the settee offering your form up for slow, languid perusal.
Your turquoise caftan whispers against the divan as you shift slightly; mouth soft; wine-drunk and swollen; eyelids heavy as the warmth of the fire seeps into your exhausted bones.
You’d stayed up all night finishing the High Lord’s latest commission — a map of Velaris that is to be a solstice present for his wife. With reconstruction nearly complete in the Hidden City, Rhysand wants to ensure all quarters are accounted for, and so he’d summoned the family scribe to re-chart the vast land of the Night Court in detail: no small feat of cartography for a team of drafters, let alone an office of one.
So you’d launched yourself into the task. Cloistered yourself in Rhysand’s study for weeks, up to the elbows in inks and trident and pencils until the graphite had turned your fingertips silver and even Nuala and Cerridwen had taken pity, silently pushing morsels of cheese and wine at you between the rolling stacks of parchment that litter every surface of your organized chaos.
This last re-draft has murdered your hands. Cramped fingers had rebelled around midnight, forcing the pencil to clatter as they’d ached in protest. It had taken only a tipple of sherry to push you into complete surrender then, eyes blurring with exhaustion as you’d settled onto the divan, promising yourself you’d only shut your eyes for a moment.
And this is how Azriel finds you now: half-drunk, soporific, and utterly, mercifully oblivious to his presence.
He’s not visible at first. Hidden, as is his wont, by those clever shadows, relieved you remain unaware. The intensity of your stare is blissfully muted; unable to assess him in that piercing way that always leaves him feeling exposed as a bat in sunlight.
Not tonight, though.
Tonight, Azriel takes his time perusing you. He follows the glimmer of the firelight as it kisses your heels; the glint of your shins, your calves, your marvelous thighs, and over the rest of your somnolent form. Your robe is parted at the throat; just enough for the delicate arch of a collarbone to peek through; the hint of full breasts he could easily palm hidden beneath.
If you were awake, you’d catch a rare glimpse of satisfaction in the Shadowsinger’s gaze. It’s not often you let your guard down around him. You’re all too aware of what he knows; what information he could glean through those uncontainable shadows. You despise the idea that you’re like a book; your every secret written upon a page he could discover with a mere flick of his fingers; a soft order to those gossipy umbras. So you hunker. Obfuscate. Politely deny him at every turn, anticipating his curiosity and deflecting it with a grace and ease he finds utterly unnerving.
Compelling, if he were being honest.
His gaze continues to devour you with unexpected ferocity. Impulsively, he wonders how the spot between your neck and shoulder tastes. What scent the surface of your skin holds; how warm the heat of your neck feels. Wildly, an image of removing one of your dangling pearl earrings with his teeth invades his senses; a gentle suckle to slide it off, slow and hot and wet. Would you recoil in disgust? Or pull him in to undo the other?
He represses a curse and shifts against his growing hardness.
Detach, he reminds himself. It’s a necessary habit. Hard-won and inconvenient, sure — especially during moments like this — but it’s what Rhys and the family depend on. What he’s been molded for in this court of dreams and nightmares, this place he’s known as home for five centuries; that took him in when all others forsook him as bastard-born; unworthy.
He’s not like Cassian, who fucks just as easily as he fights; not like Rhys, who preens and pounces in a calculated dance of seduction. He’s taken lovers, sure; momentary indulgences that he never allows to blossom into full distraction. For Cauldron’s sake, you’re not even awake. It's just ogling at this point.
Don't be an ass.
He shifts against the seam of his pants, cursing his restless cock. What would you say if you were to wake up and see him like this, his need so brazen, so raw?
You shift, muttering something, and drift deeper into sleep.
Instinct roars at him to leave. Some other force, one he can’t quite name, compels him closer.
He drinks in the arch of your neck; the pulse that throbs beneath. What would it be like to lick you there? To close his teeth gently over those tendons, nudging you awake with soft, torturous pressure?
He knows the brutal kind of pressure that makes men break during interrogations; what tools to use to extract information without leaving a mark. Would all that tactical skill amount to anything at the altar of your body? Would any level of precision grant him access to all the hallowed places within you he seeks?
To touch you would be…criminal. You’re impossibly soft. He won’t mar all that beauty with his scars.
So he tells himself to tuck his burn-riddled, pock-marked hands behind his back, even as he reaches for you.
The silk of your robe is like gossamer as it flows through his fingers. He knows beneath that you’re softer; warmer; more supple, responsive. But he won’t touch you unless you give him permission; unless you open those gorgeous orbs and pin him with a look of surefire want. He wants to hear you say yes; hear his name in your mouth, so he knows it’s real.
His hand lingers a fraction too long.
Bleary eyes open, meeting his.
“Az?” The request is soft, sleep-muddled. You reach a hand up, too tired to do more than gesture vaguely. “Stay.”
He’s caught off guard. Stay where? Stay here? Surely, you can’t mean —
“Keep me company,” you whisper.
It’s slurred by sleep and drink, and he thinks you don’t know what you’re saying. But you do.
The Shadowsinger is elusive at best; impenetrable at worse. You suspect that even if he harbored any feelings beyond the confines of friendship, they'd remain so deeply buried within him that it would take Cassian’s bloody sword to pry them out; like shucking a stubborn oyster from its shell.
You’ve noticed the way he falls silent in your presence. How his shadows snap back and disappear when you're approaching. On the few occasions you've asked for his opinion while charting, he defers to Rhys, even though he could re-draw the city with his eyes closed. For some reason, he assumes that you view him as less than. You’ve never asked him why, sensing it would trample the fragile boundaries of the friendship you’ve just begun to build.
And sure, it wasn’t quite your plan to get drunk on the settee and spread yourself out like a feast for him. It just sort of happened that way.
But now that he’s here, and you’re warm, and the barriers are low because of the wine you’ve been drinking and the late-night hour, you figure he can’t refuse this request. Won’t want to.
Through half-lidded eyes, you watch as he slides to the floor next to the couch. Quietly plants himself beside you.
But it’s not good enough. It’s frustrating. Yet another way in which he makes himself less.
“Az.” Your hand drifts over his shoulder, a gentle squeeze. You want him beside you. If you had your druthers, he’d be enfolding you in his embrace, a comforting wall of solid darkness to bolster you against the real shadows that plague you at night; whispers of a deep and profound emptiness that you suspect he harbors as well.
But you know that’s too much. To ask anything so bold would shatter the moment; have him beating a hasty retreat. So you squeeze his shoulder and he reluctantly folds himself up until he’s gingerly perched on the couch, unsettled by your proximity and unsure of what to do.
You make it easy for him. Grabbing a large pillow, you prop it against his side. It’s a thin but passable barrier between your bodies, and not nearly enough to staunch the heat coming off of his large frame as you rest your head against his stock-still form. The scent of him washes over you, strong and comforting and familiar, and you find yourself gently lulled back into sleep by the fire and that unmistakable Ilyrian warmth.
At length, his breathing slows. His rigid spine gradually softens. After what seems like eons, you at last feel the gentle pressure of his scarred hands: one curving around your shoulder; the other settling gently on your head.
Azriel exhales shallowly, as if one wrong breath will shatter the illusion.
Mor, for all her years of camaraderie and loyalty, has never been this open with him. And you…for all that sharp wit, discerning eye, and quick tongue, have never once aimed any of those weapons at him. Come to think of it, you’ve only ever had nothing but praise for the spymaster; always a kind word, a soft smile.
It’s…well, he doesn’t quite know what it is.
He’d always interpreted your demeanor as courteous; mere politesse befitting a figure in Rhysand’s court. But in this moment, as he caresses your hair and feels your even breath echo through his stuttering lungs, he finally allows the shadow that urged him to the study this night to curl around his ear, and listens as it whispers of untold possibilities in the dark.